· INTERACTIVE Live · Punjab Chats Ep. 7 · Karti Dharti, Gender & India's Farmers Movement The co-founder of the women-led publication Karti Dharti discusses India's farmers' movement, the intersecting realities of gender, and Dalit labour, the motivation to create Karti Dharti, the fifth edition of which you can read in Gurmukhi. Subscribe to our newsletter for updates on SAAG Chats, an informal series of live events on Instagram. Karti Dharti is a women-led publication that highlights diverse voices from the farmers’ movement. Understanding how gender, the COVID crisis, and the farmers' movement in India intersect is of critical importance. In April 2021, Drama Editor Esthappen S. chatted with Karti Dharti's Founder-Editor, Sangeet Toor, on Instagram Live, about Karti Dharti's history, the state of the farmers' movement in India at the time. They mapped out the nature of the movement itself, especially as it pertains to gender, discuss the challenges it faced. Toor described how the magazine focuses on the intersection of gender and movement politics. Read the fifth edition of Karti Dharti here . SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Live Punjab Farm Ordinances Movement Organization Gender Mass Protests Media Blackout Media Delhi Chandigarh Women's Participation Displacement Sit-ins Disinformation COVID-19 Urban/Rural Urbanization Police Action Policing Citizenship Amendment Act Protests CAA Protests NRC Protests Accountability Pragmatic Realities of Protest Kisan Mazdoor Ekta Sanyukt Kisan Morcha Labor Agricultural Labor Solidarity Organic Solidarity Dalit Histories Dalit Labor Class Struggle Caste Political Economy Village Economies Domestic Labor Farmers' Movement India Indian Fascism India Today Activist Media Agrarian Economy Agriculture Alienation Gurmukhi Protests Movement Strategy Labor Movement Workers Movements Haryana Working-Class Stories Women and Gender Studies in India SAAG Chats Environment Climate Change Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. 29th Apr 2021 AUTHOR · AUTHOR Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. 1 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 On That Note:

· COMMUNITY Interview · Romanticism Romantic Literature and Colonialism “I think of works like Shona N. Jackson's Creole Indigeneity, and fleshing out the narrative of brown movement. And, importantly, doing it in a way that decenters the United States, because, with indentureship we're talking about the movement from South Asia largely to the Caribbean.” Watch the interview on YouTube or IGTV. I couldn't imagine devoting any more time to Keats and Wordsworth and Shelley and Byron. So I turned to Brown Romantics where I looked at how Romantic ideas, philosophies, politics, and techniques were mobilized ends towards nationalist ends by 19th century writers in India, Australia and British Guyana. RECOMMENDED: Brown Romantics: Poetry and Nationalism in the Global Nineteenth Century (Bucknell University Press, 2017), by Manu Samriti Chander. SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Interview Romanticism English Postcolonialism Gayatri Spivak Postcolonial Poetry Romantic Literature & the Colonized World Colonialism Race Post-George Floyd Moment Black Solidarities Indigeneity Creole Indigenous Space Vijay Prashad Ruhel Islam Hufsa Islam Browntology Brown Left Kinship The Undercommons Diaspora Guyana Australia Subaltern Studies Intellectual History Internationalist Perspective Indigeneous Spaces Egbert Martin Henry Derozio Immigration Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. 13th Nov 2020 AUTHOR · AUTHOR Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. 1 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 On That Note:

· THE VERTICAL Opinion · Islamabad After the March Some strands of feminist organising in Pakistan are rethinking strategy, moving away from symbolic demonstrations that reinforce echo chambers, and towards quieter, more embedded forms of collective work. Women Democratic Front’s Behnon ki Baithak on 8 March 2025 was one such experiment, exploring how to hold space and cultivate political power through intimate modes of gathering, conversation, and reflection. Anita Zehra Fisted Rose (2025) Digital illustration On March 8, 2020, I left D-Chowk feeling exhausted. After enduring stone pelting in broad daylight and the absolute chaos that followed, nothing felt like a victory. I did not even feel relief, just exhaustion. We later found out that the march had been infiltrated by random men—some nefarious, others your garden-variety voyeurs—and that many marchers were harassed. People did not leave the space feeling jubilant. Neither did I. It did not feel like the show was worth it. A year later, on the morning of March 8, 2021, we held our breaths as we watched a video of the Jamia Hafsa women preparing to march against us "shameless” women. "We will go wherever they go," they said, whether to the Press Club or D-Chowk. "This matter is beyond our tolerance." They spoke of their negotiations with the police, who had assured them that anyone attempting to leave would be arrested. They said they were not afraid of arrests. If Aurat Azadi March was to be allowed to proceed in Islamabad, no one could stop the Jamia Hafsa from taking to the streets and following us. "I urge my sons and brothers to join us, as they have before. These dishonourable, parentless, so-called free women must be eradicated." Ah, wonderful—now there would be men joining in to attack us too. Another year, another swarm of angry men? Thanks, ladies, but we will pass. In any case, we started preparing for the likelihood of violence, rummaging through a comrade’s house for Swiss knives, scissors…anything, really. One comrade came to the march armed with homemade pepper spray for everyone. Another attempted to teach us self-defence “kung fu” at double speed early in the morning, as if we were in a training montage. One (possibly me) suggested an alternative: a well-aimed handful of chaat masala straight to the eyes. We had not gotten a No Objection Certificate (NOC), despite having applied for one many weeks in advance. One parliamentarian had already backed out, saying she had no interest in showing up just to get smacked around by right-wing goons. Still, my phone would not stop buzzing. People kept calling, and I told them, with the utmost sincerity, to stay put until we made it to D-Chowk, hopefully in one piece. Especially if they were thinking of bringing kids along. My brother, of course, ignored all warnings and showed up anyway. Our self-defence team was primed for a confrontation, more prepared than ever. The police were there too, in full force, as if we were an invading army rather than a peaceful march. Eventually, against all odds, we made it to D-Chowk. The relief hit us so hard that we did the only logical thing: we broke into dance. Somewhere on the interwebs, there is still a video of us at D-Chowk, swaying to Dane Pe Dana like nothing else mattered. I watched it again just now and burst into tears. Because that singular, fleeting act of joy ended up costing some of us so much, we had to rethink our politics from the ground up. Marching on March 8th should be as routine as a cup of chai after a long day. International Working Women’s Day is marked worldwide with marches, so why have Pakistan’s Women’s Day marches been turned into battlegrounds ? How far behind are we as a society that the one day we step onto the streets, the one day we make ourselves visible, comes with a price tag of backlash and repression? Why can we not just march and call it a day? Instead, we strategise round the clock for our own safety, draft applications for NOCs, and negotiate with the state, particularly law enforcement agencies, just to set foot on the streets. Meanwhile, the Haya March exists for the mere purpose of opposing us, with no agenda beyond its reactionary rage, like an annoying younger sibling who only pipes up when you are about to do something interesting. At the same time, women within Islamabad’s left were deliberately targeted, some ensnared in legal battles that stretched on until October. Through it all, our male comrades offered unwavering support, standing by us when we could no longer stand on our own. Why do we glorify suffering in our movements as if it is a rite of passage? What good is injury when it leaves us too hampered to continue organising? When it stops us in our tracks? And after the march, who will take up the unrelenting, year-round work of organising to slowly build the collective strength of people, once the handful who are still committed to this work—whether through being silenced, forced to leave, or worn down—are no longer able to carry on? But all of that is water under the bridge. Revolution demands destruction sometimes: that we let go of what we once held dear. There is a time and place for confrontation. It has its own role, its own value. When the founding members of Women Democratic Front (WDF) held the first Aurat Azadi March in Islamabad on March 8, 2018 , it did not emerge out of nowhere. It was a conscious, years-long effort to move beyond the small, NGO-driven gatherings of “civil society.” My comrades wanted a visibly leftist demonstration shaped by the energy and people of the cities we were organising in, something that did not just make space but took it. There is plenty we oppose, and plenty of people who oppose us. But what do we stand for ? What do we want to build? The years 2020 and 2021 forced us to confront these questions head-on. Sacrifices were made. Fights broke out. Splintering happened. We criticised ourselves, and each other, in closed settings to the point of self-flagellation. Fingers were pointed; friendships were irreparably lost. It is gut-wrenching that all of us, individually and collectively, had to give something up. But if the world is already bursting at the seams, then breaking through is always going to be messy. One thing remains undeniable: we are responsible for and to one another. And if our politics is not rooted in care and love for one another, then what exactly are we building? We do not talk about strategy nearly enough, not just within the feminist movement, but across the left as a whole. When we organised two jalsas (assemblies) in 2022 and 2023 , the reflection of several years was at the forefront: women and khwaja siras are being murdered in this country with horrifying regularity. We cannot afford to pretend that how we organise does not have direct consequences for them. If I shout something from the stage, if I hold up a placard declaring what I believe, it will have a ripple effect, because we have become too visible to escape the backlash. We have already seen the consequences. Women in informal settlements, where some of us have spent years organising, are stopped from joining us. We know this has happened. Society reacts. Violence escalates. We have no choice but to prepare for it. There is no point in imagining feminist possibilities if we cannot imagine them with as many people in this country as possible. Mera jism, meri marzi (my body, my right), without question. I believe in this slogan with every fibre of my being and will defend it, loudly and unapologetically, for as long as I live. But there is still more convincing to do. And if we organise in ways that invite backlash so overwhelming that it peters out our voices, we risk losing ground. The movement we are building may serve us, but it can still fail countless other women. This is why building people-power is more urgent than ever. And we must do so in a way that honours our own time and energy, so that we can organise not just for a single day, but sustain the work year-round. We need solidarities that extend beyond those who already agree with us, because otherwise, we are only preaching to the choir. It is remarkable that women organise at all. There are not many of us, because life inevitably gets in the way. We are holding down jobs (I work two AND organise), running households, and managing domestic responsibilities. We are caught in the web of patriarchal restrictions, state paternalism, violence, care work, domestic labour, economic survival, and mobility constraints—you name it. We cannot outrun time, no matter how much we try. So we have to move at a pace we can sustain, as long as we remain politically committed. And we are done engaging on the state’s terms, done engaging on patriarchy’s terms. We need to be more opaque, not give too much away. This is where