(Mis)recognising Sexual Harassment and Sexual Violence:
by Sivamohan Sumathy
Kuppi Talk is committed to democratising education. It is an ongoing process. Our discussion has centred on concerns of militarisation, commodification, corporatisation of education, the KNDU Bill, the externalities of power. We have also initiated discussion on the internal workings of educational spaces, the hierarchies embedded in the structural apparatus, ragging, and other attendant violences.
One of the major but unspoken enactments of violence in our midst is sexual harassment and sexual violence. Given the overwhelmingly male dominant structures of power that we inhabit, gender means a binary of man and woman, placing the woman and the feminine in the subordinate position. While the woman is marginal, the marginal is feminised, too. While sexual violence can happen across any identification of gender and sexuality, the figure of the woman, or the “feminine”, stands in for the figure of the other. Our bid to democratize the university space and take on sexual violence is a part of a larger movement to take on questions of gender, namely, the marginalisation of women and other sexual identities in the spaces of education.
Sexual violence is often taken to be an extraordinary happening. It is also understood as an act arising from a natural division of genders. The social marginality of the “victim” is hardly taken into account. Often the victim is deemed the guilty party, accused of using “her” sexuality to lure the “innocent” perpetrator. As we work toward democratising our gendered spaces, we need to denaturalise sexualised and gendered behaviour, and approach sexual aggression as an act of power; and recognise its imposition on the gendered body of a vulnerable person, for what it is: sexual violence, perpetrated on the “body” of the other.
It is important not to confuse a misplaced morality with ethical considerations. A person has a right to express sexual desire in a non-aggressive and non-exploitative manner. Such an exercise of one’s right should not be conflated with the exploitation of a vulnerably positioned person by a person in power. It is important to identify and locate acts of harassment and violence within the political culture of a place, in this instance the university, as we look at place as a space of power. It is not an easy task, but keeping our eyes focused on the disempowered person will help us develop some strategies toward action.
Sexual harassment and violence are rooted in the everyday, as the everyday actualises relations of power and reinscribes them in the spaces of our civil and political lives. It is a scripting of the relations of power that obtain in our home, public spaces like markets, streets, theatres, and spaces of work and study. Habituation inscribes and reinscribes power relations in its speech, encounters, and in the spaces that we inhabit. One becomes habituated to sexual harassment and sexual violence in speech and act; the habits are naturalized. The “victim” who is situated oppositionally to all this becomes the outsider to this norm, the other. She/he/they are rendered helpless and powerless in the process.
Theoretically speaking, this habitual, extended and elaborated, can be understood as the habitus proposed by Pierre Bourdieu. Bourdieu’s habitus weaves together the everyday, the habit and the structural features of a domain, in which relations of class, gender, and other social forces intertwine to produce dispositions of power within a structural apparatus. Sexual harassment and sexual violence are deeply intertwined and operate on a continuum in a structural field of dispositions, a domain, a place like the University, through the habituation of manners, through the claiming of spaces, and through the marginalisation of subjects, as others.
Analytically, I suggest that we place sexual violence within hierarchies in the university, including gendered hierarchies and the gendered nature of our spaces; and break open the culture of silence that surrounds the subject, leading to a “recognition” of sexual humiliation and power play as harassment and violence. This recognition should take place in a nurturing and empowering environment. Where does a student, or junior faculty, go to, to seek redress if she finds herself in an uncomfortable, embarrassing, demeaning or downright dangerous situation, and be assured that the supposed “perpetrator” is not the one who will arbitrate on her case? Where are the assurances, when in a closely knit institutional place like the Sri Lankan University, one would get a fair hearing? Can this be assured, when relations are hierarchically arranged, power is not always transparent but resides in the unspoken corridors of power, and operates in the habitus, along the threads of a fine web of social and institutional relations?
