Tuesday, August 16, 2022
I Still Believe in the Power of Sexual Freedom
By Nona Willis Aronowitz
Ms. Willis Aronowitz is a writer, an editor and the author of “Bad Sex.”
In an essay written in 1970, amid the early years of the women’s liberation movement, the novelist and feminist activist June Arnold recalled several consciousness-raising sessions devoted to sex. The women talked about masturbation, lesbianism and the relationship between love and lust. They deemed sex a “huge and crucial” topic, Ms. Arnold wrote — and yet the nature of their own desires was often inscrutable.
These women spent much of their adult lives wanting to be considered a “good lay,” which sometimes meant contorting themselves to mirror their male partners’ sexuality. “But no man had ever really grooved on our sexuality,” she wrote. “How could he? We didn’t know really what it was yet.” The sexual revolution was riding high, but second-wave feminism had barely gotten off the ground. The women’s frustration with the sexual landscape was, as Michelle Goldberg recently put it, “what you get when you liberate sex without liberating women.” There was an expectation for women to be free and horny, but the fact that sex was still tailored to men thwarted those efforts at every turn. Many heterosexual women felt their emotional needs were left in the dust while their sexual needs often remained a mystery to both their partners and themselves. Half a century later, we’re grappling with a similar dynamic. Generation Z — which rightly sees how women are still, after all these years, taught to prioritize men’s desires over their own — has started to reject the concept of sex positivity and question whether casual dating is worth it, sometimes opting out of sex altogether. As the righteous energy of #MeToo fades into a more ambiguous debate, we’ve reached a point where it’s become obvious that consent and figuring out what you don’t want is just not enough. What does it mean to go beyond consent and discover what you do want? The early feminists in those living rooms had their sights set on this question, one they deemed central to liberation. But uncovering the answer has proved to be a tall order. As a result, we have ended up sidelining a chaotic and mystifying but also politically essential process: pursuing desire on one’s own terms. At the tail end of 2016, I ended an eight-year relationship about six years too late. Our marriage was modern and progressive by most standards: We experimented with nonmonogamy; my partner did more laundry than I did. And yet I found myself unable to admit a simple fact: Our sex, it turned out, was bad. Intrinsically, gut-level bad. Though sex wasn’t the only thing wrong with our relationship, it was the starkest evidence of our weak connection. But despite this, I stayed frozen in dissatisfaction, unable to articulate my deepest needs to myself, my partner or my friends. How had I, a supposedly empowered feminist, wound up here? Understanding our authentic desires has long been hopelessly stymied by politics. Even as the feminists of the 1960s and ’70s were recognizing the importance of pursuing sexual happiness, it was clear that embracing one’s sexual freedom was going to be easier said than done. A liberated woman was expected to dodge the roles and rules prescribed to her and replace them with her own desires — the discovery of which often involves unraveling a lifetime of learned behavior. Just six years after Ms. Arnold wrote her essay, the sociologist Shere Hite released a report on female sexuality. In it, regular women who were navigating the mores of the sexual revolution struggled to pin down what they were looking for. One woman tried to explain that she didn’t want traditional commitment, exactly — just more connection, more affection, more … something. “I don’t believe you have to be in love and married till death do us part,’” one woman said. “But mind and body are one organism and all tied up together, and it isn’t even physically fun unless the people involved really like each other!” One can sense the nebulousness of it all, the work involved in rewriting longstanding cultural scripts. Meanwhile, a growing sect of the feminist movement, disillusioned by the results of the sexual revolution, had recently veered down a protectionist path when it came to sex, and it was considerably more cut and dried than an active pursuit of pleasure. “Don’t rape me, don’t abuse me, don’t objectify me,” they demanded of a misogynist society. The don’ts extended to women, too: The ones who wanted to be dominated or have casual sex or even have sex with men at all were kidding themselves. “Every woman here knows in her gut,” wrote the writer and anti-porn feminist Robin Morgan in 1978, “that the emphasis on genital sexuality, objectification, promiscuity, emotional noninvolvement and coarse invulnerability was the male style and that we, as women, placed greater trust in love, sensuality, humor, tenderness, commitment.” If male-centered ideas about sex hardly encouraged self-actualization, neither did this new strain of feminism. Its subjective judgments about what women should know in their guts did nothing to acknowledge women’s realities and only added to their internal