the act of rebuilding becomes all the more important. We cannot be afraid to start from scratch. We have to believe in our own staying power. For International Working Women’s Day 2025, WDF organised a “ behnon ki baithak ” after a year of stepping back and reflecting, instead of the march, in Islamabad, Karachi, and Lahore. We were not expecting a huge turnout and did the best we could with the limited hands on deck, only for the crowds to surpass our expectations. People showed up (with men respectfully sitting at the back) because they felt they had a stake in the conversation. In Islamabad, women who did not know each other spoke in smaller groups and built new relationships beyond the ones their class restricts them to. In Karachi, whether they were new faces, WDF members, or the women of Malir, everybody spoke in a space they created lovingly for themselves. In Lahore, women sang feminist songs and read out poetry and stories to one another. It was not a march, not a mass gathering, not something that courted visibility. But it was a space we carved with intent, a nod toward what must endure. And we will go on building, piece by piece, until what is ours can no longer be undone. If you honour only one form of struggle, you are not honouring history, you are distorting it. You are flattening its depth, silencing its echoes, and erasing those who fought just as hard. The baithak was a reminder that feminist organising takes many forms, each with its own purpose and power. Marches have been crucial in asserting the presence of feminists across Pakistan, shifting public discourse, and making visible what the state and society seek to erase. But the work ahead requires strategy that extends beyond the moment: because political moments do pass and momentum has to, then, be built from scratch. Our conversations have to deepen, solidarities have to expand, and political commitments have to translate into continued, dogged, year-around action. The future of feminist organising in Pakistan lies in our ability to move between the visible and the unseen, the loud and the quiet, the streets and the everyday. What we build now must not only resist but endure.∎ SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Opinion Islamabad Feminism Feminist Feminist Organizing Demonstration D-Chowk Pakistan Collective Women's Democratic Front Aurat Azadi March Jamia Hafsa No Objection Certificate Human Rights Violence Peaceful Resistance March Protest International Working Women's Day Visibility Repression Revolution Civil Society NGOs Leftist Movement Strategy Jalsas Assemblies Khwaja Siras Intersex Gender Studies Gender Equality LGBTQIA Transgender Community mera jism meri marzi my body my right Patriarchal Society Paternalism Care Work Domestic labour Economic Security Mobility Sustainability behnon ki baithak Poetry Storytelling Solidarity Endure Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. 19th Apr 2025 AUTHOR · AUTHOR Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. 1 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 On That Note:

“Take Lorraine Hansberry's 'A Raisin in the Sun.' Well, it's a working-class family, and it's about upward mobility, but systematic racism is preventing them from having upward mobility. I remember seeing the film first and not even realizing that it was a play. Of course, it's a story about economic apartheid, but I only later saw the resonance in the tradition when I read August Wilson, Amiri Baraka, and later, Lynn Nottage.” COMMUNITY Theatre & Bengali Harlem “Take Lorraine Hansberry's 'A Raisin in the Sun.' Well, it's a working-class family, and it's about upward mobility, but systematic racism is preventing them from having upward mobility. I remember seeing the film first and not even realizing that it was a play. Of course, it's a story about economic apartheid, but I only later saw the resonance in the tradition when I read August Wilson, Amiri Baraka, and later, Lynn Nottage.” Aladdin Ullah How do you give dignity and humanity and a platform for people that are not being represented in the arts, in film, TV, and theatre? How do you give dignity and humanity and a platform for people that are not being represented in the arts, in film, TV, and theatre? SUB-HEAD ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: Kareen Adam · Nazish Chunara A Dhivehi Artists Showcase Shebani Rao A Freelancer's Guide to Decision-Making Watch the interview on YouTube or IGTV. SHARE Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Interview Bangladeshi Diapora Bangladesh South Asian Theater Working-Class Stories Bertolt Brecht August Wilson Amiri Baraka Lorraine Hansberry Avijit Roy Mel Watkins Black Solidarities ALADDIN ULLAH is a playwright, comedian, and performer based in New York City. He is a pioneer of the past decade as one of the very first South Asians to perform stand-up comedy on national television on networks such as: HBO, Comedy Central, MTV, BET, and PBS. He was the co-founder and host of the multi-ethnic stand-up show Colorblind, a member of Joseph Papp's Public Theater's Inaugural Emerging Writers group where he wrote and developed Indio during the Spotlight Series and workshops at Joe's Pub. He was also a part of the New York Theater Workshop Residency at Dartmouth, and Halal Brothers directed by Liesel Tommy (The Labyrinth's Barn Series at Public Theater). Aladdin has had staged readings/workshops of his plays at New York Theater Workshop, Cape Cod Theater Project, Classical Theater of Harlem, Lark Play Development Center, Shakespeare in Paradise Festival (Bahamas) Labyrinth, and 1 Solo Festival. His acting career includes American Desi , and the award-winning animated film Sita Sings The Blues . Aladdin is a Recipient of the Paul Robeson development grant to produce a documentary called In search of Bengali Harlem, which inspired the recent book Bengali Harlem by Vivek Bald. His most recent play is Dishwasher Dreams , a one-man show drawn from the story of his father’s migration from Noakhali, East Bengal, to New York City. 11 Sept 2020 Interview Bangladeshi Diapora 11th Sep 2020 Nation-State Constraints on Identity & Intimacy Chaitali Sen 17th Dec Bengali Nationalism & the Chittagong Hill Tracts Kabita Chakma 9th Dec Musical Genre as a Creation of Racial Capitalism Vijay Iyer 8th Nov Indentured Labor & Guyanese Politics Gaiutra Bahadur 11th Oct Movements in Pakistani Theatre Fawzia Afzal-Khan 24th Sep On That Note:

Over the past decade, Maldivian families, drawn by a distorted vision of religious idealism, have burrowed anew in ISIS-held territories across the Middle East. Widowed mothers and orphaned children have quickly become victims of the abuse and deprivation rampant in IDP camps like Roj in Northeast Syria. As religious extremism continues to unravel the Maldives’ social fabric, the nation must reckon with the Maldivian women and children left to suffer under appalling conditions abroad. Over the past decade, Maldivian families, drawn by a distorted vision of religious idealism, have burrowed anew in ISIS-held territories across the Middle East. Widowed mothers and orphaned children have quickly become victims of the abuse and deprivation rampant in IDP camps like Roj in Northeast Syria. As religious extremism continues to unravel the Maldives’ social fabric, the nation must reckon with the Maldivian women and children left to suffer under appalling conditions abroad. "Anyhow" (2025), oil on canvas. Artist Maldives AUTHOR · AUTHOR · AUTHOR 8 Sep 2025 th · FEATURES REPORTAGE · LOCATION Voices of Roj “Nothing is nurturing about this camp,” Hajer said. “It does not educate us. It does not rehabilitate us. It breaks us, and it is breaking our children.” Hajer and her daughter are among roughly a hundred Maldivian detainees in Syria’s Roj camp, where they have lived for years under conditions that grow more degrading with each passing season. The al-Hol and Roj camps, run by the Kurdish-led Autonomous Administration of North and East Syria (AANES)—the civilian authority linked to the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF)—hold about 42,500 people, mostly wives, female relatives, and children of ISIS suspects. The urgent humanitarian and moral crisis faced by Maldivian women and children, along with others detained in camps like Roj, remains largely ignored, dismissed, or buried beneath layers of political hesitation and bureaucratic neglect. Recent global developments have only worsened the outlook. The re-election of Donald Trump in the US has accelerated aid cuts and diplomatic disengagement , contributing to a chillingly uncertain environment for repatriation efforts. The Maldivian government, like many others, has struggled to articulate a coherent policy for the return and reintegration of its citizens, leaving families in a state of indefinite limbo. Detainees remain voiceless, with little to no support from their countries of origin, caught in the legal web of global counterterrorism frameworks and domestic laws that need to balance humanitarian needs and national security risks. Hajer married Abdel in 2015, not knowing she would soon become a widow in a war zone. Immediately after their wedding, the couple left for Turkey and crossed into Syria without informing their families of their ‘exact’ plan. A year in, Abdel, Hajer’s husband, was killed in a safe house. Hajer was reluctant to discuss her circumstances in detail, an understandable decision given the gravity of her current situation and the threat to her mental and physical well-being. Now, she describes camp Roj as an “ open-air extortion prison ,” where detainees are forced to rely on remittances from relatives abroad to survive. Scorching 50 degree summers, sandstorms, and strong winds create constant health threats, especially for women and children. Water is often unavailable for days at a time, and electricity, when it comes, must be paid for and rarely lasts more than eight hours a day. Medical care is unaffordable and inadequate, even for the most basic needs. For the children born in war zones, this is all they know, but they are not immune to its psychological effects. Nights bring added danger. With no lighting, children are afraid to use distant toilets, resulting in bedwetting and other behaviours brought on by emotional trauma. Children are, too, being sexually abused and harassed. Hajer said children are “anxious, afraid, and broken.” They live under the constant shadow of fear, with their lives persistently at risk. In 2022, two Egyptian girls aged 12 and 15 were brutally killed in the annex of Al-Hol camp, their throats slit and their bodies discarded in an open septic tank. In another case, armed men shot dogs in front of children as an intimidation tactic. In a separate incident, women were dragged from their tents, beaten with iron rods, and soaked with freezing water. Rape and sexual violence are widely documented in these camps, used not only as a method of domination but as a weapon of war to instil fear, punish, and exert control. Victims include both women and adolescent girls, most of whom remain silent out of fear of stigma or retaliation. Their children returned from the ordeal sobbing and shaken, with no degree of normalcy to their expressions, no language to articulate the fear drawn into their young faces. Mothers like Hajer, along with other women in the camp, try to impose structure where none exists, often instinctively adopting young children who have been orphaned. They attempt to teach the children to read, ration food and water, and invent games from scraps of plastic and cloth. However, these efforts are frequently undermined by the suspicion of camp authorities, where even the slightest semblance of self-organisation is viewed as evidence of radicalism. UN Women revealed in May 2025 that nearly half of women’s organisations providing frontline support in crisis zones may shut down within six months due to funding shortfalls. The devastating conditions in the camps are only one part of a broader and more entrenched problem. To understand the barriers to repatriation and reintegration, it is necessary to examine not only policy failures and diplomatic stances but also the supposedly ‘measured’ political calculations that have driven prolonged inaction. Religious idealism The Maldives is better known for its year-round tropical allure and luxury tourism, but beneath the surface, rising religious extremism is destabilising social cohesion locally and its image internationally. Since the outbreak of