Most universities in Sri Lanka today have a Sexual and Gender-Based Harassment and Sexual Violence policy, formulated with the intention of providing guidelines of conduct and support to the “victim” when her/his integrity as a person is violated, usually by a figure of authority. Measures such as this are broadly designed to protect female and male students from harassment by academic and administrative staff, provide safety for junior staff who are made to feel reliant for their jobs on more senior staff, provide safety measures for the working staff from being harassed sexually and otherwise by people in administration or other positions of power and protect students from being ragged sexually and otherwise.
Despite the presence of these formal features, sexual harassment continues to be an intractable problem. Without collective and institutional will, it is difficult to create a conducive culture in which women and others in vulnerable positions can voice their grievances; most suffer in silence, or in murmurs of dissent, never able to fully articulate their discomfort and even fear. A probationary lecturer at the University of Peradeniya has sought redress for a case of sexual harassment and violence that purportedly took place in university premises, in the court of law of the country. Does this mean, the university has failed this member of its body? The justness of this case notwithstanding, the university can do more for its junior staff and students, proactively.
The University of Peradeniya’s SGBHSV policy, while being decent, does little to empower the individual before commission of the violation. There is little focus on dissemination. How many of our students and staff know about the policy? Staff Development Courses do have a segment devoted to dissemination of the policy, but many other universities do not seem to have such a mechanism. On the other hand, the policy at Peradeniya states that its clauses shall be written into the service contracts of all employees. However, such an incorporation has not happened so far.
It is telling that the policy is tucked away in the “Complaints” section on the University website and is nowhere else to be found, as far as I can see. Our notion of justice is far too steeped in punishment and does not focus on the everyday. This is not an oversight. Punitive measures leave the structures of power intact and untouched, focusing on gross violations, leaving the everyday and the habitual untouched.
How does then one strategise around prevention and denaturalise the culture of sexual violence and harassment in society and in university spaces? The obvious course is de-hierarchising relations of power, but that is a distant dream. In the short and the long term, we need dialogue. Dialogue is not merely workshops and awareness raising. Workshops and awareness raising on what needs to be done would be meaningless if the hierarchical structure is not challenged simultaneously. On the other hand, such discussions may provide the entry point for a view from below and for a campaign.
Gender units that lead and implement the SGBHSV policy need to be strengthened and allowed to play a central role. The policy needs to be widely disseminated, among staff and students. Gendered discourses are always already about class, ethnicity, language, and other axes of power and inclusion and exclusion. Ethnic minorities are rarely fully integrated into university spaces; class wise exclusions exacerbate unequal sexual relations in a place. A far-reaching policy on ragging needs to be brought about through discussion. It is also important that student-student relations are de-hierarchized. To this end, first years need to be nurtured with facilities and support. Junior staff need to be fully empowered with representation, participation and impartiality. Janitorial services are outsourced in most cases, and the staff, almost always women, are on contract. How do they navigate their way about the halls of silent power in the university?
Change has to come from women, students, minorities, and those placed on the lower rungs of the hierarchy, academic and non-academic, in a spirit of collaboration. Democratisation is to be collectively fought for, and is to be fought for an enduring intimacy with the spaces we habituate.
Sivamohan Sumathy is attached to the Department of English at the University of Peradeniya
Kuppi is a politics and pedagogy happening on the margins of the lecture hall that parodies, subverts, and simultaneously reaffirms social hierarchies
Rising farce of Family Power
Former President Maithripala Sirisena has struck hard on warnings of being deprived of Civil Rights by President Gotabhaya Rajapaksa.
In his recent statement, President Gotabaya was clear on observing the policies laid down in his Saubhagya Dekma manifesto. He recalled how the Yahapalana government had given no importance to the war heroes, intelligence services, and national security, which led to the Easter Carnage.
He was very clear that having a two-thirds majority in Parliament, this government is ready to respond to the false propaganda of the Opposition, and provide a meal free of poison to the people.
He said the Presidential Commission appointed by Yahapalana has stated very clearly who was responsible for the Easter Carnage. This included the then President, Prime Minister and the entire Cabinet of that time.
