A collection of essays edited by Daanika Kamal advocates that there’s no singular way of leading a feminist life, and invites readers into an intergenerational conversation about feminist possibilities
“We are often compared, as girls, as women, to our mothers. In how we look, in how we carry ourselves and in the choices we make,” writes Daanika Kamal in her introduction to The Feminisms of Our Mothers (2024), a powerful collection of 20 essays. A researcher and writer from Karachi, she is currently based in London. The book is published by Zubaan, a feminist publishing house in Delhi, known for championing South Asian feminist voices.
Daanika brings to this volume her rich experience of working across the development, legal and academic sectors with a focus on interest areas such as gender-based violence, the rights of girls and women, and access to justice. In the introduction, she adds, “We spend our childhoods trying to carve out our own identities, independent of our mothers. And as adults, we sometimes return to consider how our identities are informed by those very relationships.”
The feminist way of life
The title of the anthology is well-chosen. It conveys three distinct and interconnected ideas. For starters, it advocates that there is no singular way of leading a feminist life. Next, it invites readers into an intergenerational conversation about feminist possibilities. Further, it acknowledges that motherhood and mothering have a rightful place in feminist discourse.
The striking cover illustration by Samya Arif seems like a visual essay in itself, and deserves more than a cursory mention. It depicts three generations of women, linked together by a warm, tactile and intimate expression of care in the familiar space of home. Thanks to her Instagram post dated December 21, 2023, one knows that the cover holds personal meaning.
In the post, Samya writes, “This is the kind of book one waits a lifetime to create cover art for…I poured my heart and soul into this one, in remembrance of the matriarchs of my family, namely my Nani, Mama and Shameem, who for years oiled, combed and braided my hair. I wish I knew then how precious and beautiful these acts of love and moments were.”
The bird, leaf and flower motifs and the crescent moon used in the illustration evoke the feel of Pakistani truck art, and the arched windows celebrate Islamic architecture. An artist statement at the end of the book gives additional context about what the illustrator had in mind when she was creating it: “The transition from the eldest woman’s lowered, almost shut eyes to the youngest one’s direct gaze symbolizes the empowering journey of Pakistani women as they find their feminist identity…The gradient hue, transitioning from purple to orange, pays homage to the colours of the Women’s Democratic Front and Aurat March”.
The introduction and the cover art do their job well. They set the tone for the rest of the collection, and give readers an idea of what to expect from the essays written by Pakistani women based in various parts of Pakistan, and in the United States, United Kingdom and Australia. These are bound by shared concerns but each one has a distinctive story and voice.
Agency, inclusivity and assertion
In her essay “What My Mother Taught Me”, Maham Javaid fondly recalls how her mother taught her to “talk, sit, eat, think and love just by doing all those things”. At the same time, she wishes that her mother had never taught her to attach her self-worth to her body weight. The mother-daughter relationship depicted here is not all hunky-dory but it is worth cherishing because, despite the imperfections, there is love in it. And that’s all that matters.
When Maham told her mother that a boy who was her childhood friend was gay and afraid of how his parents would react, she expected her mother to respond with shock or anger. Instead of being dramatic, her mother simply said that he was still her best friend and must be loved.
Maham writes, “The next time he came over, my mother fed him everything on her counter, in her fridge, emptying out the contents of her freezer for him. Food is the love language of so many of our mothers. She showed me how to love unconditionally, without bounds or judgements.” This essay shows, through a wonderful anecdote, that being inclusive does not have much to do with age or political correctness. It is all about being open-hearted.
In her essay “The Evolving Feminist”, Shah Bano Malik reveals that, in the 1970s, her mother wrote to the chief of the Pakistani air force and “asked why she, and other women like herself with goals and adventurous dreams, could not be let in through the door and set off to soar in the skies simply because of their gender”. The chief replied, suggesting that she give up the idea of becoming a pilot and apply for a position “more suited to ladies”. He agreed that women should be able to fight for their country but felt that the timing was not right.