the civil war in Syria in 2011, a concerning number of Maldivian men, women, and children have left the country to join conflicts in Syria, raising alarm about the growing influence of extremist ideologies. To some extent, it is a microcosm of the political extremities the world is experiencing. This trend not only threatens domestic stability but also carries broader implications for national security, tourism, and the visa-free international mobility enjoyed by Maldivian passport holders to 93 countries and territories . While many, like Hajer, embark on what they perceive as a spiritual journey to atone or reconnect with their faith, the motivations behind such departures are rarely straightforward. In the Maldivian context, daily life for many is marked by economic hardship, generational overcrowding, and limited opportunity, conditions that can push individuals toward radical paths in search of purpose. For some, it’s less about religious doctrine and more about dignity: a desperate bid to reclaim identity, agency, and purity in a world that seems to have left them behind. Faith, in this light, becomes more than a spiritual pursuit; it becomes a lifeline in the face of stagnation, social pressure, and the slow erosion of hope. Not everyone who left, however, can be considered a victim. Some left disillusioned with the government’s narrow or politicised interpretation of Islamic identity. In contrast, others were drawn by the promise of raising children in a more devout Islamic environment, one that, for many Maldivians, differs significantly from their own more moderate and diverse religious practices. Many were also misled by promises of employment, stability, and community, rather than out of allegiance to extremist ideologies like ISIS. Countless Maldivian men were radicalised by recruiters who preyed on legitimate grievances. Children, by contrast, had no choice at all, making their right of return particularly urgent. To take children away from their homes and communities and into a war zone under the banner of an extreme and violent version of Islam is a profound and tragic distortion of the core values most Maldivians hold dear. As highlighted by the UN’s experts on children and armed conflict and on counterterrorism and human rights, children associated with armed groups are victims first and foremost—entitled to protection, rehabilitation, and reintegration, not punishment or indefinite detention. This search for ‘nirvana’ can be understood through a theoretical lens that synthesises Victor Turner’s concept of liminality and Pierre Bourdieu’s theory of symbolic capital. Turner’s notion of liminality, being in an in-between state, detached from the structures of ordinary social life, offers a framework for understanding how religious journeys serve as rites of passage. For individuals like Hajer who hail from ethno-religious nations like the Maldives, this spiritual mobility represents a space where old identities are suspended, and new, sacred selves are potentially formed. These movements are not merely about faith. It is about negotiating one’s place in a rapidly shifting social order. At the same time, Bourdieu’s concept of symbolic capital—the recognition, honour, and legitimacy one accrues through cultural or religious alignment—helps explain how religious idealism in the Maldives becomes a strategy of social navigation. When economic capital is scarce, and social mobility is limited, adherence to visible forms of piety can serve as a form of distinction. Religious idealism thus functions both as a means of personal salvation and as a public signal. In a context where modernity collides with tradition and where the state has a contested relationship with Islamic identity, personal piety can become a performative yet significant attempt to assert agency and reclaim moral clarity. In the Maldives, religious transformations are not only personal decisions but are situated within broader geopolitical anxieties, state governance, and the moral economies of globalisation. In this light, Hajer’s journey is not an anomaly but part of a patterned response to the contradictions of postcolonial modernity, where religious idealism emerges as both an escape and an embrace, a refusal of the present and a reimagining of what life could mean. A disturbing example of this rising extremism occurred in 2022, when Islamic fundamentalists stormed a government-organised Yoga Day event in Malé, attended by public officials and foreign diplomats. The attackers shouted religious slogans, destroyed property, and attempted to assault participants, claiming yoga contradicted Islamic beliefs. Investigations revealed the protesters had obtained flags from the office of an opposition political party. Incidents like this reflect a broader pattern of growing intolerance, politically fuelled extremism, and the weakening of moderate voices. This climate of hostility has also had deadly consequences for those who dare to speak out against it. Ahmed Rilwan Abdulla, a reporter for the independent media outlet Minivan News (later the Maldives Independent), was abducted and forcibly disappeared after receiving repeated death threats from Islamic extremist groups linked to al-Qaeda. His journalism, personal blog, and social media accounts criticised religious fundamentalism and violent extremism. Despite a decade of advocacy and demands for justice for “Moyameeha”, no perpetrators have been held accountable, leaving Rilwan’s family without closure and sending a chilling message to others seeking to challenge extremist views. Political context Following the dismantling of ISIS in 2019, Kurdish authorities assumed control of former ISIS-held territories, imprisoning male fighters and confining women and children to detention camps. Maldivian nationals initially held in Al-Hol were subsequently transferred to Roj camp, where 11 women and 33 children, along with six other individuals and their uncounted children, remain, according to direct reports from detainees. The conditions in Roj emphasise the ongoing diplomatic and humanitarian challenges faced by inhabitants, especially in the context of the Maldives’ ambiguous stance on repatriation, despite Turkey asserting administrative authority over Kurdish-controlled zones and expressing willingness to repatriate foreign nationals. The current Maldivian government has not made contact in months to verify the health or legal status of its citizens or to initiate repatriation procedures. This inaction contrasts with earlier efforts under former President Ibrahim Mohamed Solih, whose administration approved an open budget through the People’s Majlis (parliament), trained personnel, and authorised the return of several individuals, including six adults and their children. Of these, five were released from the National Reintegration Centre (NRC), and children were sent to live with extended families within six to eight months. Under the current administration of President Dr Mohamed Muizzu, despite campaign promises and meetings with returnee families, no concrete updates have followed. This has raised suspicions of deliberate obfuscation, possibly to avoid exposing domestic recruiters or politically sensitive ties. The Maldives also lacks a comprehensive and systematic reintegration policy. Current efforts fall short of addressing the complexity and depth of religious fundamentalism. Existing initiatives focus narrowly on apprehended violent extremists, while broader patterns of extremism, often embedded in spiritual discourse, online spaces, and social networks, remain largely unaddressed. There is no consistent, nationwide framework; instead, the issue is treated selectively and reactively. The rise of Islamic fundamentalism driven by foreign influence, internal vulnerabilities, and successive government’s failure to curb the spread of extremist ideologies has allowed fundamentalist Islam to dominate and fuel growing support for Salafi-Jihadism , further complicating efforts to counter extremism. The effects of the one-sided limit to freedom of expression in the country are elephantinely apparent: extremists are free to spread hate as long as it is laced with religion, shunning those promoting equal rights in an open, inclusive and just society. Civil society, which could play a vital role in prevention and rehabilitation, is constrained by limited protections and lacks the operational space to act meaningfully. NGOs and civil society actors are cautious of speaking out, often only doing so under conditions of confidentiality due to fear of reprisal and lack of state protection. Targeted attacks in the past, such as MP Dr Afrasheem Ali’s assassination, the enforced disappearance of journalist Ahmed Rilwan , and the brutal killing of Yameen Rasheed, have created a climate of fear and silenced people who dared to speak out. Moreover, the unlawful de-registration of the Maldivian Democracy Network in 2019 has set a dangerous precedent for local human rights groups. State institutions such as the National Counter Terrorism Centre (NCTC) provide only rudimentary public messaging that does not align with contemporary radicalisation dynamics. Donor-funded programs, including those under USAID, are frequently framed in a way that often oversimplifies the issue with superficial messaging, such as ‘be good to your neighbour,’ failing to address the deeper ideological and structural drivers of extremism. The approach taken tends not to see the forest for the trees. In reality, state-led programming on countering violent extremism is not functional at a meaningful level. Both the government and society appear to be in denial about the scale of the problem, further complicating efforts to reintegrate returnees especially amid widespread public hostility and fear. The legal framework governing these issues was clearly defined in 2018, where under the Maldives’ Anti-Terror Law (2018) , travel to designated war zones without prior government approval is criminalised and punishable by five to seven years of imprisonment. Syria, by presidential decree, is officially recognised as a war zone. Before this legislation, however, it was relatively easy for Maldivians to travel abroad to join ISIS or affiliated groups. The state’s delayed or selective approach to repatriation emphasises the tension between legal obligations, political considerations, and international diplomatic responsibility. Personal stories, such as that of Hajer, bring the human cost of these political and legal entanglements into sharp view. Quiet recruitment and blind spots Efforts branded as ‘whole-of-society’ initiatives in the Maldives are poorly conceptualised and often superficial, lacking the depth and nuance required to counter extremism meaningfully. Public education campaigns have failed to equip families and communities with the tools to identify early warning signs. In many cases, families mistook increased religiosity for spiritual growth, unaware that it could signal a more profound ideological shift toward extremism. Compounding this is the government’s failure to build public trust or support for reintegration initiatives. Without a national dialogue or sustained public outreach, returnees are often placed back into hostile or unsafe environments, such as victims of domestic abuse being returned to the same communities, resulting in re-traumatisation and failed reintegration. The state has provided no clear communication regarding where returnees are held, under what conditions, and for how long which has instigated suspicion and public resentment. These shortcomings are accelerated by the state’s inability to address extremism within its own institutions, particularly prisons and mosques. A 2019 report by Transparency Maldives revealed widespread and well-organised recruitment networks operating within the prison system, often more effective than community-based recruiters. One-on-one interviews with inmates exposed the extent to which recruiters wield control and influence behind bars, using religious narratives and psychological manipulation invoking guilt to indoctrinate others. Mosques have also become spaces of quiet recruitment, especially among disaffected youth, including those awaiting GCSE results. Tactics employed include offering communal meals, job promises, and a sense of belonging through social events. Academically inclined individuals are groomed for technical roles, while others are positioned as ideological foot soldiers. Despite the seriousness of these dynamics, civil