“We leave all legal action on this to be taken by the judiciary. We have trust in the judiciary and will allow justice to take place, All the PCoI reports have been submitted to Parliament. We will not poke our fingers into the judicial system. While maintaining the freedom of the judiciary, it is not possible to ask that some persons be brought to justice, and others punished,
“If they want this action to be taken very soon, we can bring a Bill to Parliament (as done before) and remove all the rights of those responsible, so that they will not do such faults again. If they want this, we are ready for it, as we have a two-thirds majority power. When asking for various things, they should do it with care. We are ready for this too. The people should not be fooled.
“If I am not good, and we are not good, is the alternative to this the Opposition? We have seen how they ruled for five years. That is why I was elected, although it was told that I would not get the votes of the minorities. But we won. Will they be able to reduce the Cabinet to 25?”
Mr. Sirisena’s response in parliament was to this claim of two-thirds strength. In the midst of a major clash with government ministers, he made it clear that the government’s two-thirds power was due to the presence of the SLFP in the ruling coalition.
It certainly was a shake up to the show of two-thirds strength and power by President Gotabaya.
While President Gotabaya was clear on his following the findings of the PCoI, and stressed the call for action against Mr. Sirisena, there was total silence on the other recommendations of the Commission. The supporters who cheered him, raised no question about what the PCoI had recommended on Galagoda Aththe Gnanasara Thero and the Bodu Bala Sena led by him.
Was it in keeping with the PCoI that Gnanasara Thero has been appointed to head a Task Force on One Country, One Law? Is this One Law part of the new Gotabaya thinking on Green Agriculture?
What has emerged with the Sirisena response to the Gotabhaya challenge is the emerging reality of the Podujana Peramuna – SLPP politics. The New Kelani Bridge, which was opened, when Gotabaya made his strong speech, had to be kept closed the very next day, showing the rising confusion in Podujana Governance,
The warning given by experts about the situation relating to the LP gas cylinders, is driving a huge new scare among the public. If there are a few more gas cylinder explosions, there could be mass gas protests, even angrier that the farmer protests on the fertilizer disaster.
The Podujana government is certainly in a crisis of governance. There are turn-arounds on many of its policies from Neo-Nitrogen fertiliser – from cost to its benefit for Sri Lankan cultivation, and the payment to contaminated Chinese fertiliser. The turn back on the use of chemical fertilisers will also bring a huge new price to the cultivators, leading to another round of protests?
The Gotabaya Keliya is fast doing turns and twists on policies of the government. The Rajapaksas are being surrounded by faults and failures. It will certainly not be easy him to
use two-thirds power, when the reality is the rising farce of family power.
A tribute to vajira
By Uditha Devapriya
The female dancer’s form figures prominently in Sinhalese art and sculpture. Among the ruins of the Lankatilake Viharaya in Polonnaruwa is a series of carvings of dwarves, beasts, and performers. They surround a decapitated image of a standing Buddha, secular figures dotting a sacred space. Similar figures of dancing women adorn the entrance at the Varaka Valandu Viharaya in Ridigama, adjoining the Ridi Vihare. Offering a contrast with carvings of men sporting swords and spears, they entrance the eye immediately.
A motif of medieval Sinhalese art, these were influenced by hordes of dancers that adorned the walls of South Indian temples. They attest to the role that Sinhala society gave women, a role that diminished with time, so much so that by the 20th century, Sinhalese women had been banned from wearing the ves thattuwa. Held back for long, many of these women now began to rebel. They would soon pave the way for the transformation of an art.
In January 2020 the government of India chose to award the Padma Shri to two Sri Lankan women. This was done in recognition not just of their contribution to their fields, but also their efforts at strengthening ties between the two countries. A few weeks ago, in the midst of a raging pandemic, these awards were finally conferred on their recipients.
