On March 6, 2022, Bismah Maroof entered the Bay Oval in Mount Maunganui holding Fatima, her seven-month-old daughter, in her arms. She was leading Pakistan against arch-rivals India in the 50-over cricket World Cup, and it was the first time a Pakistani player had returned to international cricket post-childbirth. Even though she was one of eight mothers playing in that tournament, Bismah emerged as a beacon of hope to millions. And not without reason.
For a country so obsessed with cricket, it’s interesting to examine how the sport remains at an arm’s length from nearly half the Pakistan population. Representing the country at cricket is the highest form of izzat (honour) and yet many women testify to the bezatti (humiliation) they have faced for playing. In 2009, 17-year-old Saba Nazir was discovered by her brother secretly playing. In the conservative town of Muridke, for a girl to be indulging in a frivolous recreational activity like cricket was a matter of embarrassment for the family. He beat her up and warned her against repeating it. “You can kill me if you want, but I’m not going to stop playing cricket,” she screamed in defiance. “Even if you cut off my legs, I’ll crawl to the ground and play.” In the Pakistan women’s team, it is common to find players who have played in secrecy from family members or neighbours. Some have had to deal with objections, some were beaten up, and some had close ties cut off. Only a few others made it through to the national team unscathed. It’s not always the best athletes or the most skilful players who end up representing the national team. It’s invariably those who’ve either won their battles or found support from family members who were willing to fight that societal battle on their behalf. Around the same time that Saba was putting up a fight, a similar scene was playing out nearly 50km away in Gujranwala, where Nida Dar had to play cricket using a pseudonym to avoid her brother finding out. Nahida Khan in Chaman — a small town near the Pakistan-Afghanistan border — didn’t tell her neighbours that she was playing for almost eight years after she made her international debut, because she and her family were once humiliated when a photo of her playing cricket at college appeared in a local newspaper. A chance to play cricket for many of these women wasn’t even about playing with a leather ball on a green field. It could merely be the act of shadow bowling on the terrace when no one would dare come up in the afternoon’s scorching sun. Or swinging a bat on the sidelines of a tape-ball game in return for sandwiches. As several senior cricketers admit, even today, despite everything that they have achieved on the field, even recreationally running on the streets is still frowned upon. Noorena Shams, an international squash player, brought up in the war-ravaged region of Timergara, bordering Afghanistan, had to play cricket disguised as a boy when she was 15. Her name itself was born out of the desire that the family wanted a boy. Even though there are various meanings to the word Noorena in Pashto, she claims it is one of the names that’s often given to girls as a superstitious practice in the region in the hope that the next child would be a boy. “Let alone playing a sport, girls weren’t even allowed to reveal their faces,” she says. “We’ve had to fight for everything from education to playing sports. I would even have to ride my bicycle in secrecy from my family.” Recently, she was berated on social media for practising in shorts — an outfit she’s most comfortable playing in. But she’s putting up a fight. “We are used to fighting, we had to, we didn’t have any other choice,” she says, reflecting on the lives of women in Dir, North-West Frontier Province (NWFP). “We’ve grown up listening to gunfire and bomb shells all our lives, had our school and homes struck down. We didn’t even have an identity independent from those of our fathers and brothers. We can surely put up a fight on social media.” These are unfortunately only the stories of players whose families eventually agreed to let them play. The struggles of those who lost the fight will be hard to unearth. “Sport is a choice and choice is a human right. Unfortunately, most girls from our region are not allowed to exercise that right,” Shams adds. Sana Mir, Pakistan’s longest serving women’s captain, says: “Our parents had to be courageous. The system doesn’t provide them, or us, with any sort of security. “They are worried about us. Most of them are misunderstood — they aren’t trying to control their daughters, they are trying to protect them.” In a way, it’s a fair assessment because sport is only a reflection of society, which is dominated by the politics at play. When cricket tournaments had just begun to develop in the 1970s, the martial rule of military dictator General Muhammad Zia-ul-Haq quickly nipped them in the bud. During his regime, to prove an accusation of rape a woman required the testimony of four “honourable