society engagement has been inconsistent and largely ineffective. For example, after a brief focus on prison recruitment into extremism during the 2022 National Human Rights Day, there has been no meaningful follow-up or public reporting. The lack of a coordinated, transparent, and informed approach across both community and institutional spaces continues to leave critical vulnerabilities unaddressed, undermining any sustainable counter-extremism strategy. Return and reintegration While Maldives has an ambiguous stance on the repatriation of the victims, its silence is louder. The absence of consistent public communication, the lack of a formal repatriation policy, and the visible deterioration of previously initiated reintegration mechanisms all indicate a system that is either unwilling or unable to confront the realities of return. The NRC, once a promising facility has now become emblematic of institutional neglect. Initially designed to provide trauma-informed, phased rehabilitation for returnees, starting with psychological assessments and skill-building programmes, the NRC saw moderate success with the first batch of returnees. Children were able to access safe spaces and basic routines, and families received some level of structured support. However, this fragile system quickly crumbled under the weight of poor planning, untrained staff, inadequate community sensitisation, and shifting political priorities. The location of the centre next to Maafushi jail also stigmatises it and options for an all-round holistic space are few. The second group of returnees, which included over 20 individuals, arrived to find a drastically underprepared NRC. Staff shortages, a dearth of leadership, and inadequate infrastructure resulted in inconsistent care and oversight. While the first group benefited from relatively humane conditions and structured support, the second group faced bureaucratic delays, limited communication with the outside world, and deteriorating mental health among detainees. These discrepancies have led to deep resentment and perceptions of injustice among returnee families who had consistently fought for their return. Worse still, the blurring of lines between victims and potential perpetrators, particularly during the early police evaluations, led to significant safety concerns. Vulnerable women and children were placed in close proximity to individuals not yet cleared of extremist affiliations. This created an environment ripe for intimidation, blackmail, and re-traumatisation, undermining the very premise of reintegration as a protective and rehabilitative process. It is not easy for the NRC to employ capable personnel, as the role involves working with vulnerable individuals and carries significant risk and responsibility. Civil society groups, which could have provided supplementary support, were kept at arm’s length due to state mistrust and opacity. Reintegration in the Maldives is not a coordinated, strategic process; it is an afterthought shaped by a legal and institutional system that often operates with duplicity and discrimination. Without clear policy guidelines, adequate staffing, or genuine community preparation, the state is setting returnees up for failure. The uneven application of laws and the classist biases embedded within the Maldivian legal system further undermine efforts as reintegration becomes another arena where privilege dictates outcomes. Reintegration cannot be reduced to short-term containment, bureaucratic box-ticking, or campaign promises. It must be a long-term, holistic approach with sustained community sensitisation that confronts inequalities rather than enables them. Abandoned by the state? Nowhere is the failure of reintegration more visible or more tragic than in the lives of the children affected by this crisis. For those who have been brought back to the Maldives, the conditions they return to are often far from restorative. For those left behind in conflict zones like Roj Camp, still clinging to hopes of repatriation from their country of origin, the situation is even more dire. The NRC, while initially framed as a place of rehabilitation, unfortunately functions more like a detention facility. This reality has drawn sharp criticism from the Human Rights Commission of the Maldives (HRCM) and mental health professionals, particularly regarding the presence of children within such a setting. These concerns are not merely symbolic. Detaining children, even for reintegration, violates their rights and places them in an environment that accelerates existing trauma rather than alleviating it. Children require environments that are safe, caring, and psychologically secure. The NRC, with its history of surveillance, limited freedom, and uncertain status for its occupants, does not offer such conditions. Mental health practitioners have warned that exposure to these institutional settings, especially without proper safeguards or child-focused services, risks deepening emotional distress and delaying recovery. The long-term psychological effects on children subjected to such environments are significant, including increased risk of anxiety, attachment disorders, and chronic trauma. For those still stranded in conflict zones, particularly in camps like Roj, the cost of inaction is even higher. These children, some born in Syria, others taken there as infants, have lived through war, witnessed violence, and endured years of neglect. They are not stateless in a legal sense, but are emotionally unanchored and existentially adrift. Their developmental years unfold in conditions marked by fear, deprivation, and the constant threat of violence. Hajer, like many others, is not a product of ideology alone but was shaped by the very society that now hesitates to bring her home. Her fate was as much a response to her environment as it was a consequence of her circumstances. In an increasingly religiously conservative state, where both fundamentalists and liberals find themselves alienated, the space for belonging is shrinking. Both ends of the political spectrum feel excluded—one for not conforming, the other for questioning. The inequality and alienation that drove them to leave is the same one that prevents them from returning. The economic hardship and political instability that drove families to the margins remain unaddressed. The longer the Maldives delay their return, the greater the risk that these children will interpret their abandonment as deliberate. This sense of betrayal, of being forgotten or judged for choices they never made can become a powerful source of grievance. Left unaddressed, it could fuel a new cycle of political violence. The very young people the state claims to be protecting may, in time, come to see that state as the reason for their suffering. This is not a hypothetical risk. Extremist ideologies often root themselves in personal trauma, as well as a perceived loss of identity or dignity. For children growing up in camps with little to no education, healthcare, or hope for reintegration, the appeal of groups that offer purpose, belonging, or revenge can be dangerously persuasive. The moral argument is clear: no child should bear the consequences of their parents’ decision. The legal argument is equally compelling: as a signatory to multiple international conventions, including the Convention on the Rights of the Child, the Maldives must ensure that these children are protected, repatriated, and rehabilitated in a child-sensitive and rights-based manner. Continuing to delay their return is not just a policy failure; it is a human rights violation and a reflection of our lack of shared humanity as a nation. More dangerously, it is the planting of seeds for future instability. “I hope this helps us,” Hajer reiterated, echoing her hopes for repatriation that extended far beyond the confines of Roj Camp as she chose to lay bare their current status, risking her life. It is a question that demands an answer not just from policymakers, but from the entire nation. The new governing administration in Syria does little to clarify the fate of those stranded in camps like Roj, offering no substantial legal framework or accountability for the displaced, leaving them in a dangerous limbo, neither protected nor prosecuted. The cost of waiting is not merely diplomatic or logistical. It is deeply moral. Each day that passes without action compounds the trauma of those stranded abroad and deepens the wounds of those returned without proper support. It signals to children that their suffering is invisible, and to families that they are disposable. It risks turning victims into future threats, not by nature, but by neglect. The Maldives must confront the uncomfortable truth: silence is not neutrality, it is complicity. The time to act is not when conditions are perfect but when humanity calls. And its calls are reverberating. ∎ SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. 1 Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Essay Maldives Syria Extremism Women and Children Gender Violence Civil Society detention Internally Displaced Persons Roj Camp Northeast Syria Vulnerable Populations children's rights open-air prison symbolic capital religious transformation prison abuse Salafi-Jihadism Counterterrorism Department extremist recruitment government betrayal geopolitics Anonymity anonymous Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 On That Note:

Some strands of feminist organising in Pakistan are rethinking strategy, moving away from symbolic demonstrations that reinforce echo chambers, and towards quieter, more embedded forms of collective work. Women Democratic Front’s Behnon ki Baithak on 8 March 2025 was one such experiment, exploring how to hold space and cultivate political power through intimate modes of gathering, conversation, and reflection. THE VERTICAL After the March Some strands of feminist organising in Pakistan are rethinking strategy, moving away from symbolic demonstrations that reinforce echo chambers, and towards quieter, more embedded forms of collective work. Women Democratic Front’s Behnon ki Baithak on 8 March 2025 was one such experiment, exploring how to hold space and cultivate political power through intimate modes of gathering, conversation, and reflection. Zoya Rehman On March 8, 2020, I left D-Chowk feeling exhausted. After enduring stone pelting in broad daylight and the absolute chaos that followed, nothing felt like a victory. I did not even feel relief, just exhaustion. We later found out that the march had been infiltrated by random men—some nefarious, others your garden-variety voyeurs—and that many marchers were harassed. People did not leave the space feeling jubilant. Neither did I. It did not feel like the show was worth it. A year later, on the morning of March 8, 2021, we held our breaths as we watched a video of the Jamia Hafsa women preparing to march against us "shameless” women. "We will go wherever they go," they said, whether to the Press Club or D-Chowk. "This matter is beyond our tolerance." They spoke of their negotiations with the police, who had assured them that anyone attempting to leave would be arrested. They said they were not afraid of arrests. If Aurat Azadi March was to be allowed to proceed in Islamabad, no one could stop the Jamia Hafsa from taking to the streets and following us. "I urge my sons and brothers to join us, as they have before. These dishonourable, parentless, so-called free women must be eradicated." Ah, wonderful—now there would be men joining in to attack us too. Another year, another swarm of angry men? Thanks, ladies, but we will pass. In any case, we started preparing for the likelihood of violence, rummaging through a comrade’s house for Swiss knives, scissors…anything, really. One comrade came to the march armed with homemade pepper spray for everyone. Another attempted to teach us self-defence “kung fu” at double speed early in the morning, as if we were in a training montage. One (possibly me) suggested an alternative: a well-aimed handful of chaat masala straight to the eyes. We had not gotten a No Objection Certificate (NOC), despite having applied for one many weeks in advance. One parliamentarian had already backed out, saying she had no interest in showing up just to get smacked around by right-wing goons. Still, my phone would not stop buzzing. People kept calling, and I told them, with the utmost sincerity, to stay put until we made it to D-Chowk, hopefully in one piece. Especially if they were thinking of