Religion and Gender-Based Violence: Global and Local Responses to Harmful Practices 9781032158709, 9781032158723, 9781003246046

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
List of Contributors
Acknowledgements
1 Gender, Religion, and Harm: Conceptual and Methodological Reflections
2 The Impact of COVID on Efforts to Reduce FGM and Child Marriage: Understanding the Intersections Between Religion, Gender, and Culture
3 Cousin Marriage Among Turkish and Moroccan Dutch: Debates on Medical Risk and Forced Marriage
4 The Implications of the Securitisation of Mosques for Transformative Masculine Attitudes Towards Harmful Cultural Practices in the UK
5 Izzat and Forced Marriage in the Constructing of Cultural and Religious Identities in the UK
6 Harm and Consent in the Socio-Legal Perspectives on Child Marriage in Iran
7 Understanding the Nexus of Religion, Secularism, and the Harms of Women’s Mandatory Un/Covering
8 Normative Violence, Traditional Healing, and Harm Regarding Same-Sex Relations Among Women in Mozambique
9 The Contradictory Role of the Protestant Church in Changing Female Genital Cutting Among the Maasai: An Ethnographic Exploration
10 So Is It All Just About Sex? Religion and Recognising Harmful Practices in the Need to Control Female Sexuality
11 ‘Faith-full’ Reflections from a Civically Minded, Radically Inclusive, Other
Index

Citation preview

Religion and Gender-Based Violence

This book takes religion as an entry point for a deeper exploration into why practices of gender-based violence continue and what possible actions might help to contribute to their eradication. International donors are committed to reducing and ending gender-related harm, particularly violence against women, but clear answers as to why harmful practices persist are often slow to emerge. Theological research struggles to find strong links, yet religion is often referred to by local people as the reason for practices such as female cutting, male circumcision, early and forced marriage, nutritional taboos and birth practices, mandatory (un)veiling, harmful spiritual practices, polygamy, gender unequal marital and inheritance rights and so-called honour crimes. This book presents empirical cases of religious, nonreligious and secular actors, including local and international governmental and non-governmental agencies in the fields of development, health and equality policies. Tracing their different understandings of how religion is entangled with gender-based violence both contextually as well as historically, the book sheds light on helpful and unhelpful as well as erroneous and harmful understandings of such practices in local and global perspectives. Centralising the perspectives of women themselves, this book will be an important read for development practitioners and policy makers, as well as for researchers across religious studies, gender studies, and global development. Brenda Bartelink is assistant professor at the Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies, University of Groningen, Netherlands. Chia Longman is associate professor of gender studies and the director of the Centre for Research on Culture and Gender, Ghent University, Belgium. Tamsin Bradley is professor of international development at the University of Portsmouth, UK.

Routledge Research in Religion and Development

The Routledge Research in Religion and Development series focuses on the diverse ways in which religious values, teachings and practices interact with international development. While religious traditions and faith-based movements have long served as forces for social innovation, it has only been within the last ten years that researchers have begun to seriously explore the religious dimensions of international development. However, recognising and analysing the role of religion in the development domain is vital for a nuanced understanding of this field. This interdisciplinary series examines the intersection between these two areas, focusing on a range of contexts and religious traditions. Series Editors: Matthew Clarke, Deakin University, Australia Emma Tomalin, University of Leeds, UK Nathan Loewen, University of Alabama, USA Editorial board: Carole Rakodi, University of Birmingham, UK Gurharpal Singh, School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, UK Jörg Haustein, School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, UK Christopher Duncanson-Hales, Saint Paul University, Canada The Religion-Gender Nexus in Development Policy and Practice Considerations Nora Khalaf-Elledge Religion and Gender-Based Violence Global and Local Responses to Harmful Practices Edited by Brenda Bartelink, Chia Longman, and Tamsin Bradley For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/ Routledge-Research-in-Religion-and-Development/book-series/RRRD

Religion and Gender-Based Violence Global and Local Responses to Harmful Practices Edited by Brenda Bartelink, Chia Longman, and Tamsin Bradley

First published 2023 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 selection and editorial matter, Brenda Bartelink, Chia Longman and Tamsin Bradley; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Brenda Bartelink, Chia Longman and Tamsin Bradley to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-1-032-15870-9 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-15872-3 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-24604-6 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003246046 Typeset in Goudy by codeMantra