One of them, Professor Indra Dissanayake, had passed away in 2019. Her daughter received the honour in her name in India. The other, Vajira Chitrasena, remains very much alive, and as active. She received her award at a ceremony at the Indian High Commission in Colombo. Modest as it may have been, the conferment seals her place in the country, situating her in its cultural landscape as one of our finest exponents of dance.
Vajira Chitrasena was far from the first woman to take up traditional dance in Sri Lanka. But she was the first to turn it into a full time, lifelong profession, absorbing the wellsprings of its past, transcending gender and class barriers, and taking it to the young. Dancing did not really come to her; it was the other way around. Immersing herself in the art, she entered it at a time when the medium had been, and was being, transformed the world over: by 1921, the year her husband was born, Isadora Duncan and Ruth St Denis had pioneered and laid the foundation for the modernisation of the medium. Their project would be continued by Martha Graham, for whom Vajira would perform decades later.
In Sri Lanka traditional dance had long turned away from its ritualistic past, moving into the stage and later the school and the university. Standing in the midst of these developments, Vajira Chitrasena found herself questioning and reshaping tradition. It was a role for which history had ordained her, a role she threw herself into only too willingly.
In dance as in other art forms, the balance between tradition and modernity is hard, if not impossible, to maintain. Associated initially with an agrarian society, traditional dance in Sri Lanka evolved into an object of secular performance. Under colonial rule, the patronage of officials, indeed even of governors themselves, helped free it from the stranglehold of the past, giving it a new lease of life that would later enable what Susan Reed in her account of dance in Sri Lanka calls the bureaucratisation of the arts. This is a phenomenon that Sarath Amunugama explores in his work on the kohomba kankariya as well.
Yet this did not entail a complete break from the past: then as now, in Sri Lanka as in India, dancing calls for the revival of conventions: the namaskaraya, the adherence to Buddhist tenets, and the contemplation of mystical beauty. It was in such a twilight world that Vajira Chitrasena and her colleagues found themselves in. Faced with the task of salvaging a dying art, they breathed new life to it by learning it, preserving it, and reforming it.
Though neither Vajira nor her husband belonged to the colonial elite, it was the colonial elite who began approaching traditional art forms with a zest and vigour that determined their trajectory after independence. Bringing together patrons, teachers, students, and scholars of dance, the elite forged friendships with tutors and performers, often becoming their students and sometimes becoming teachers themselves.
Newton Gunasinghe has observed how British officials found it expedient to patronise feudal elites, after a series of rebellions that threatened to bring down the colonial order. Yet even before this, such officials had patronised cultural practices that had once been the preserve of those elites. It was through this tenuous relationship between colonialism and cultural revival that Westernised low country elites moved away from conventional careers, like law and medicine, into the arduous task of reviving the past.
At first running into opposition from their paterfamilias, the scions of the elite eventually found their calling. “[I]n spite of their disappointment at my smashing their hopes of a brilliant legal and political career,” Charles Jacob Peiris, later to be known as Devar Surya Sena, wrote in his recollection of his parents’ reaction to a concert he had organised at the Royal College Hall in 1929, “they were proud of me that night.”
If the sons had to incur the wrath of their fathers, the daughters had to pay the bigger price. Yet, as with the sons, the daughters too possessed an agency that emboldened them to not just dance, but participate in rituals that had been restricted to males.
Both Miriam Pieris and Chandralekha Perera displeased traditional society when they donned the ves thattuwa, the sacred headdress that had for centuries been reserved for men. But for every critic, there were those who welcomed such developments, considering them essential to the flowering of the arts; none less than Martin Wickramasinghe, to give one example, viewed Chandralekha’s act positively, and commended her.
These developments sparked off a pivotal cultural renaissance across the country. Although up country women remain debarred from those developments, there is no doubt that the shattering of taboos in the low country helped keep the art of the dance alive, for tutors, students, and scholars. As Mirak Raheem has written in a piece to Groundviews, we are yet to appreciate the role female dancers of the early 20th century played in all this.