bringing kids along. My brother, of course, ignored all warnings and showed up anyway. Our self-defence team was primed for a confrontation, more prepared than ever. The police were there too, in full force, as if we were an invading army rather than a peaceful march. Eventually, against all odds, we made it to D-Chowk. The relief hit us so hard that we did the only logical thing: we broke into dance. Somewhere on the interwebs, there is still a video of us at D-Chowk, swaying to Dane Pe Dana like nothing else mattered. I watched it again just now and burst into tears. Because that singular, fleeting act of joy ended up costing some of us so much, we had to rethink our politics from the ground up. Marching on March 8th should be as routine as a cup of chai after a long day. International Working Women’s Day is marked worldwide with marches, so why have Pakistan’s Women’s Day marches been turned into battlegrounds ? How far behind are we as a society that the one day we step onto the streets, the one day we make ourselves visible, comes with a price tag of backlash and repression? Why can we not just march and call it a day? Instead, we strategise round the clock for our own safety, draft applications for NOCs, and negotiate with the state, particularly law enforcement agencies, just to set foot on the streets. Meanwhile, the Haya March exists for the mere purpose of opposing us, with no agenda beyond its reactionary rage, like an annoying younger sibling who only pipes up when you are about to do something interesting. At the same time, women within Islamabad’s left were deliberately targeted, some ensnared in legal battles that stretched on until October. Through it all, our male comrades offered unwavering support, standing by us when we could no longer stand on our own. Why do we glorify suffering in our movements as if it is a rite of passage? What good is injury when it leaves us too hampered to continue organising? When it stops us in our tracks? And after the march, who will take up the unrelenting, year-round work of organising to slowly build the collective strength of people, once the handful who are still committed to this work—whether through being silenced, forced to leave, or worn down—are no longer able to carry on? But all of that is water under the bridge. Revolution demands destruction sometimes: that we let go of what we once held dear. There is a time and place for confrontation. It has its own role, its own value. When the founding members of Women Democratic Front (WDF) held the first Aurat Azadi March in Islamabad on March 8, 2018 , it did not emerge out of nowhere. It was a conscious, years-long effort to move beyond the small, NGO-driven gatherings of “civil society.” My comrades wanted a visibly leftist demonstration shaped by the energy and people of the cities we were organising in, something that did not just make space but took it. There is plenty we oppose, and plenty of people who oppose us. But what do we stand for ? What do we want to build? The years 2020 and 2021 forced us to confront these questions head-on. Sacrifices were made. Fights broke out. Splintering happened. We criticised ourselves, and each other, in closed settings to the point of self-flagellation. Fingers were pointed; friendships were irreparably lost. It is gut-wrenching that all of us, individually and collectively, had to give something up. But if the world is already bursting at the seams, then breaking through is always going to be messy. One thing remains undeniable: we are responsible for and to one another. And if our politics is not rooted in care and love for one another, then what exactly are we building? We do not talk about strategy nearly enough, not just within the feminist movement, but across the left as a whole. When we organised two jalsas (assemblies) in 2022 and 2023 , the reflection of several years was at the forefront: women and khwaja siras are being murdered in this country with horrifying regularity. We cannot afford to pretend that how we organise does not have direct consequences for them. If I shout something from the stage, if I hold up a placard declaring what I believe, it will have a ripple effect, because we have become too visible to escape the backlash. We have already seen the consequences. Women in informal settlements, where some of us have spent years organising, are stopped from joining us. We know this has happened. Society reacts. Violence escalates. We have no choice but to prepare for it. There is no point in imagining feminist possibilities if we cannot imagine them with as many people in this country as possible. Mera jism, meri marzi (my body, my right), without question. I believe in this slogan with every fibre of my being and will defend it, loudly and unapologetically, for as long as I live. But there is still more convincing to do. And if we organise in ways that invite backlash so overwhelming that it peters out our voices, we risk losing ground. The movement we are building may serve us, but it can still fail countless other women. This is why building people-power is more urgent than ever. And we must do so in a way that honours our own time and energy, so that we can organise not just for a single day, but sustain the work year-round. We need solidarities that extend beyond those who already agree with us, because otherwise, we are only preaching to the choir. It is remarkable that women organise at all. There are not many of us, because life inevitably gets in the way. We are holding down jobs (I work two AND organise), running households, and managing domestic responsibilities. We are caught in the web of patriarchal restrictions, state paternalism, violence, care work, domestic labour, economic survival, and mobility constraints—you name it. We cannot outrun time, no matter how much we try. So we have to move at a pace we can sustain, as long as we remain politically committed. And we are done engaging on the state’s terms, done engaging on patriarchy’s terms. We need to be more opaque, not give too much away. This is where the act of rebuilding becomes all the more important. We cannot be afraid to start from scratch. We have to believe in our own staying power. For International Working Women’s Day 2025, WDF organised a “ behnon ki baithak ” after a year of stepping back and reflecting, instead of the march, in Islamabad, Karachi, and Lahore. We were not expecting a huge turnout and did the best we could with the limited hands on deck, only for the crowds to surpass our expectations. People showed up (with men respectfully sitting at the back) because they felt they had a stake in the conversation. In Islamabad, women who did not know each other spoke in smaller groups and built new relationships beyond the ones their class restricts them to. In Karachi, whether they were new faces, WDF members, or the women of Malir, everybody spoke in a space they created lovingly for themselves. In Lahore, women sang feminist songs and read out poetry and stories to one another. It was not a march, not a mass gathering, not something that courted visibility. But it was a space we carved with intent, a nod toward what must endure. And we will go on building, piece by piece, until what is ours can no longer be undone. If you honour only one form of struggle, you are not honouring history, you are distorting it. You are flattening its depth, silencing its echoes, and erasing those who fought just as hard. The baithak was a reminder that feminist organising takes many forms, each with its own purpose and power. Marches have been crucial in asserting the presence of feminists across Pakistan, shifting public discourse, and making visible what the state and society seek to erase. But the work ahead requires strategy that extends beyond the moment: because political moments do pass and momentum has to, then, be built from scratch. Our conversations have to deepen, solidarities have to expand, and political commitments have to translate into continued, dogged, year-around action. The future of feminist organising in Pakistan lies in our ability to move between the visible and the unseen, the loud and the quiet, the streets and the everyday. What we build now must not only resist but endure.∎ On March 8, 2020, I left D-Chowk feeling exhausted. After enduring stone pelting in broad daylight and the absolute chaos that followed, nothing felt like a victory. I did not even feel relief, just exhaustion. We later found out that the march had been infiltrated by random men—some nefarious, others your garden-variety voyeurs—and that many marchers were harassed. People did not leave the space feeling jubilant. Neither did I. It did not feel like the show was worth it. A year later, on the morning of March 8, 2021, we held our breaths as we watched a video of the Jamia Hafsa women preparing to march against us "shameless” women. "We will go wherever they go," they said, whether to the Press Club or D-Chowk. "This matter is beyond our tolerance." They spoke of their negotiations with the police, who had assured them that anyone attempting to leave would be arrested. They said they were not afraid of arrests. If Aurat Azadi March was to be allowed to proceed in Islamabad, no one could stop the Jamia Hafsa from taking to the streets and following us. "I urge my sons and brothers to join us, as they have before. These dishonourable, parentless, so-called free women must be eradicated." Ah, wonderful—now there would be men joining in to attack us too. Another year, another swarm of angry men? Thanks, ladies, but we will pass. In any case, we started preparing for the likelihood of violence, rummaging through a comrade’s house for Swiss knives, scissors…anything, really. One comrade came to the march armed with homemade pepper spray for everyone. Another attempted to teach us self-defence “kung fu” at double speed early in the morning, as if we were in a training montage. One (possibly me) suggested an alternative: a well-aimed handful of chaat masala straight to the eyes. We had not gotten a No Objection Certificate (NOC), despite having applied for one many weeks in advance. One parliamentarian had already backed out, saying she had no interest in showing up just to get smacked around by right-wing goons. Still, my phone would not stop buzzing. People kept calling, and I told them, with the utmost sincerity, to stay put until we made it to D-Chowk, hopefully in one piece. Especially if they were thinking of bringing kids along. My brother, of course, ignored all warnings and showed up anyway. Our self-defence team was primed for a confrontation, more prepared than ever. The police were there too, in full force, as if we were an invading army rather than a peaceful march. Eventually, against all odds, we made it to D-Chowk. The relief hit us so hard that we did the only logical thing: we broke into dance. Somewhere on the interwebs, there is still a video of us at D-Chowk, swaying to Dane Pe Dana like nothing else mattered. I watched it again just now and burst into tears. Because that singular, fleeting act of joy ended up costing some of us so much, we had to rethink our politics from the ground up. Marching on March 8th should be as routine as a cup of chai after a long day. International Working Women’s Day is marked worldwide with marches, so why have Pakistan’s Women’s Day marches been turned into battlegrounds ? How far behind are we as a society that the one day we step onto the streets, the one day we make ourselves visible, comes with a price tag of backlash and repression? Why can we not just march and call it a day? Instead, we strategise round the clock for our own safety, draft applications for NOCs, and negotiate with the state, particularly law enforcement agencies, just to set foot on the streets. Meanwhile, the Haya March exists for the mere purpose of opposing us, with no agenda beyond its reactionary rage, like an annoying younger sibling who only pipes up when you are about to do something interesting. At the same time, women within Islamabad’s left were deliberately targeted, some ensnared in legal battles that stretched on until October. Through it all, our male comrades offered unwavering support, standing by us when we could no longer stand on our own. Why do we glorify suffering in our movements as if it is a rite of passage? What good is injury when it leaves us too hampered to continue organising? When it stops us in our tracks? And after the march, who will take up the unrelenting, year-round work of organising to