Contents

List of Contributors Acknowledgements 1 Gender, Religion, and Harm: Conceptual and Methodological Reflections

vii xi

1

B R E N DA BA RT E LI N K, C H I A L ONGM A N, A N D TA MSI N B R A D LE Y

2 The Impact of COVID on Efforts to Reduce FGM and Child Marriage: Understanding the Intersections Between Religion, Gender, and Culture

26

TA MSI N B R A D LE Y A N D JA N E R I TA M E M E

3 Cousin Marriage Among Turkish and Moroccan Dutch: Debates on Medical Risk and Forced Marriage

44

O K A S TO R MS A N D EDI E N BA RT E L S

4 The Implications of the Securitisation of Mosques for Transformative Masculine Attitudes Towards Harmful Cultural Practices in the UK

66

TA MSI N B R A D LE Y A N D O T T IS M U BA I WA

5 Izzat and Forced Marriage in the Constructing of Cultural and Religious Identities in the UK

83

S U K H BI N D E R H A M I LTON

6 Harm and Consent in the Socio-Legal Perspectives on Child Marriage in Iran L A DA N R A H BA R I

100

vi

Contents

7 Understanding the Nexus of Religion, Secularism, and the Harms of Women’s Mandatory Un/Covering

115

SA R A H F IS C H E R

8 Normative Violence, Traditional Healing, and Harm Regarding Same-Sex Relations Among Women in Mozambique

133

M A R I A J U DI T E C H I PE N E M B E , C H I A L ONGM A N, A N D GI LY C OE N E

9 The Contradictory Role of the Protestant Church in Changing Female Genital Cutting Among the Maasai: An Ethnographic Exploration

158

H A N N E L O R E VA N BAV E L

10 So Is It All Just About Sex? Religion and Recognising Harmful Practices in the Need to Control Female Sexuality

177

E LISA B E T LE ROU X

11 ‘Faith-full’ Reflections from a Civically Minded, Radically Inclusive, Other

190

AZZA KARAM

Index

195

Contributors

Brenda Bartelink  is an assistant professor at the Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies of the University of Groningen and a fellow and research cluster convenor at the Centre for Religion, Conflict and Globalization. Her research focusses on the intersections of religion, secularity, health, gender and sexuality. Much of her work focusses on women’s agency in the context of the cultural encounters around gender and sexuality between religious and secular actors in Sub-Saharan Africa and in Western Europe. She has published various book chapters and articles on topics such as sexuality education, embodiment, women’s agency and leadership, African Pentecostalism, gender and development and gender -based violence and harmful practices. Edien Bartels studied cultural anthropology at the VU Amsterdam; conducted anthropological fieldwork in North Africa, Morocco and Tunisia, and with Moroccan migrants in the Netherlands; completed her PhD thesis entitled ‘Éen dochter is beter dan duizend zonen’. Arabische vrouwen, symbolen en machtsverhoudingen tussen de seksen (‘One daughter is better than a thousand sons.’ Arab women, symbols and power ship between the sexes) in 1993. Her subsequent publications include numerous articles and reports on young migrants; on Muslims in the Netherlands and in Morocco; on female circumcision, marriage, and abandoned women and children; on intercultural social care and psychiatry; on Islam in the Netherlands and in Sarajevo; and on dependent stay and partner violence among Moroccan Marriage migrant women in the Netherlands. Currently, she is retired senior researcher in the Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology of the VU University of Amsterdam. Hannelore Van Bavel is a senior research associate in the School of Sociology, Politics, and International Studies and the Department of Anthropology at the University of Bristol, UK. Her research interests lie at the nexus of medical anthropology and postcolonial feminist theory. She has carried out extensive research on colonial continuities in gender and development policies and projects, with a focus on the transnational campaign against ‘female genital mutilation’.

