The Kitchen Republic of Pakistan by Saman Waseem

My blood boils every time I hear the phrase, “Women belong in the kitchen”. The biggest challenge women face is not being allowed to own themselves. In Pakistan, one of the worst countries in the world for women, they are placed in a kitchen-like world for a false sense of ‘security’ and held accountable for male gaze and male desire once that pseudo-security fails.

I have always searched kitchens to find redeeming qualities in their dark obscure corners with eyes as forlorn as those of my ancestors. I see flowers hanging from glass ceiling beams. They instantly remind me of the 20th century Indian novelist, Amrita Pritam, and her short story called ‘Junglee Booti’ (The Wildflower) with her strong stance on patriarchy. Girls have not been allowed to bloom. Just a speck of a time ago, on this 4.534 billion-year-old Earth, baby girls were buried alive. Some still are. Those who are not suffocated beneath the earth are still suffocated by society.

My favorite writer, Manto, once wrote “A man remains a man no matter how poor his conduct. A woman, even if she were to deviate for one instance, from the role given to her by men, is branded a whore. She is viewed with lust and contempt. Society closes on her, doors it leaves ajar for a man stained by the same ink. If both are equal, why are our barbs reserved for the woman?” 

In the kitchen, I see circles: plates, cups, dark circles around eyes, bowls, naan bread, bruises and fruits. I remember circular candies that my uncle once put before me, “One is covered, one is not. Which one would you choose?” I had heard this lesson before. My existence being reduced to a 2 ruppee consumer good, just to prove a point about covering up my body, was not new to me. Much to his dismay, I picked up the uncovered piece of candy and walked away. Veiling young girls from a young age has long-term detrimental psychological effects. They are taught to see their own bodies as something evil that seduces and tempts even before they can spell these words.

Young girls are told that they ‘mature faster’ so that they can be held responsible for a man’s honor earlier. Men here do not seem to be able to carry their own honor for themselves. They disassociate from it and immediately hand it to the women in their lives as if it was a scalding hot pot of boiling blood. Their ‘natural’ lust and lack of self-control is justified by making a woman’s mere existence seem too unnatural. Women are bombarded with questions like “What were you wearing?” and “Why wasn’t there a man with you?” They expect women to seek guardianship as if those ‘guardians’ can not be the perpetrators themselves. This victim blaming ensures that the boiling blood is contained in its humble deferential pot.

Pakistan’s first Aurat March was a kitchen fire, creating unrest amongst the anti-feminist masses, who were more angered by the wordings of the slogans than by actual issues women were facing. One slogan in particular was “Mera jism, meri marzi.” (My Body, My Choice) with the purpose of condemning child marriages, sexual assault and domestic abuse. Would they rather have us say “My Body, Your Choice”? Such a straightforward idea was misunderstood as ‘an indecent request for immodest clothing’. It shows that women are sexualized even when they are claiming ownership over their own selves.

I have witnessed the shredding of several passions on the chopping board of society. When women cannot own themselves, they cannot own their passions. Too many nights I have awoken and watched my mother trying to read books and singing lullabies of all she could have become. My mother and Sophia Tolstaya, a 19th century Russian diarist, seem like two peas in a pod, deprived of individuality in order to serve.

I soon realized that the kitchen is not the symbol of oppression here, the lack of choice and the mentality behind it is. Women would not need this fake sense of security to begin with if threats to that security are dismantled at their core. Our society is aware that once the X chromosome shatters the glass ceiling, blood would boil over.