slowly build the collective strength of people, once the handful who are still committed to this work—whether through being silenced, forced to leave, or worn down—are no longer able to carry on? But all of that is water under the bridge. Revolution demands destruction sometimes: that we let go of what we once held dear. There is a time and place for confrontation. It has its own role, its own value. When the founding members of Women Democratic Front (WDF) held the first Aurat Azadi March in Islamabad on March 8, 2018 , it did not emerge out of nowhere. It was a conscious, years-long effort to move beyond the small, NGO-driven gatherings of “civil society.” My comrades wanted a visibly leftist demonstration shaped by the energy and people of the cities we were organising in, something that did not just make space but took it. There is plenty we oppose, and plenty of people who oppose us. But what do we stand for ? What do we want to build? The years 2020 and 2021 forced us to confront these questions head-on. Sacrifices were made. Fights broke out. Splintering happened. We criticised ourselves, and each other, in closed settings to the point of self-flagellation. Fingers were pointed; friendships were irreparably lost. It is gut-wrenching that all of us, individually and collectively, had to give something up. But if the world is already bursting at the seams, then breaking through is always going to be messy. One thing remains undeniable: we are responsible for and to one another. And if our politics is not rooted in care and love for one another, then what exactly are we building? We do not talk about strategy nearly enough, not just within the feminist movement, but across the left as a whole. When we organised two jalsas (assemblies) in 2022 and 2023 , the reflection of several years was at the forefront: women and khwaja siras are being murdered in this country with horrifying regularity. We cannot afford to pretend that how we organise does not have direct consequences for them. If I shout something from the stage, if I hold up a placard declaring what I believe, it will have a ripple effect, because we have become too visible to escape the backlash. We have already seen the consequences. Women in informal settlements, where some of us have spent years organising, are stopped from joining us. We know this has happened. Society reacts. Violence escalates. We have no choice but to prepare for it. There is no point in imagining feminist possibilities if we cannot imagine them with as many people in this country as possible. Mera jism, meri marzi (my body, my right), without question. I believe in this slogan with every fibre of my being and will defend it, loudly and unapologetically, for as long as I live. But there is still more convincing to do. And if we organise in ways that invite backlash so overwhelming that it peters out our voices, we risk losing ground. The movement we are building may serve us, but it can still fail countless other women. This is why building people-power is more urgent than ever. And we must do so in a way that honours our own time and energy, so that we can organise not just for a single day, but sustain the work year-round. We need solidarities that extend beyond those who already agree with us, because otherwise, we are only preaching to the choir. It is remarkable that women organise at all. There are not many of us, because life inevitably gets in the way. We are holding down jobs (I work two AND organise), running households, and managing domestic responsibilities. We are caught in the web of patriarchal restrictions, state paternalism, violence, care work, domestic labour, economic survival, and mobility constraints—you name it. We cannot outrun time, no matter how much we try. So we have to move at a pace we can sustain, as long as we remain politically committed. And we are done engaging on the state’s terms, done engaging on patriarchy’s terms. We need to be more opaque, not give too much away. This is where the act of rebuilding becomes all the more important. We cannot be afraid to start from scratch. We have to believe in our own staying power. For International Working Women’s Day 2025, WDF organised a “ behnon ki baithak ” after a year of stepping back and reflecting, instead of the march, in Islamabad, Karachi, and Lahore. We were not expecting a huge turnout and did the best we could with the limited hands on deck, only for the crowds to surpass our expectations. People showed up (with men respectfully sitting at the back) because they felt they had a stake in the conversation. In Islamabad, women who did not know each other spoke in smaller groups and built new relationships beyond the ones their class restricts them to. In Karachi, whether they were new faces, WDF members, or the women of Malir, everybody spoke in a space they created lovingly for themselves. In Lahore, women sang feminist songs and read out poetry and stories to one another. It was not a march, not a mass gathering, not something that courted visibility. But it was a space we carved with intent, a nod toward what must endure. And we will go on building, piece by piece, until what is ours can no longer be undone. If you honour only one form of struggle, you are not honouring history, you are distorting it. You are flattening its depth, silencing its echoes, and erasing those who fought just as hard. The baithak was a reminder that feminist organising takes many forms, each with its own purpose and power. Marches have been crucial in asserting the presence of feminists across Pakistan, shifting public discourse, and making visible what the state and society seek to erase. But the work ahead requires strategy that extends beyond the moment: because political moments do pass and momentum has to, then, be built from scratch. Our conversations have to deepen, solidarities have to expand, and political commitments have to translate into continued, dogged, year-around action. The future of feminist organising in Pakistan lies in our ability to move between the visible and the unseen, the loud and the quiet, the streets and the everyday. What we build now must not only resist but endure.∎ SUB-HEAD ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: Kareen Adam · Nazish Chunara A Dhivehi Artists Showcase Shebani Rao A Freelancer's Guide to Decision-Making Anita Zehra Fisted Rose (2025) Digital illustration SHARE Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Opinion Islamabad Feminism Feminist Feminist Organizing Demonstration D-Chowk Pakistan Collective Women's Democratic Front Aurat Azadi March Jamia Hafsa No Objection Certificate Human Rights Violence Peaceful Resistance March Protest International Working Women's Day Visibility Repression Revolution Civil Society NGOs Leftist Movement Strategy Jalsas Assemblies Khwaja Siras Intersex Gender Studies Gender Equality LGBTQIA Transgender Community mera jism meri marzi my body my right Patriarchal Society Paternalism Care Work Domestic labour Economic Security Mobility Sustainability behnon ki baithak Poetry Storytelling Solidarity Endure ZOYA REHMAN is a feminist organiser, lawyer, and independent researcher-writer based in Islamabad. 19 Apr 2025 Opinion Islamabad 19th Apr 2025 Anita Zehra is a designer, cultural practitioner, and writer. Her work revolves around themes of identity and ecology. She is based in Karachi. To Posterity Paweł Wargan 30th Apr Letter to History (I) Hazaran Rahim Dad 3rd Apr Who is Next? Noor Bakhsh · Qasum Faraz · Sajid Hussain 5th Mar Through Thick and Thin Amira Ahmed 23rd Feb Theorizing the Romnie Iulia Hau 3rd Feb On That Note:

Gujarat’s Surat was the capital of the global diamond trade before the Russia-Ukraine war, but sanctions imposed on Russia’s diamond exports since 2022 have placed a sword to the throats of diamond workers in the collapsing industry’s headquarters. Mass layoffs and obscene wage cuts have led to dozens of labourers dying by suicide, leaving hundreds of their family members to cope without support from the Indian government. THE VERTICAL Expunging India's Diamond City Gujarat’s Surat was the capital of the global diamond trade before the Russia-Ukraine war, but sanctions imposed on Russia’s diamond exports since 2022 have placed a sword to the throats of diamond workers in the collapsing industry’s headquarters. Mass layoffs and obscene wage cuts have led to dozens of labourers dying by suicide, leaving hundreds of their family members to cope without support from the Indian government. VOL. 2 REPORTAGE AUTHOR AUTHOR AUTHOR Trupti Patel Indian Landscape (2019) Terracruda, 29 Earth Pigments of 29 Political States of India, New Delhi Ash, Acrylic medium and Gold Leaf on Fabriano paper. ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 Trupti Patel Indian Landscape (2019) Terracruda, 29 Earth Pigments of 29 Political States of India, New Delhi Ash, Acrylic medium and Gold Leaf on Fabriano paper. SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ Reportage Surat 2nd Apr 2025 Reportage Surat Gujarat India Diamond Trade Russia-Ukraine Conflict War Trade Route Working Class Labour Rights Banned Raw Materials Mental Health Suicide Layoffs G7 European Union Sanctions Unemployment Epidemic Global Crisis Supply Chain Luxury Market Consumer Spending Diamond Workers Union Trade Unions Government Neglect Inaction Economic Security Narendra Modi Industrialization Health Crisis Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Roshan, 20, remembers his father, Ram Nagina Singh , as a hardworking man who spent decades polishing diamonds that would glitter in luxury stores across the world. But this October, Singh’s life came to a devastating halt. Based in the western Indian city of Surat, he once earned a comfortable salary of ₹60,000-₹70,000 ($800-$900) a month but was soon barely scraping by on ₹10,000-₹12,000 ($120-$150) as the city’s diamond industry buckled under immense economic pressures. The stress proved too much. Singh took his own life, hanging himself from the ceiling fan in his bedroom. Roshan is still grappling with his father’s sudden death. “My father didn’t say much, but we knew he was under immense stress,” Roshan recalled. “There was no work in the company, and he wasn’t receiving his wages or bonuses. He used to come home and talk about it, but we didn’t realise the depth of his despair until it was too late.” Singh’s story is tragically common. He is one of at least 65 diamond workers in Surat who have died by suicide in the past 16 months as financial hardships have deepened following Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022. For decades, Surat has been the world’s epicenter for diamond polishing, employing over 600,000 workers . However, since the onset of the war, sanctions targeting Russia —one of the largest exporters of rough diamonds— have sent shockwaves through the city’s once-thriving diamond industry. Both the supply of raw materials and the demand for polished Russian diamonds have drastically decreased. The European Union and G7 nations have implemented strict bans on Russian diamonds, including those routed through intermediary countries. This has severely disrupted the flow of raw diamonds to India’s factories, leaving thousands of workers in Surat unemployed and struggling to survive. The crisis has had a ripple effect, leading to widespread layoffs , wage cuts, and—tragically—suicides. A Suicide Epidemic Like Roshan, Jayantibhai’s world fell apart three months ago when her 28-year-old son, Mikunj, took his own life after losing his job. Once a diamond polisher, Mikunj had been out of work for over three months. Unable to secure another job as Surat’s diamond industry crumbled, he grew increasingly depressed. His sudden death left a gaping void in the family. “He never said anything to us,” Jayantibhai said. “What can we do now? He was our only son.” Without Mikunj, the family is struggling. At 60, Jayantibhai is too frail to work. She has already survived two heart attacks and relied on her son’s income to support the household. Her daughter-in-law, Rupali, has also stopped working. She used to tutor children from home, earning just enough to contribute. After Mikunj’s death, she withdrew entirely. “We needed him,” Jayantibhai said, her eyes welling up. “Now we are left to fend for ourselves, praying for help.” Her plight mirrors that of dozens of other families in Surat, staring at an uncertain future. Beyond the economic toll, the ongoing crisis in the diamond industry has triggered a significant mental