viii Contributors Tamsin Bradley is a professor of international development studies at the University of Portsmouth. Her research interests are in ending violence against women and girls, promoting social inclusion and stopping harmful cultural practices (including female genital mutilation [FGM], forced marriage and breast ironing). Maria Judite Chipenembe holds a PhD in gender and diversity studies from the ­University of Ghent and the Free University of Brussels. She has been working as an assistant professor in the Department of Sociology at Eduardo Mondlane University, Maputo, since 2004. She is interested in researching topics related to poverty, gender diversity, human rights and sexual and reproductive health in Sub-Saharan Africa. She recently published a book chapter ‘Eu sou ela/ele: transgender and gender fluidity in Mozambique’ (Brill, 2021). Gily Coene  is a professor of ethics and feminist philosophy at the Vrije ­Universiteit Brussel and director of the RHEA Research Centre on Gender, Diversity and Intersectionality. Her recent research is mainly concentrated on feminist bio-ethics, gender-based violence and reproductive rights in European and non-European contexts. Sarah Fischer  is an assistant professor at Marymount University in Arlington, Virginia. She earned her PhD from American University in Washington, D.C. Her research examines discrimination against women in Turkey and ­women’s responses to discrimination. She attended Iowa State University, Koç ­University and Boğaziçi University. Sukhbinder Hamilton  is a senior lecturer in the School of Education and ­Sociology at the University of Portsmouth on a range of undergraduate and postgraduate provisions. Her professional background is within the field of ­Special Educational Needs and Social Emotional Behavioural Difficulties (SEBD) in particular and has worked as a teacher, a special educational needs coordinator (SENCO) and an independent inclusion consultant prior to ­joining the University of Portsmouth. Sukh’s academic expertise (and doctoral research) is related to gender and specifically looking at British Indian, ­Pakistani and Bangladeshi women. She also has expertise within the field of child’s voice and bereavement. She is a co-convenor for ‘The Women’s Workshop Sociological Collective’ and is also a fellow of the Higher Education Academy, UK. Azza Karam serves as the secretary-general of Religions for Peace – the largest multi-religious leadership platform with 92 national and 6 regional interreligious councils. She also holds a professorship of religion and development at the Vrije Universiteit in Amsterdam (the Netherlands). She has served in different positions in the United Nations since 2004. Her last posts were senior advisor on Culture, at the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA) and founder and convenor of the United Nations Inter-Agency Task Force on ­Religion and Development.

Contributors  ix Chia Longman completed her PhD in 2002 in comparative sciences of culture. She is an associate professor of gender studies in the Department of Languages and Cultures, Ghent University, Belgium. She directs the Centre for Research on Culture and Gender (CRCG). Her primary research focus is women’s identity and agency within different religious communities and movements in Europe, ranging from Orthodox Judaism to new spiritualities. Her publications include Interrogating Harmful Cultural Practices: Gender, Culture and Coercion (Routledge, 2015, with T. Bradley) and Féminisme et multiculturalisme. Les paradoxes du debat (Peter Lang, 2010, with G. Coene) and various book chapters and articles in journals such as Citizenship Studies; Ethnicities; European Journal of Women’s Studies; Gender, Place & Culture; Politics & Gender; Religion & Gender; Religions; Social Anthropology; Social Compass; and Women’s Studies International Forum. Jane Rita Meme  is an international development consultant with more than 25 years of experience in the development sector. Meme’s M&E and Gender experience emanates from years of senior management roles in the international development sector overseeing development programmes and providing short-term technical assistance to various technical assistance programmes as a consultant. She has extensive skills and experience in project cycle management, working with logical and results frameworks, and has technical and management programming expertise in development programmes targeting poor and marginalised groups/communities. She is also a skilled qualitative researcher adept at utilising mixed and participatory research methods besides possessing skills and experience in gender transformative approaches that promote integration, social inclusion and stakeholder participation. Jane is passionate about gender equality and children and women’s rights, and enjoys contributing to programmes that deliver meaningful change that empowers women, girls and communities to uphold their right to decent lives while achieving their personal and development aspirations. Jane holds a master’s degree in project planning and management from the University of Nairobi and a degree in anthropology and sociology from Moi University Eldoret. Ottis Mubaiwa  is a teaching fellow in international development studies at the University of Portsmouth. He is a social anthropologist who researches violence against women and girls, gender inclusion and the intersections of culture and development. Ladan Rahbari,  PhD Mult., is a political sociologist and an assistant professor in the Department of Sociology at the University of Amsterdam, and a senior researcher at the International Migration Institute (IMI). She was formerly based in Ghent University, Belgium, as the recipient of an FWO post-doctoral fellowship (2019–2022). She is a member of Amsterdam Young Academy (2021–2026). Rahbari’s research interests include gender politics, migration, religion, body and digital media, with a general focus on Iran and Western Europe, and in the frameworks of postcolonial, feminist and critical theories.

