Meeting the voiceless women of Pakistan

SITTING on the floor in a small room with more than 20 men, I realised I’d fallen into a kind of no man’s land – or, maybe more accurately, no woman’s land.

We were taking a break for lunch, during a day’s visit to World Vision’s work in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (formerly North West Frontier Province).

Piles of chappatis, pieces of fish, spicy bean stew and bowls of chicken curry had been set out on the coarselywoven carpet laid on the floor. Without plates or cutlery, the men started picking up small pieces of food and passing dishes to those who couldn’t reach, laughing and exchanging stories in their local Pashtoon language.

Rarely would you come across work colleagues sharing a communal meal like this in the UK. But, even so, I felt something was missing from this sense of community – the women and children who had most likely toiled over an open fire all morning to prepare what we were sharing.

Throughout my month in Pakistan, as a foreign woman, I seemed to fall between the boundaries usually attached to gender: in villages, I was invited to sit, talk, eat and smoke with the men but, like the majority of Pakistani women, I was still expected to keep my head covered and wasn’t permitted to shake hands with men.

Most of the time my thoughts and opinions were valued; while, at other times, men didn’t even wait for me to finish a sentence before starting speaking over me.

Before lunch that day, in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, I was led at one of the clinics that World Vision is supporting with renovations, equipment and medication. Two male colleagues accompanied me, to act as translators.

And the group of five female health workers I tried to interview barely said two words.

Some of the younger women actually turned away from us, pulling their headscarves over their faces so we could hardly see their eyes.

That afternoon, time with the women’s committee at World Vision’s Child Protection Centre was an entirely different story.

I’d been talking to one of the little girls who attends the centre – where World Vision provides a safe place to play and informal education, after the village school was washed away in last year’s devastating floods – so was late to meet the committee of women who help manage the centre.

I walked in with a female translator – and there was uproar. Immediately, women in brightly coloured shalwar kameez were on their feet, waving their arms and bombarding me with Pashtoon I didn’t understand. The translator tried to keep up: “You’re late!” “What country are you from?”

“What do you think of the centre?”

“Aren’t our children well behaved.” I just stood there, smiling. It made me happy to be hearing women’s real thoughts and feelings for the first time in weeks.

It seems that so many of Pakistan’s women are denied a voice. They’re so rarely given the chance to express their point of view, their concerns, or hopes for the future. Maybe that’s why, wherever I went, women were so keen to speak to me – because I listened.

World Vision’s Women Friendly Space in Kaiti village, Sindh province, was one such place. Despite the stifling humidity, about 100 women, of all ages, from girls to grandmothers, gather here every day in the grounds of Kaiti’s girls’ school.

World Vision first established the Space, along with many others, in the flood relief camps last year; offering women not only a safe place to gather and talk, but psycho-social counselling to help them process the disaster that had just hit. Families watched as their homes and belongings were swept away by the tidal wave that gathered speed as the mighty Indus River broke its banks.

Now, the women still come to the Space to use the sewing machines World Vision has provided, young mothers come to hear the health education sessions that the aid agency offers on breastfeeding or good hygiene practices, or some come simply to chat with friends in a space outside their homes.

KHADIJA Ghausbakha’s story is representative of many.

Within minutes of my arrival, the young mother came and confidently sat herself, cross-legged, in front of me.

The rising floodwater wiped out Kaiti village, and Khadija, along with her seven children and sick husband, had to flee, taking refuge with relatives.

When they returned to Kaiti, six weeks later, their home was destroyed.

Everything had been washed away. And they are still, now, living in a tent.

Behind the smiles and the beautiful, brightly-coloured salwar kameez of these Sindhi women, it’s almost impossible to comprehend what they and their families have been through.

They say you can’t judge a man – or woman – until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes. As a young British women visiting Pakistan, sadly I don’t think I’ll ever manage to truly empathise with what it’s like for a local woman living in Pakistan.

As I watched the women walk away from the Women Friendly Space and spots of rain grew into a torrential downpour, my heart went out to Khadija – returning to the piece of canvas that protects her young family from the elements. A tragic situation that she continues, for the most part, to suffer in silence.

• Amy Waddell, 28, is senior media officer for World Vision, which has been working in Pakistan since 1992, scaling up its operations after the 2010 floods to get aid to 1.5 million people.

If you’re interested in finding out how the aid agency is responding to this year’s flooding, visit worldvision.org.uk/childreninemergencies