shame machines. A group known as pro-sex feminists warned against the dead-end politics of focusing only on sexual violence, which just made women the “moral custodians of male behavior,” as Carole S. Vance put it in her landmark anthology, “Pleasure and Danger.” Besides, the suppression of female desire, they argued, had long been a tool of the patriarchy. “The horrific effect of gender inequality may include not only brute violence,” she wrote, “but the internalized control of women’s impulses, poisoning desire at its very root with self-doubt and anxiety.” Fighting against this control and instead advocating pleasure, intimacy, curiosity and excitement were key to expanding women’s autonomy and their ability to live full lives. A lot has changed since then. Women’s right to sexual satisfaction is taken as much more of a given; most people are now aware of things like clitorises and vibrators. But extracting what we actually want from a mess of cultural and political influences can still sometimes feel like an impossible challenge. How did I find myself in a marriage filled with bad sex? I was as equipped as anyone could be to seek out real erotic freedom, and yet I still spent my high school and college years feeling uncertain about how to do so. I idolized Samantha from “Sex and the City,” and I also wished my sex was more meaningful. I wanted sex to be meaningful, but I was also turned off by the whole heterosexual dance in which women demand commitment in exchange for sex and men acquiesce. I was turned off by the dance, and yet I clung to the cultural validation offered to married heterosexual couples, staying way too long at the expense of my own happiness. When I left my marriage at 32 to pursue my true desires, I wondered whether things like blow jobs and B.D.S.M. were actually my desires or just coping mechanisms in a misogynist society — or if you could even separate those things. None of this push and pull makes for good slogans. It’s precisely sex’s slippery quality that makes the pursuit of sexual pleasure such a tricky political project. It’s a moving target, often obscured by the clashing expectations of both the patriarchy and feminism. Grappling with our true desires can feel like an epic, often lonely journey. It demands of us to be vulnerable and trusting, even when societal circumstances give us lots of reasons not to be. It can be frustrating and demoralizing: Our culture’s expectations for sex keep getting higher, even as the quality of sex can still be stubbornly low. So it’s no wonder why it’s often more tempting to remain in a defensive crouch, to narrow down our options and home in on boundaries — which is what’s happening now as part of a sort of sex-positive backlash. Christine Emba, the author of “Rethinking Sex,” has called for raising “the standards for what good sexual encounters look like,” for “better rules” that can safeguard against the malaise that many Gen Z women express. “In our haste to liberate ourselves, we may have left something important behind,” she writes — namely, better norms, a shared sense of what good sex should look like. I would never advocate ceaseless sex as a default; there’s nothing more joyless than forced sexual exploration. But I do believe that reaching for more sexual freedom, not less — the freedom to have whatever kind of sex we want, including, yes, casual sex and choking sex and porny sex — is still the only way we can hope to solve the problems of our current sexual landscape. In the wrong circumstances, this freedom can result in coercion; we still live in a misogynist world. And yes, exercising freedom can be exhausting. Particularly for straight people, it requires them to move past the cultural defaults and instead actively reach for authentic happiness. Queer people have often made it part of their politics to think affirmatively and deliberately about their desires. In 1983, the poet Cheryl Clarke listed reasons she’s a lesbian: “because it’s part of my vision,” “because being woman-identified has kept me sane.” What would it look like if we all made our own lists? What those early feminists understood is that sex had a role to play in helping women to break free from the various stereotypes — prude, slut, girlfriend, wife — that so dismayed them. These ideas about women shape their lives in ways that go beyond the bedroom. And in order to dissolve stereotypes, we need to replace them with a constellation of women’s realities, which includes our sexual desires. In one of those meetings about sex in the 1970s, Ms. Arnold recalled a cacophony of voices: Some women couldn’t enjoy sex unless they were in love; others resented the lingering expectation of marriage. Some felt sexually rejected by their partners; others felt harangued by them. “I guess we’re not going to get any conclusions from this session,” one woman remarked. “We’re all saying completely different things.” “Beautiful!” another replied. “Maybe that’s what liberation really is.” https://www.nytimes.com/2022/08/16/opinion/sex-women-feminism-rules.html
کوز دير: حکومت دې د وسله والو د "بیا منظمېدو" مخه ونیسي
د خيبر پښتونخوا د کوز دير مظاهره چيانو غوښتنه کړې چې د خيبر پښتونخوا او وفاقي حکومتونه دي د وسله والو د بيا منظمېدو مخه ونيسي.