x Contributors She is currently affiliated with the Amsterdam Institute for Social Science Research, Amsterdam Research Centre for Gender and Sexuality, Centre for Research on Culture and Gender (CRCG) and Centre of Expertise on Gender, Diversity, and Intersectionality (RHEA). Between September 2019 and September 2020, Rahbari was the editor-in-chief of the Journal of Diversity and Gender Studies (DiGeSt). Elisabet Le Roux is research director of the Unit for Religion and Development Research at Stellenbosch University, South Africa. Over the past 12 years, she has secured funding and delivered a range of evaluation and formative research projects in 24 countries across four continents, with a particular focus on gender equality, gender-based violence, women’s participation and a critical lens on the roles of religion and culture. Oka Storms obtained her master’s degree in cultural anthropology from Utrecht University in 2007. In 2008, she started conducting research with Edien Bartels in the Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology at VU University. Together they published articles on forced marriages, on consanguineous marriages and on abandoned women and children. In 2016, she obtained her PhD from VU University with the thesis titled ‘Muslim women navigating marriage. A study of women in Northeast Morocco and Dutch Moroccan and Turkish women in the Netherlands’ Since 2009, she has been working at Movisie as a project manager and researcher on domestic and sexual violence.

Acknowledgements

Many people have been important in the process that led to the publication of this book. We would like to especially thank our authors for their courage to do fieldwork on sensitive and delicate themes such as religion, gender and harm, and to work their findings into thoughtful reflections, and, of course, for the patience and hard work required in the drafting of this book. Among the most inspiring aspects of working on the intersections of religion, gender and harm is perhaps the opportunity it offers to work with a widely diverse group of scholars and experts dedicated to increasing the knowledge base on these matters and reflecting deeply on their findings, as well as the findings of each other. While all of us live in and/or are linked to various parts of the globe and work in a range of academic disciplines, what drives all of us is the desire to contribute to realising more just, gender-equal and inclusive societies. Our gratitude also reflects that for many authors in this book (as well as the colleagues who decided not to publish their work here), doing research on these issues involves substantial emotional work, as the ‘academic’ is also deeply personal and political. The idea of the book was sparked by the various interactions between the editors on our mutual projects, which focused on critically investigating religion, gender and the conceptualisation of harmful practices. The book project first saw light during the panel of Global and Local Perspectives on Religion and Harmful Practices in International Development at the conference of the Dutch Society of the Study of Religion (NGG) in Groningen in 2019. In the panel – organised with the generous support of the Centre for Religion, Conflict and Globalization (CRCG) at the Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies of the University of Groningen – many of the authors presented initial versions of the chapters that would eventually be presented in this book. We are grateful to the CRCG for their financial contribution, and we also thank the Fund for Scientific Research – Flanders, who co-financed some of the editorial work in the framework of a research project on Harmful Cultural Practices at Ghent University and VUB Brussels, to which several of the authors in this book contributed. We thank our editor Helen Hurd at Routledge, who has been encouraging and supportive of our project from the initial idea through to the publication it has become. We would like to thank Matthew Clarke, Emma Tomalin and Nathan Loewen, the editors of the series Routledge Research in Religion and Development,

xii Acknowledgements for including us in this series, as well as the reviewers for their advice. We thank George Byrne, for his editorial work on the book and his wonderful and generous support in integrating the introduction and the book into a coherent whole, it was a pleasure working with you. We thank our colleagues at the various departments we work in: the Department of Comparative Study of Religion, University of Groningen; the Department of Languages and Cultures, Ghent University; and the School of Area Studies, History, Politics, and Literature, University of Portsmouth. Brenda thanks Kim Knibbe, Erin Wilson, Elisabet Le Roux and Joram Tarusaria, as well as Merle, Teije, Sil and dear friends outside academia. Your support has been invaluable to continue developing myself as a scholar in the midst of very turbulent and overloaded years in my life. Chia thanks her wonderfully supportive colleagues at the Centre for Research on Culture and Gender at Ghent University, especially Katrien, Joz and Eline; her students; and her kids, Maari and Lenn, in the trying times of Covid lockdowns and their aftermath. Tamsin wishes to thank George Byrne once again for his patience, rigour and support throughout the editing process. The authors kindly acknowledge the funding they have received from the Centre for Religion, Conflict and Globalization to organise the workshop in which the initial papers that were adapted into chapters of this book were presented. In addition, funding from the Fund for Scientific Research Belgium has been helpful in the editing process. In the process of adapting the individual chapters into a coherent book, we could not have done it without the skills, expertise and support of our wonderful copyeditor George Byrne.

