An Open Letter to Parents of Indian Daughters

Summary

An Indian woman bravely addresses the challenges faced by Indian daughters, including domestic violence and cultural taboos, urging parents to openly discuss these issues.

Abstract

The author, a 22-year-old Indian woman, recounts her personal journey through college, marriage, and domestic violence, highlighting the struggles that are often silenced within the Indian community. She emphasizes the need for dialogue about difficult topics such as marital rape, menstruation, and the cultural idolization of figures like Gandhi, despite his problematic behavior. The article calls for a breaking of the silence that surrounds violence against women, advocating for change within the culture to protect women both in India and among the Indian diaspora in the United States. The author challenges Indian parents to engage in conversations with their children about these issues before it's too late, suggesting that acknowledging and addressing these problems will not sever their cultural ties but rather strengthen them.

Opinions

The author believes that ignoring issues like domestic violence and marital rape does not make them disappear but rather perpetuates harm.
She criticizes the cultural practice of sweeping social problems under the rug to maintain appearances.
The author points out the hypocrisy in idolizing historical figures like Gandhi while overlooking their flaws and the misrepresentation of freedom struggles.
She argues that the desire for proximity to whiteness, a remnant of colonial mentality, is deeply ingrained in Indian culture and needs to be addressed.
The author insists that Indian culture can withstand scrutiny and that having difficult conversations is essential for the safety and well-being of women.
She advocates for the empowerment of Indian women by encouraging them to speak out against the culture of silence that endangers them.
The author quotes Arundhati Roy to illustrate that acknowledging India's social problems does not weaken one's cultural identity but can lead to a better future.

An Open Letter to Parents of Indian Daughters

I am 22 years old. Just like the rest of the class of 2017, I graduated on-time. My middle school relationship progressed into a marriage and ended only five months before graduation. Like a lot of college students, I transferred. Like many college students, I switched majors. I played varsity sports and traveled with my team. Most upperclassmen live off campus, as did I. So far, sounds about right.

Words have weight. Greater is the power of the words left unsaid than any combination of letters that pepper this page.

I am 22 years old. Just like the rest of the class of 2017, I graduated on-time. When I dropped out of school after my freshman year, I didn’t even consider this to be an option. During the course of my undergraduate degree, I worked a total of seven jobs. I returned to school after taking a semester off and enrolled in night classes at my local community college. I finished my degree through an adult education program. I worked during the day and went to school at night. At 19, I got engaged. At 20, I got married. At 21, I found the courage to run from my marriage and found myself in domestic violence court. I am not an anomaly. The reason you don’t want to hear this is exactly why you need to.

Strong is the belief that simply not talking about something has the power to make it disappear. But the tighter your grip on outside perceptions of you, the more slips through your fingers. I am the child every Indian parent wants to believe that their child could never grow up to be: but I’m not so naive as to think that there’s not more than one of me. I’m not — and you shouldn’t be.

Putting women in sheds doesn’t change the fact that they’re menstruating: it just keeps them hidden from view. Silence about marital rape doesn’t mean that it’s not being committed: it just means that we’re also committed to silencing its victims. Keeping our mouths shut doesn’t make India any safer for women. Staying silent doesn’t protect the daughters of Indian immigrants on American soil. Not talking about it doesn’t change the fact that Gandhi exhibited predatory behavior towards women. Idolizing him doesn’t water down the truth that freedom was never granted to the oppressed by virtue of the fact that they asked for it nicely. Fair and Lovely doesn’t make you white, but it does reveal the brutality of colonization and the way it’s percolated down into the depths of Indian hearts. No matter your perceived proximity to whiteness, there is a natural order. The British Raj knew. White Americans know. It seems, sometimes, that the only ones who don’t know are those of us who can’t find it in us to look in the mirror.

Sati is real. Dowry is real. Caste is real. Domestic violence is real. Trauma is real. We need to talk about violence against women before the woman in question is dead. My marriage did happen, and I will talk about it. Taboo or not, I am an Indian woman who was stuck in an abusive relationship. I challenge you to have the conversation with your daughters before the entrapment is legally binding. We can love our culture and still speak out against the culture of silence that is killing our women in the United States and in the motherland.

Our ties to India are not so fragile that speaking of its social problems would sever our connection to it. Our roots run deeper than that. Deep enough that we can have difficult conversations with our daughters. Deep enough that we can teach our sons what is good and right. “Another world”, Arundhati Roy said, “is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.”