Vajira Chitrasena’s contribution went beyond that of the daughters of the colonial elite who dared to dance. While it would be wrong to consider their interest as a passing fad, a quirk, these women did not turn dance into a lifelong profession. Vajira did not just commit herself to the medium in a way they had not, she made it her goal to teach and reinterpret it, in line with methods and practices she developed for the Chitrasena Kala Ayathanaya.
As Mirak Raheem has pointed out in his tribute to her, she drew from her limited exposure to dance forms like classical ballet to design a curriculum that broke down the medium to “a series of exercises… that could be used to train dancers.” In doing so, she conceived some highly original works, including a set of children’s ballets, or lama mudra natya, a genre she pioneered in 1952 with Kumudini. Along the way she crisscrossed several roles, from dancer to choreographer to tutor, becoming more than just a performer.
As the head of the Chitrasena Dance Company, Vajira enjoys a reputation that history has not accorded to most other women of her standing. Perhaps her greatest contribution in this regard has been her ability to adapt masculine forms of dance to feminine sequences. She has been able to do this without radically altering their essence; that has arguably been felt the most in the realm of Kandyan dance, which caters to masculine (“tandava“) rather than feminine (“lasya“) moods. The lasya has been described by Marianne Nürnberger as a feminine form of up country dance. It was in productions like Nala Damayanthi that Vajira mastered this form; it epitomised a radical transformation of the art.
Sudesh Mantillake in an essay on the subject (“Masculinity in Kandyan Dance”) suggests that by treating them as impure, traditional artistes kept women away from udarata natum. That is why Algama Kiriganitha, who taught Chandralekha, taught her very little, since she was a woman. This is not to say that the gurunannses kept their knowledge back from those who came to learn from them, only that they taught them under strictures and conditions which revealed their reluctance to impart their knowledge to females.
That Vajira Chitrasena made her mark in these fields despite all obstructions is a tribute to her mettle and perseverance. Yet would we, as Mirak Raheem suggests in his very excellent essay, be doing her a disservice by just valorising her? Shouldn’t the object of a tribute be, not merely to praise her for transcending gender barriers, but more importantly to examine how she transcended them, and how difficult she found it to transcend them? We eulogise our women for breaking through the glass ceiling, without questioning how high that ceiling was in the first place. A more sober evaluation of Vajira Chitrasena would ask that question. But such an evaluation is yet to come out. One can only hope that it will, soon.
The writer can be reached at email@example.com
It’s all about France in Kandy !
This month’s edition of Rendez-Vous with Yasmin and Kumar, on Tuesday 30 November at 7.00 pm on the YouTube channel of the Embassy of France in Sri Lanka and the Maldives, makes a journey to the hill capital Kandy to the Alliance Française de Kandy.
A venue of historical significance in central Sri Lanka which celebrates its 55th anniversary next year, the AF Kandy was once even located on the upper storey of the ancient Queen’s bath or the Ulpangé, just outside the Dalada Maligawa.
All about France and the French in Kandy, on the show will be the newly appointed director of the AF Kandy, Sara Toucas, who will talk about plans to further popularise the French language in Kandy.
Joining the show is also Dr. Kush Herat, former Director AF Kandy and visiting Senior Lecturer in French at University of Peradeniya, who talks about motivating undergraduates and inducting them to the French language and culture.
Frenchman Dr Jacques Soulié, a former Director of the AF Kandy who has contributed immensely to the propagation of the French language and culture in Kandy then takes viewers on a tour of his brainchild and a major cultural venue – The Suriyakantha Centre for Art and Culture – which has been visited by hundreds of Sri Lankans and foreign visitors.
To close the show is Ravana Wijeyeratne, the Honorary Consul for France in Kandy whose links with France go back to his childhood when his father Tissa Wijeyeratne was Ambassador for Sri Lanka in France in the early 1970s.
Rendez-Vous with Yasmin and Kumar
comes to you on Tuesday 30th November at 7.00 pm on the YouTube channel of the Embassy of France in Sri Lanka and the Maldives
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