Muslim men”. The court testimonies of women in other cases were considered to be worth half that of a man. Extreme punishments for offences included amputation for theft and stoning to death for extramarital affairs. Public flogging for various crimes was the norm and, in fact, a highly viewed event. In sport, akin to other activities like dancing, acting and singing, women weren’t allowed to perform in public. Even as many of the harshest punishments were eradicated in the wake of Zia’s death in 1988, religious extremism continued. When Shaiza and Sharmeen Khan attempted to play a cricket match in 1988, they were threatened with death and the pelting of their house with stones. When they did eventually begin to play cricket in 1997, the challenges they faced included having to flee the country secretly to play a World Cup in India, fighting with rival groups and engaging in legal battles with the administrators of the men’s game, who attempted to stop them. In 2005, members of a politically-muscled religious outfit physically attacked women who wanted to be a part of a mixed-gender marathon in Lahore. To be running alongside men was considered an unholy act. In the same year, attempts were made to ban women from playing sports in NWFP. Irrespective of which part of the country girls came from, the social, cultural and political challenges were enormous. Many of those who ended up playing had their careers end abruptly due to marriage. Bismah Maroof, who married in November 2018, was the first woman to have an uninterrupted cricket career after marriage. “Whenever I looked at my older team-mates retiring, I would believe that a similar fate awaited me,” she reflects. She was fortunate though, and supported in her endeavour because she was married to her cousin and her in-laws had seen the effort she had put into becoming a cricketer since childhood. Her return to cricket after childbirth was further aided by institutional support from the Pakistan Cricket Board, which rolled out a last-minute parental policy. Not everyone has been as lucky. Nonetheless, there is hope Bismah’s act will change a few minds. In the orthodox Abbottabad region, Ayesha Naseem is playing cricket even though she had the choice to play in the cosmopolitan Karachi. But she has greater motivations, wanting to normalise the act of girls stepping out to the field with a bat and ball. There are many battles won and lost before donning a national jersey. And then you wonder, where is the real game being played and where lies the victory? https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/kill-me-if-you-want-but-im-going-to-play-cricket-the-struggle-of-pakistan-women-to-do-what-they-love-5dgfjgb8d
For a country so obsessed with cricket, it’s interesting to examine how the sport remains at an arm’s length from nearly half the Pakistan population. Representing the country at cricket is the highest form of izzat (honour) and yet many women testify to the bezatti (humiliation) they have faced for playing. In 2009, 17-year-old Saba Nazir was discovered by her brother secretly playing. In the conservative town of Muridke, for a girl to be indulging in a frivolous recreational activity like cricket was a matter of embarrassment for the family. He beat her up and warned her against repeating it. “You can kill me if you want, but I’m not going to stop playing cricket,” she screamed in defiance. “Even if you cut off my legs, I’ll crawl to the ground and play.” In the Pakistan women’s team, it is common to find players who have played in secrecy from family members or neighbours. Some have had to deal with objections, some were beaten up, and some had close ties cut off. Only a few others made it through to the national team unscathed. It’s not always the best athletes or the most skilful players who end up representing the national team. It’s invariably those who’ve either won their battles or found support from family members who were willing to fight that societal battle on their behalf. Around the same time that Saba was putting up a fight, a similar scene was playing out nearly 50km away in Gujranwala, where Nida Dar had to play cricket using a pseudonym to avoid her brother finding out. Nahida Khan in Chaman — a small town near the Pakistan-Afghanistan border — didn’t tell her neighbours that she was playing for almost eight years after she made her international debut, because she and her family were once humiliated when a photo of her playing cricket at college appeared in a local newspaper. A chance to play cricket for many of these women wasn’t even about playing with a leather ball on a green field. It could merely be the act of shadow bowling on the terrace when no one would dare come up in the afternoon’s scorching sun. Or swinging a bat on the sidelines of a tape-ball game in return for sandwiches. As several senior cricketers admit, even today, despite everything that they have achieved on the field, even recreationally running on the streets