Incidentally, Shah Bano heard this story not from her mother but her grandmother. As expected, the writer feels proud of her mother but also wonders if her mother misses that younger, gutsier version of herself. “Did she know this was a feminist act?” she asks. This book repeatedly encourages readers to examine their ideas about what constitutes feminism, and be more expansive in their appreciation of what agency looks like in different contexts.
Shah Bano shares another incident, filled with admiration for her mother’s courage. “My mother was maybe four years old when her father, serving in the Pakistani army, took the family out to the officer’s mess, which still stands in Rawalpindi today,” she writes. An attendant put his hand on the girl’s bare knee. She got up and told her father what happened.
“My mother at age four was able to stand up for herself. My mother at age four did what many of us have been indoctrinated to believe we cannot do at our big ages. She did not fear the rejection of her father or her family for speaking the truth,” writes Shah Bano, reminding readers that feminist acts in the private sphere are as important as those performed in public.
The remarkable acts of solidarity
On the other hand, there’s an essay titled “(Dis) associations,” written by Manal Khan. When Manal told her mother about her experience of being sexually violated as a child on more than one occasion by the same man, her mother said, “Ab bhool jao na, just forget it. It’s been so long, we can’t go back in time.” Manal felt insulted by this response. She wondered if her mother believed her, and whether any action would be taken against the man who was a close relative that the family regularly interacted with at weddings and during Eid festivities.
Six years later, when Manal was getting married, her family needed to decide on witnesses who would sign the nikah nama. Her father, who had not been informed about her experience of sexual abuse, suggested asking the same relative. Her mother said, “No”, without offering an explanation. She was assertive, so Manal’s father respected her decision.
This essay affirms that solidarity can take different forms, and that it may be unfair to hold people to our exacting standards that are often more punitive than compassionate. Manal’s mother was raised with the notion that a woman who protests is a ‘buri aurat’ (bad woman) but there is room in their relationship to learn from each other and be comrades. Manal took her mother to the Aurat March in Karachi in 2019. He mother saw her work as a grassroots organiser, and was “pleasantly surprised at how many Muslim women were stepping out”.
Maria Amir, Zoya Rehman, Tooba Syed, Amna Shafqat, Mariam Shafqat, Amna Baig, Daanika Kamal, Saadia Ahmed, Shameen Raza, Suraiya Anjum, Ayesha Izhar, Aimun Faisal, Maheen Humayun, Sauleha Kamal, Shmyla Khan, Mahwish Bhatti and Aiman Rizvi are some of the contributors to this volume. They write about mothers and mother figures who have been nurturers, mentors, role models, taskmasters, and even patriarchs. Mothers appear in all their complexity in these essays. They are not glorified as divine or infallible.
Zubaan must be applauded for bringing this book to Indian readers, who no longer have opportunities to interact with Pakistani authors at literature festivals given the strained relationship between the two countries. The book was first published by Liberty Books in Pakistan, and Sadia Khatri’s essay titled “What is Behind You” — dealing with abortion — was dropped from that edition of the anthology. In a remarkable act of feminist, cross-border solidarity, Zubaan has retained it. This essay is a must-read for a number of reasons.
The narrator confides, “Every fear of mine is rooted in this woman whom I love, sometimes it seems for no reason, beyond reason. My mother, who carried me in her womb for nine months and has no idea that I too, have carried and killed something in mine.” Apart from being a critique of how ideas about honour control women’s sexuality and reproductive health in patriarchal societies, it is also a painful portrait of how scary and lonely it can get for a woman in this situation if they do not have access to the network of women that the narrator was fortunate enough to be able to rely on as she went through the procedure.
When she looks for coping mechanisms, her instincts guide her to cook ‘Dadi’s halwa’ and ‘ammi’s hari chutney’ and wrap herself in her mother’s shawls. These images bring one back to the cover of the book, which gently portrays how mothers and grandmothers pass on more than fears, secrets, judgements and trauma. They pass on strength, resilience and creativity. They may not use the term or even know it. But they are feminist ancestors in their own right.