دا مظاهره د اګست پر ۱۶مه نېټه د کوز دير په مېدان سيمه کې شوې ده. يو ګډونوال عدنان خان مشال راډيو ته وويل چې په کوز دير کې د پوځي عملياتو برسېره "وسله وال ګرځي" او امنيت په بشپړه ډول نه دی بحال شوی نو ځکه دوی بیا مظاهرو ته مجبوره شوي دي.
هغه زیاته کړه:"روانه بدامني دې بنده کړل شي. زموږ يوازې يوه غوښتنه ده او هغه دا چې دلته دې امن قايم کړل شي. دلته بريدونه زیات شوي دي. پر مويال سېګنل ټاورونو هم حملې شوې دي. په ۲۰۰۹ کال کې دلته عمليات شوي وو. بيا تر دې کاله پورې په مختلفو وختونو کې د ترهګرو پر ضد کاروايانې وشوې خو مکمل امن رانغلی."
دا په داسې حال کې ده چې د اګست پر شپږمه نېټه په کوز دير کې د تحريک انصاف پر سیاستوال او خيبر پښتونخوا اسمبلۍ غړي ملک لیاقت علي خان حمله شوې وه. د نامعلومو وسله والو په دې بريد کې هغه پخپله زخمي او د نوموړي سره مل، څلور نور کسان وژل شوي ول. په وژل شويو کې يو دوه امنيتي سرتيري، يو د ملک لیاقت ورور او وراره وو.
تر هغه بريد وروسته هم په کوز دير کې په سلګونو ولسي خلکو لاريون کړی وو. د "دیر قامي پاڅون" په نوم د نوي غورځنګ مشر ملک جان عالم د اګست پر ۱۰مه مشال راډیو ته ویلي ول، د سیمې د ګوندونو سیاستوالانو او لسګونه مدني فعالانو د اګست پر نهمه د میدان له کمبړ بازاره تر لوبغالي (سټېډییم) پورې لاریون وکړ او مشرانو بیا هلته جلسې ته په ویناګانو کې د امنیت ټینګښت غوښتنه وکړه.
خيبر پښتونخوا وزيراعلی محمود خان پر ټويټر ليکلي وو چې دا بريد غندي او د پېښې د پلټنې حکم یې کړی دی.
Pakistan under the threat of Hepatitis
Dr Muhammad Faheemullah Kamboh
Despite Hepatitis cases multiplying at an alarming speed in Pakistan, government seems unserious.
As World Health Organization has developed a Global health sector strategy to achieve hepatitis elimination by 2030 in collaboration with different countries’ authorities, and among them, some countries like Iceland, Qatar, Australia, Japan, etc are on the track to achieving hepatitis by 2030. some countries are working towards elimination but unfortunately, Pakistan is among the countries in which elimination seems unachievable with its current policy.
lack of education, proper counseling, and lack of screening and vaccination are major problems to Eliminate hepatitis. There is also a lack of effective monitoring and evaluation of provincial hepatitis programs, where sometimes medicines and necessary materials to conduct PCR tests are insufficient in resulting patients having to suffer a lot.
Who is to blame for the failure of Pakistan to eliminate Hepatitis? Government of Pakistan, Health care workers? or people themselves are accountable for being unsuccessful in achieving the target to combat hepatitis?
The disease of hepatitis is called a silent killer because many patients remain undiagnosed without having any symptoms Upto many years before developing complications and dying. Though there are five types of Hepatitis, from A to E. But Hepatitis C is the leading cause of death all over the world.In Pakistan, almost 12 million people are suffering from hepatitis B or C. Each year brings about 150 000 new cases.
Identify the following common risk factors for the transmission of hepatitis B and C. Unnecessary therapeutic injection use, and unnecessary hospital stay that is most commonly observed in today’s era, syringe reuse, improper sanitization of medical devices, blood transfusion, sharing of razor and shaving machine with others, contaminated blood and body fluids while coming in contact with someone’s wound, Getting a tattoo or piercing, Trips to the salon or barbershop, Having sex with someone who has hepatitis B is a major cause of new infections.
To prevent Hepatitis, Vaccination of Hepatitis B, from newborn children to Adults, mass screening, washing dishes, fruits, and vegetables properly, eating well-cooked food, avoiding unnecessary blood tests, hospital administration, and injections, and using medicines as per doctor’s advice are the effective ways to prevent Hepatitis.
https://dailytimes.com.pk/979884/pakistan-under-the-threat-of-hepatitis/
#Pakistan - ‘Kill me if you want but I’m going to play cricket’ – the struggle of Pakistan women to do what they love
Aayush Puthran
@aayushputhra
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
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