Let’s talk about a very unique, yet eerily similar journey of every woman. Vehicles are generally used as means of transportation to travel to different places. But when it comes to women, it takes us on a different journey – a journey to an unsafe place rampant with harassment.



The most upsetting aspect of it is that it usually starts from school buses or school vans. There are instances of young girls and teenagers being touched inappropriately, to be brutally raped and left to die in these means of transport, sometimes by people with whom the parents trust their children.

As we grow up, the scene moves away from our school buses to more horrible public buses and auto-rickshaws. The thing about public buses is that every girl inevitably gets touched, by accident, of course. We feel someone brushing our hand or groping us, it’s so crowded so who can tell? Not everyone will stand up to or call out their harasser, especially when it happens for the first time. The first times usually stuns us into silence and then we grow and get used to it. 

I remember the advice of one of my teachers, to 

 to use it as a weapon, if ever someone tries to touch me inappropriately. The needle is since then, my weapon of choice against every local, pervert in a bus. I also remember the warnings women need to follow before getting into a rickshaw or cabs: take the picture of the number plate, mandatory location share, and the meaningless rambling with friends while in it to feel comfortable and safe. All these shenanigans just to ensure that the driver takes me to my destination.

Then comes a time when (if available) we finally decide to take the reins of vehicles into our own hands. Whether it be a scooter or a car, we will be complimented by every random tom, dick and harry. From being called 

 to being disrespected and abused, these roadside hooligans have made it their job to not let the female drivers drive in peace. From teasing to catcalling to being raced with, women of all ages have at a point thought of giving up driving. But credit must be given where one earns it. 

They have a different dialogue in store for every different girl. A 

 Let’s not even talk about the harassment and humiliation for a broken traffic rule or a basic traffic mistake by a woman driver that causes a minor inconvenience. To sum it up, it all comes down to the favourite catchphrase of every sanctimonious uncle and self-righteous youngster – “

Let’s move on to trains and aeroplanes. The bigger the vehicle, the bigger the problem. The last time I was on a train, an old man, fit to be my grandpa had his eyes glued to my face. Initially, I thought there was something on my face until I realised it had to do with the fact that I was a female. He made sure that I stayed awake the entire journey. Planes are no better. If you think that even travelling business class would give you an ounce of safety, then I’m the one to break your bubble. Numerous incidents have been reported where fellow passengers have groped the thighs or even molested females in the plane washrooms.

what should a woman do? How should she travel? Or should she just confine herself to the four walls of her house?

 But then again, where is the guarantee of safety even there? The only safe journey for a woman is the crossover to the other world but wait, wasn’t the corpse of a woman also raped?

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this publication are those of the author. They do not purport to reflect the opinions or views of The Jamia Review or its members.

A‌ ‌Journey‌ ‌of‌ ‌Harassment‌

Apart from the house, the other important structure of the village is a school where the mother of the protagonist taught and a mosque. The scenery of this quaint village transforms into a picture of gloom when the military vehicles arrive, lining its rough contoured paths, and people leave their houses standing in front of the school while the mosque reverberates with announcement of search operation. Haider’s house metamorphoses into a mini war-zone, bullets piercing through its beautiful wooden windows and is ultimately razed to ground. It brings to mind countless houses that were burnt in a similar manner; new, old, all reduced to debris of memories. When Haider looks on to what used to be his house, scavenging through the residue, collecting whatever the remnants he could find, it alludes to 

a Kashmir, that is lost to every Kashmiri.

When Haider was returning to Kashmir, his bus is stopped at a check-point, overlooking the beautiful view of mountains and river, where the camps of army have come up, surrounded by an array of concertina wires. With incessant lockdowns, restrictions and curfews, Srinagar, in fact has become a city of concertina wires. While searching his father, Haider goes from one place to another, from the police stations to the army camps, from courts to even 

 quarters, we understand the strenuous process of getting one word about the loved one who had disappeared. We also see characters travelling through 

, a river around which the city was built and the story was weaved, a river on the beds of which the dead await burial, and visiting graveyard that has laid countless nameless to rest. The conflict has consumed countless buildings which have been converted into interrogation and torture centers; hotels, schools, especially cinemas where the only thing to watch is torture or confession.

Another important place shown in the movie is 

 where Haider is called to a meet an important informant. On the bridge, built by 

 in the 15th century, not just to connect the two halves of the town but to create a center of trade and interaction, we see Haider being blindfolded upon arrival, taken to narrow alleys guarded by rebels with guns into an attic of a house hidden amongst the crowd of other houses. Places like this, collectively known as downtown, once the heart for trade and culture has become notorious for the persistent disharmony, where stone-pelting and protests usually takes place. The intricate network of lanes and alleys provide path for stone-pelters to escape and hide, the network that armed forces didn’t quite navigate.

In the movie, the bridge provides an incredible view of downtown at the edge of Jhelum, its small ghats, multistoried traditional Kashmiri buildings with cantilevered windows, top of a temple, 

 with its multi-tiered turret, and tomb of Budshah’s mother with its semi-circular domes, all reminiscent of once heterogeneous and diverse culture of Kashmir, dissolved now. As one verse by 

In the lake the arms of temples and mosques are locked in each other’s reflections.”

When we talk of Kashmir, we can never separate the conflict that has creeped into the walls of each of its structure. Kashmir is a civilization as old as stone age, ruled by countless glorious kingdoms, a place that mesmerized 

”. However, like beauty, violence has become a defining factor for Kashmir. The town once fondly called 

, is reduced to a place rampant with stone pelting. But, when we talk of conflict, we only care of one thing, preservation of human life, and everything else becomes immaterial. Yet, if we want to construct a new future, we need to conserve and hold on to the structures that stand witness to our past, splendid as well as tumultuous.

Articles by Munazah Shakeel

A‌ ‌Journey‌ ‌of‌ ‌Harassment‌

Haider: Navigating Conflict through Architecture

A‌ ‌Journey‌ ‌of‌ ‌Harassment‌

Haider: Navigating Conflict through Architecture