is still frowned upon. Noorena Shams, an international squash player, brought up in the war-ravaged region of Timergara, bordering Afghanistan, had to play cricket disguised as a boy when she was 15. Her name itself was born out of the desire that the family wanted a boy. Even though there are various meanings to the word Noorena in Pashto, she claims it is one of the names that’s often given to girls as a superstitious practice in the region in the hope that the next child would be a boy. “Let alone playing a sport, girls weren’t even allowed to reveal their faces,” she says. “We’ve had to fight for everything from education to playing sports. I would even have to ride my bicycle in secrecy from my family.” Recently, she was berated on social media for practising in shorts — an outfit she’s most comfortable playing in. But she’s putting up a fight. “We are used to fighting, we had to, we didn’t have any other choice,” she says, reflecting on the lives of women in Dir, North-West Frontier Province (NWFP). “We’ve grown up listening to gunfire and bomb shells all our lives, had our school and homes struck down. We didn’t even have an identity independent from those of our fathers and brothers. We can surely put up a fight on social media.” These are unfortunately only the stories of players whose families eventually agreed to let them play. The struggles of those who lost the fight will be hard to unearth. “Sport is a choice and choice is a human right. Unfortunately, most girls from our region are not allowed to exercise that right,” Shams adds. Sana Mir, Pakistan’s longest serving women’s captain, says: “Our parents had to be courageous. The system doesn’t provide them, or us, with any sort of security. “They are worried about us. Most of them are misunderstood — they aren’t trying to control their daughters, they are trying to protect them.” In a way, it’s a fair assessment because sport is only a reflection of society, which is dominated by the politics at play. When cricket tournaments had just begun to develop in the 1970s, the martial rule of military dictator General Muhammad Zia-ul-Haq quickly nipped them in the bud. During his regime, to prove an accusation of rape a woman required the testimony of four “honourable Muslim men”. The court testimonies of women in other cases were considered to be worth half that of a man. Extreme punishments for offences included amputation for theft and stoning to death for extramarital affairs. Public flogging for various crimes was the norm and, in fact, a highly viewed event. In sport, akin to other activities like dancing, acting and singing, women weren’t allowed to perform in public. Even as many of the harshest punishments were eradicated in the wake of Zia’s death in 1988, religious extremism continued. When Shaiza and Sharmeen Khan attempted to play a cricket match in 1988, they were threatened with death and the pelting of their house with stones. When they did eventually begin to play cricket in 1997, the challenges they faced included having to flee the country secretly to play a World Cup in India, fighting with rival groups and engaging in legal battles with the administrators of the men’s game, who attempted to stop them. In 2005, members of a politically-muscled religious outfit physically attacked women who wanted to be a part of a mixed-gender marathon in Lahore. To be running alongside men was considered an unholy act. In the same year, attempts were made to ban women from playing sports in NWFP. Irrespective of which part of the country girls came from, the social, cultural and political challenges were enormous. Many of those who ended up playing had their careers end abruptly due to marriage. Bismah Maroof, who married in November 2018, was the first woman to have an uninterrupted cricket career after marriage. “Whenever I looked at my older team-mates retiring, I would believe that a similar fate awaited me,” she reflects. She was fortunate though, and supported in her endeavour because she was married to her cousin and her in-laws had seen the effort she had put into becoming a cricketer since childhood. Her return to cricket after childbirth was further aided by institutional support from the Pakistan Cricket Board, which rolled out a last-minute parental policy. Not everyone has been as lucky. Nonetheless, there is hope Bismah’s act will change a few minds. In the orthodox Abbottabad region, Ayesha Naseem is playing cricket even though she had the choice to play in the cosmopolitan Karachi. But she has greater motivations, wanting to normalise the act of girls stepping out to the field with a bat and ball. There are many battles won and lost before donning a national jersey. And then you wonder, where is the real game being played and where lies the victory? https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/kill-me-if-you-want-but-im-going-to-play-cricket-the-struggle-of-pakistan-women-to-do-what-they-love-5dgfjgb8d
No comments:
Post a Comment