health crisis among workers. The stress of unemployment and an uncertain future has pushed many to their breaking point. “Yes there are thoughts in my mind about suicide,” says Gohil Vijaybhai, another struggling diamond worker. For Vijaybhai, the past two years have been a relentless search for work. Once a steady earner in Surat’s diamond industry, he now moves from one labour site to another, hoping to make ₹500-700 ($6-8) per day. His company shut down when the economic slowdown, fuelled by the Russia-Ukraine war, cut off the supply of rough diamonds. “I’ve been doing this for 11 years, but now there’s nothing,” he shared. His income, once around ₹30,000 ($360) a month, has evaporated, leaving him in debt and unable to pay for necessities like rent and his children’s school fees. His three children, ranging from kindergarten to fifth grade, are now at risk of being forced out of school. “I told the school to wait for six or seven months for the fees,” he said, though he knows the money is unlikely to come. Without stable work, his family of seven depends on sporadic daily wages, and his debt continues to mount. “What can a single labourer do?” he asked. “We take out loans just to survive.” As his financial troubles deepen, Vijaybhai admits to feeling overwhelmed by despair. “When someone is under this much tension, what would he do? Suicide, right?” he asked. He is not alone; many diamond workers in Surat find themselves caught between a failing industry and rising debts. Deepak Rajendrabhai Purani, a diamond worker for over 10 years, describes the stark reality workers like him face. “I used to earn ₹25,000-₹27,000 ($300-$350) a month, but now I’m lucky if I make ₹15,000 ($180),” he said. “Some months, there is no work at all, and I have been sitting at home for weeks without any income.” Deepak, who lives in Surat with his parents, wife, and young son, is contemplating leaving the diamond industry but does not know where to turn after working there for so long. “I don’t know anything else. But how can I continue like this? We have bills to pay, mouths to feed, and no government support.” Deepak’s father, who once sold samosas from a cycle, is now bedridden with asthma. His brother, also a diamond worker, is one of the few fortunate ones who still has steady work. But Deepak knows this could change at any moment. “The companies keep only as many workers as they need,” he explained. “If there is no work, they tell us not to come in the next day. It’s as simple as that.” “There are no bombs thrown at us directly,” he added, “but this [Russia-Ukraine] war has killed us.” A Global Crisis Turning the Tide on Surat With disruptions in the supply of rough diamonds from Russia, many factories in Surat have either shut down or significantly scaled back their operations . This has left thousands of diamond workers, many of whom have spent decades in the industry, struggling to make ends meet. India’s diamond sector plays a vital role in the global diamond supply chain, with approximately 80% of the world's rough diamonds being cut and polished in the country. Surat, in particular, is the epicenter of this labour-intensive industry. However, the glitter of diamonds hides the harsh realities many of these workers face—low wages, erratic work conditions, and almost no social safety net. While Surat’s diamond workers have borne the brunt of this crisis, the impacts of the sanctions and war have rippled across the global diamond trade. India's diamond exports have experienced a steep decline, plummeting by 28% in the fiscal year 2024, and are projected to fall further, reaching their lowest levels in a decade. Luxury markets in the U.S. and Europe, traditionally strong buyers of diamonds, have also contracted as consumer spending patterns shift in response to economic uncertainties. Rising inflation has curbed discretionary spending , with more buyers focusing on essentials rather than luxury purchases. This trend has further depressed demand for polished diamonds, exacerbating the crisis for workers in Surat who depend on robust global sales. The price of rough diamonds has also skyrocketed due to supply shortages, making it harder for manufacturers to remain profitable. Factories in Surat and other diamond hubs have had to make tough decisions—either lay off workers or shut down altogether. A Helpless Union and Government Neglect As the number of suicides among diamond workers continues to rise, the local Diamond Workers Union has launched a helpline to provide emotional and financial support. Since its inception in July, the helpline number has received around 1800 distress calls. "We have saved lives," said Zilriya Rameshbhai, the president of the union, recounting how workers on the brink of suicide reached out for help. The union also provides temporary relief to struggling workers by paying school fees, supplying food, and helping them manage debt. Unfortunately, such measures are not enough to lift Vijaybhai and others like him out of financial distress. Despite its best efforts, the union is overwhelmed by demand and constrained by limited resources. “[The] union is doing what they can,” Vijaybhai said, “but we need the government to listen.” Many workers feel abandoned by the government, which has yet to meaningfully address the crisis. The Indian government, typically focused on bolstering exports to strengthen the economy, has done little to provide immediate relief to the struggling diamond sector, according to workers. Jayantibhai, who lives in Amroli, a suburb of Surat, is frustrated by the lack of response from the authorities. “They are dead silent. [PM] Modi considers Gujarat his home, but how can he not listen to our plight?” she asked bitterly. “We have tried contacting the party’s office, but nobody listens. We are just forgotten.” Other workers share this frustration. “The government isn’t talking about the diamond industry,” said Deepak. “If they were, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Workers are roaming around without jobs, and nobody is doing anything.” Government inaction has intensified feelings of helplessness among diamond workers. Ramesh Bhai, the president of the local union, stated that they have repeatedly requested an economic relief package to support both the industry and its employees, but their appeals have gone unanswered. “There is no support from the government,” he said. “All the workers have been left on their own. Nobody cares how much we have contributed to the growth of the state and country’s economy.” He also mentioned the union's proposal to establish a special board including workers, factory owners, and government representatives to address the industry's challenges, but there has been no progress on that front either. With no relief in sight, the future of Surat’s diamond industry remains uncertain. While some workers hope for improvement, others are less optimistic. “There is no guarantee that the diamond industry will see growth again,” said Deepak. “We are all just waiting and watching, but we don’t know what will happen. The future seems bleak.” For workers like Roshan, who lost his father to the industry’s collapse, the pain is still raw. Yet, he remains determined to stay in Surat, the city he has called home for over 20 years. “Everything is here,” he said. “After what happened to my father, I just hope that things get better.”∎ More Fiction & Poetry: Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5

Kashmiri poet Huzaifa Pandit in conversation with Nazish Chunara. COMMUNITY The Craft of Writing in Occupied Kashmir Kashmiri poet Huzaifa Pandit in conversation with Nazish Chunara. VOL. 1 INTERVIEW AUTHOR AUTHOR AUTHOR Watch the interview on YouTube or IGTV. ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 Watch the interview on YouTube or IGTV. SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ Interview Kashmiri Poetics 24th Jan 2021 Interview Kashmiri Poetics Historicity Poetic Form Poetry Kashmiri Struggle Kashmir Faiz Ahmed Faiz Agha Shahid Ali Mahmoud Darwish PTSD Trauma Mass Protests Memory Language Diversity Urdu Resistance Poetry Metaphor Metaphoricity Raj Rao Varavara Rao Journaling Occupation Pune University Language Language Politics Hindutva Despair Defiance Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. By abolishing Urdu, they are removing its historical significance... By pushing for the extinction of a language, you're pushing the extinction of a history and the sentiments associated with that history. Because in life the present is a function of the past. And so, by altering that past, they're hoping to alter the present altogether beyond the cognition. RECOMMENDED: Green is the Colour of Memory (Hawakal Publishers, 2018) by Huzaifa Pandit. More Fiction & Poetry: Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5

The co-founder of the women-led publication Karti Dharti discusses India's farmers' movement, the intersecting realities of gender, and Dalit labour, the motivation to create Karti Dharti, the fifth edition of which you can read in Gurmukhi. INTERACTIVE Chats Ep. 7 · Karti Dharti, Gender & India's Farmers Movement AUTHOR AUTHOR AUTHOR The co-founder of the women-led publication Karti Dharti discusses India's farmers' movement, the intersecting realities of gender, and Dalit labour, the motivation to create Karti Dharti, the fifth edition of which you can read in Gurmukhi. SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 Live Punjab Farm Ordinances Movement Organization Gender Mass Protests Media Blackout Media Delhi Chandigarh Women's Participation Displacement Sit-ins Disinformation COVID-19 Urban/Rural Urbanization Police Action Policing Citizenship Amendment Act Protests CAA Protests NRC Protests Accountability Pragmatic Realities of Protest Kisan Mazdoor Ekta Sanyukt Kisan Morcha Labor Agricultural Labor Solidarity Organic Solidarity Dalit Histories Dalit Labor Class Struggle Caste Political Economy Village Economies Domestic Labor Farmers' Movement India Indian Fascism India Today Activist Media Agrarian Economy Agriculture Alienation Gurmukhi Protests Movement Strategy Labor Movement Workers Movements Haryana Working-Class Stories Women and Gender Studies in India SAAG Chats Environment Climate Change Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. DISPATCH Live Punjab 29th Apr 2021 Karti Dharti is a women-led publication that highlights diverse voices from the farmers’ movement. Understanding how gender, the COVID crisis, and the farmers' movement in India intersect is of critical importance. In April 2021, Drama Editor Esthappen S. chatted with Karti Dharti's Founder-Editor, Sangeet Toor, on Instagram Live, about Karti Dharti's history, the state of the farmers' movement in India at the time. They mapped out the nature of the movement itself, especially as it pertains to gender, discuss the challenges it faced. Toor described how the magazine focuses on the intersection of gender and movement politics. Read the fifth edition of Karti Dharti here . Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Next Up:

Following the collapse of Myanmar’s healthcare infrastructure after the 2021 coup and India’s sudden suspension of free movement protocols in 2024, even the most basic access to medical care has become a perilous and expensive endeavor for many Burmese living in Mizoram-Myanmar border regions. As Indian authorities invoke criminal allegations against those seeking care for border security, tens of thousands have been denied essential services, and the burden on Myanmar’s remaining hospitals is further intensifying. THE VERTICAL LIFE ON LINE Following the collapse of Myanmar’s healthcare infrastructure after the 2021 coup and India’s sudden suspension of free movement protocols in 2024, even the most basic access to medical care has become a perilous and expensive endeavor for many Burmese living in Mizoram-Myanmar border regions. As Indian authorities invoke criminal allegations against those seeking care for border security, tens of thousands have been denied essential services, and the burden on Myanmar’s remaining hospitals is further intensifying. GENERAL PHOTO-ESSAY AUTHOR AUTHOR AUTHOR An injured rebel joined an armed group after the military junta’s 2021 coup. Last March, he was injured nine miles from the Myanmar-India border. He was treated in Chin State, but the doctor advised him to get a CT scan, which required travelling to India. Courtesy of the author. ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 An injured rebel joined an armed group after the military junta’s 2021 coup. Last March, he was injured nine miles from the Myanmar-India border. He was treated in Chin State, but the doctor advised him to get a CT scan, which required travelling to India. Courtesy of the author. SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ Photo-Essay Mizoram 27th Jul 2025 Photo-Essay Mizoram India 2024 Indian General Election Myanmar Health Crisis Health Maternal Health Border & Rule Borders Politics of Ethnic Identity Ethnic Division Zo Mizo Chin state Free Movement Regime Médecins Sans Frontières Freedom of Movement Christianity Rikhawdar Burma Chin Hills Healthcare State Repression Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Since the violent coup d’état in 2021, Myanmar’s healthcare system has nearly collapsed under the weight of political repression, worker exodus, and escalating conflict. The result is that what was once a robust public service has been transformed into fragmented emergency care provided largely by NGOs such as Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF). Field reports from MSF starkly document what international bodies like the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights, UN Special Rapporteur, and Associated Press have confirmed: hospitals shuttered, key disease programs disrupted, and millions left without reliable care. On the other hand, in forcibly returning vulnerable individuals to Myanmar without healthcare safeguards and under the shadow of rape accusations, Indian authorities violate international non-refoulement obligations while also inflicting profound harm on those already under physical and psychological duress. Amnesty warns that this practice “threatens to intensify the health crisis” for Burmese refugees, who find themselves trapped between persecution at home and denial of asylum with healthcare in India. Burmese refugee attempts to cross Tuai river for emergency medical treatment near Zokhawthar village in Mizoram, India. Courtesy of the author. A quiet yet complex world unfolds in the lush hills and deep valleys where Mizoram, in India, meets Chin State, Myanmar. While the official border stretches for 510KM, the boundary feels more like a line on a map than a real division in practice: villages often straddle both sides, and families share bloodlines across nations. The military-led coup of February 2021 brought with it the migration of thousands of people from Chin State, who sought refuge from violence and persecution in Mizoram. The people on both sides are predominantly from the Zo ethnic group , which includes Mizos in India and Chin in Myanmar. They speak related languages, share customs, and follow similar Christian beliefs. This has created a strong cultural bond, even in the face of political borders. Marriages, festivals, and trade are conducted informally across the border. Despite the Indian federal government’s cautious stance, the Mizoram state government and its people have welcomed the refugees on humanitarian grounds, housing them in makeshift camps and local homes. This has created a quiet tension between the Indian central government and the Mizoram state leadership. The Tuai River, a former key crossing point between Myanmar and India, is pictured near Zokhawthar village. Its significance waned after India suspended the Free Movement Regime (FMR) in 2024, which had allowed border residents to travel visa-free up to 16 kilometers into the neighboring country for 72 hours. Courtesy of the author. In Rikhawdar, a border town in western Myanmar, 52-year-old Thangi experiences first-hand the repercussions of disrupted healthcare and movement. Each month, she embarks on a grueling journey from her home in Rikhawdar to Zokhtwar, a distance of nearly 80 miles, just to get a medical checkup. The trip costs her nearly 70,000 kyats — about $22, a considerable sum in a region ravaged by conflict. Still, for Thangi, the opportunity to get a medical checkup and to hear her husband’s and son’s voices on the other end of a Facebook Messenger call is priceless. This is her small comfort in an otherwise onerous situation. She looks out of a tiny window in a home stay, facing the heavily guarded border with India. Once a key trading post and a vital escape route for those seeking refuge from the war, the border is now completely sealed off. 52-year-old Thangali experiences first-hand repercussions of disrupted healthcare and movement. Courtesy of the author. The closure of the border has also made it impossible for Thangali, a 28-year-old rebel fighter from the People’s Defense Forces, to get a crucial MRI scan at a hospital in Aizawl, India. Thangali, who was injured during a night ambush whilst fighting against the Junta forces, used to travel to India, almost 200 kilometres because there is nowhere within reach in Myanmar that has a functioning hospital offering the advanced services he needs. “We used to cross the border to get the care we needed,” Thangali said the next day, his voice weary but steady. “But now it’s too dangerous. With the border closed, we’re trapped—cut off from help. The treatment that once gave us hope is now out of reach, and we’re left to suffer in silence.” The sudden termination of the Free Movement Regime (FMR), which allowed for cross-border access to essential services between Mizoram in India and the border areas of Myanmar, has plunged his home township of Kale into a healthcare crisis. Kale Township connects central Myanmar to the Indian border through the Chin Hills, making it a key corridor for both humanitarian aid and displacement movements. It was in the lead-up to February’s national elections that the Indian government decided to end FMR, allegedly to address security concerns . Unfortunately, it has instead largely just stranded thousands of people and left them in urgent need of medical attention . "The closure of the border has dealt a heavy blow to our community," said Dr. Lalaramzaua, the only doctor at the RHI Hospital. "We're struggling to handle numerous cases with very limited resources. We rely on our neighbours in Mizoram for supplies and medication. With the border now closed, our ability to provide the care we need is severely compromised. "In several documented cases , including over 38 individuals deported in June 2024 from Moreh, local authorities reportedly used allegations of rape and other charges—without due process—to justify forced returns.” Amnesty International warns that this conflation of unverified crime allegations with border enforcement effectively bars these refugees from seeking vital healthcare in India, particularly for reproductive and mental health. Malsawm Puia lives in Kale township, on the border between India and Myanmar. He suffers from blood cancer. Malsawm was being treated at a hospital in the Indian state of Mizoram, but the Indian government’s decision to terminate a free movement agreement could mean a potential death sentence for the 28-year-old and dozens like him. Courtesy of the author. Among those severely impacted is Malsawm Puia, a 28-year-old from Kale township in Myanmar, battling blood cancer. Before the border closure, Malsawm Puia received treatment in Mizoram. With the end of the free movement agreement, he now faces an uncertain future as he is unable to access the necessary medical care. "The decision by the Indian government could be a death sentence for many of us," said Malsawm Puia's mother, who accompanied him to the hospital. Corpal Chanchu 23, stays in Kale township of Myanmar. Corpral got injured while fighting with the Myanmar forces last month. Courtesy of the author. Lalremtluanga, a 28-year-old rebel fighter, was injured in January during a mission. Initially treated in Aizawl's Greenwood Hospital, he had to leave due to worsening conditions and was then treated at the RHI Hospital. His condition, worsened by a broken leg and concerns about infection, makes it even more urgent to receive cross-border medical support. "The situation is dire," said Lalremtluanga. "We lack proper healthcare and medication here. The border closure has put us in a difficult position." The sudden end of the FMR and the ongoing construction of border fences have left nearly 100,000 residents of Kale township struggling with a failing healthcare system. The only hospital, already stretched thin by the ongoing conflict and injuries from the unrest, now faces an unprecedented challenge in providing care due to a severe shortage of medical supplies and facilities. "We have pregnant women and cancer patients here," Dr. Lalaramzaua said. "The lack of facilities means I can only treat basic conditions. The situation is heartbreaking, and we are doing everything we can with the limited resources available." Enok, a farmer in Kale township, gave birth to her fourth child at home with the help of a midwife. She considers herself lucky for managing a safe delivery amid the raging conflict in the region. Unable to travel to the hospital for a medical check-up, Enok still can’t obtain postnatal supplements and has to subsist on plain rice. Courtesy of the author. In terms of maternal health, women face perilous childbirths in Myanmar. Enok, a 38-year-old farmer in Kale township, gave birth to her fourth child at home with the help of a midwife. She considers herself lucky for managing a safe delivery amid the raging conflict in the region. Unable to travel to the hospital for a medical check-up, Enok still can’t obtain postnatal supplements and has to subsist on plain rice. “I can’t get enough sleep,” Enok, who used a pseudonym for security reasons, related, “People are so tired because they can’t sleep.” ∎ Civilians and fighters seek treatment inside the RHI Hospital. According to Insecurity Insight, a nonprofit collecting data on conflicts worldwide, nearly 1,200 attacks on healthcare workers and facilities have occurred in Myanmar since the junta seized power in February 2021. Courtesy of the author. 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WRITER Aamer Hussein AAMER HUSSEIN was born in Karachi in 1955. He began his literary career as a short story writer and reviewer in the mid-’80s, writing in both English and Urdu. He is the author of story collections Mirror to the Sun (1993), Turquoise (2002), Insomnia (2007), 37 Bridges (2015), Hermitage (2018), andd Zindagi s pehle (2020) . He is also the author of two novels, including the acclaimed Another Gulmohar Tree . His work has been widely translated in many languages including Spanish, Arabic, and Japanese. He became a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 2004, and is currently based in London and Karachi. WRITER WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

The Aahvaan Project was founded in 2016 based on the nirgun philosophy of love and the works of sufi saints such as kabir, lal ded and lalon fakir. A folk and storytelling collective, founded by Vedi Sinha in 2016, their music is avowedly political and inclusive. INTERACTIVE The Aahvaan Project · Performance The Aahvaan Project was founded in 2016 based on the nirgun philosophy of love and the works of sufi saints such as kabir, lal ded and lalon fakir. A folk and storytelling collective, founded by Vedi Sinha in 2016, their music is avowedly political and inclusive. VOL. 1 LIVE AUTHOR AUTHOR AUTHOR Follow our YouTube channel for updates from past or future events. ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 Follow our YouTube channel for updates from past or future events. SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ Live Delhi 5th Jun 2021 Live Delhi Music Performance Folk Storytelling Narratives Nirgun Sufism Sufi Saints Kabir Lal Ded Lalon Fakir Community Building Contemporary Music Love Prahlad Tipaniya Compassion Pyaar National Institute of Design Ahmedabad Folk Music Rajasthan Kabir Yatra In Grief In Solidarity Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. The Aahvaan Project was founded by Vedi Sinha in 2016 as a collective “ journey and an experience, an attempt to understand Nirgun—the mystic idea of love spoken about in various time periods by philosophers through the lived experience of saints and sufis. ” They perform across communities, educational institutions, and art spaces. For our event In Grief, In Solidarity in 2021, Vedi Sinha, who founded the folk music & storytelling collective and does not often perform alone, joined us for a beautiful performance of new songs. More Fiction & Poetry: Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5