No Place for Women
2023; University of Oklahoma; Volume: 97; Issue: 4 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/wlt.2023.a901376
ISSN1945-8134
Autores Tópico(s)Politics and Conflicts in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Middle East
ResumoNo Place for Women Farah Ahamed (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution For the past few years I’ve been living in Lahore. Like they have for many, the brave women-led Iranian protests have made me reflect on the rights of women and the price we pay for freedom and justice. With this in mind, I decided to visit the Lahore High Courts to see what it was like for women living here. So as to remain inconspicuous, a friend suggested I dress like a lawyer in a white salwar kameez and black coat. As I got ready that morning, I recalled the last time I’d been in a courtroom was over twenty years ago while working as a lawyer in Kenya. That day as we drove through the city, the December sky was a cloudless, dull gray, there was heavy smog, and the roads were jammed with traffic. Pigeons sat like guardians on the electricity wires crisscrossing the city. A man with a basket at the roundabout shouted in a raucous voice for passers-by to buy his boiled eggs. The iconic red-brick High Court building sits in the shadow of Anarkali and the general post office on Mall Road and was built in 1889 by the British in Indo-Saracenic style. The main materials used in its construction were brick masonry, kankar-lime mortar, Nowshera pink marble, and terracotta jaali. It is an imposing building, signaling the weight and might of the law. I made my way through the tall gates to the main courtyard and found a well-landscaped compound; tall, leafy trees and walkways lined with flowers and low bushes. But despite the greenery, the atmosphere was taut; a mood of expectation tinged with a premonition of disappointment. The place had a strange energy—a feeling of paralysis and listlessness, on one hand, and a preying, animalistic aggression on the other. The High Court sessions began at nine and I was early, so I took the time to look around. In a corner opposite the main building from a small kiosk a man was selling lawyers’ gowns, white shirts, striped ties, and black shoes. I was surprised. Were the garbs of a lawyer like an actor’s costume that any man could buy for a few hundred rupees? I became conscious that I too, that morning, was acting and impersonating. I went over and asked the man if there were clothes for women lawyers, for instance a white salwar kameez and coat? [End Page 33] The man looked at me like I was stupid. “This is a lawyers’ shop,” he said. “Get your things from Anarkali. But I can give you a black gown, it’s on sale today.” I did not try to explain what I meant. The morning sun cast a warm glow on the gardens, and watching the moving shadows of the men passing under the arches made me think of how many thousands must have walked under them with dreams of receiving justice. Click for larger view View full resolution I thought I should get a cup of tea while I waited and made my way to the tea area. This was an open space under a corrugated iron roof with rows of benches. Men sat sipping tea and gossiping, their bellies bursting in too-tight suits. On their feet they had only socks, while nearby a man in shabby clothes was on his knees polishing their shoes. A man shouted for him to hurry up. The shoe-shiner carried on his brushing. “I’m doing my best, but your shoes are filthy.” The man laughed. “What do you expect? The law’s a dirty business.” I stopped a man serving tea and asked if I could get a cup. He gave me an irritated look and pointed to a door. “That’s the woman’s room.” That was when I realized everywhere I looked I’d seen only men. Men in their lawyer’s gowns talking on the phone or to each other. Male clerks carrying books. Men rushing around with desperate faces. I looked more carefully. Twenty minutes later I’d counted ten female...
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