1

Gender, Religion, and Harm Conceptual and Methodological Reflections Brenda Bartelink, Chia Longman, and Tamsin Bradley

Following the success of an earlier volume titled Interrogating Harmful Cultural Practices: Gender, Culture and Coercion with Chia Longman and Tamsin Bradley, this new book, joined by co-editor Brenda Bartelink, brings together a collection of original contributions that focus more specifically on the relationship between harmful practices, gender, and religion. Harmful cultural practices (sometimes referred to as ‘traditional practices’) (HCP/HTP) is a label that has been increasingly applied over the past decades, predominantly within a human rights framework and in the development sector, to refer to certain discriminatory practices against women in, or originating from, the Global South. Often mentioned practices include female genital mutilation or cutting (FGM/FGC), child and forced marriages and dowry, honour crimes, son preference, and polygamy. The application of the concept in academic theory and research, however, has been less widespread and more hesitant. And as feminist anthropologists, as we explained in the previous volume and elaborate further in this one, we find there are good reasons to remain cautious. In this volume, however, we draw our focus towards the relationship between religion and harmful practices, which, as illustrated in the various chapters, is highly complex and context specific. Scholarship on HCP seems to have been reluctant, even nervous, to tackle the relationship between gender, religion, and harm. Postcolonial discourses rightly warn and are critical of attempts to reduce and essentialize the values and beliefs of ‘others’ in a way that dehumanizes adherents, cultural values, and worldviews. In this volume, we nevertheless attempt to demonstrate how important it is to combine approaches and theories from a range of disciplines, namely social anthropology, the study of religion, and gender studies, in order to bring a more nuanced and sensitive picture of how and why certain practices – particularly in relation to various religious discourses, traditions, and contexts – that may be harmful to women and girls exist, and how they can potentially be challenged. The subject of this volume is timely. In 2015, all UN Member States across the world adopted 17 Goals as part of the 2030 Agenda for Sustainable Development with a 15-year action plan to end poverty, protect the planet, and improve the lives and wellbeing of all. Gender equality has been part of the international Human Rights and Development agenda for many decades now, and consequently in 2015, it was

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246046-1

2  Brenda Bartelink et al. also listed as a separate sustainable development goal. The SDG 5 focusses on gender equality and refers to not only the progress made but also the many challenges that are still to be tackled, including the high global prevalence of violence against women and girls (VAWG). Although the disease itself is more likely to kill men, the broader impacts of the COVID-19 pandemic also affect women and girls disproportionately – albeit often indirectly and collaterally – in terms of their health, social and economic situation, and rights (Flor et al. 2022). There has been a steep increase in VAWG, especially domestic violence, due to lockdown measures across the globe (Thiel et al 2022). We also see a resurgence of highly conservative patriarchal social, cultural, and religious norms being allowed again unabated in places where human rights had begun to win through (Imam et al., 2017; Shaheed, 2020; Sweetman, 2017; UNWOMEN, n.d.). Emerging observations show that practices such as (girl) child/early marriages (CEM) and FGM/C are also regaining ground. Diminished access to health services, including sexual and reproductive health, has left women without muchneeded support and protection. Online harassment, time poverty, and mental health issues are all being worsened as a result of the stringent measures put in place to curb the pandemic. In contexts of poverty, the absence and retraction of kin support and community interventions, and education, health, social, and care services have meant that women’s lives across the globe have suddenly become more stressful and fragile (see Azcona et al., 2020). The questions that remain are: what will be left of the advancements in gender equality and reductions in violence? Will we be able to pick up where we left off and continue to fight for a better safer world for women and girls? Or will we have lost decades? This volume will consider these critical questions and seek to provide a detailed picture of the patriarchal infrastructure in relation to culture and religion that still seems to dominate our gendered worlds. Here in the introductory chapter, we first discuss the contested concept of HCP more generally and reflect on its relationship to the equally complex ­notion of ‘­religion’. Based on the advances made in policies, development work, and ­academic research on gender-based violence (GBV) and equality so far, from a feminist decolonial anthropological perspective, we suggest that although the notions of HCP/HTP and even the apparently more neutral ‘harmful practices’ (HP) are highly problematic, they remain somewhat useful terms to consider from a critical perspective. We then explore the contours of the tense relationship ­between religion and feminism, which serves as the background to many public policies and scholarly approaches – and the controversies that accompany them – to the relationship between gender, religion, and HCPs. Next, we argue that broader histories, and in particular, the entanglements of religion, secularism, and colonialism in state formation and national politics, are also crucial in contextualizing and understanding the global and local dynamics of gendered harm. This is followed by a section on crucial ethical, political, and methodological considerations when studying gender, religion, and harm from a feminist perspective, particularly from the vantage point of white scholars located in a position of privilege in the Global North. We argue that cultural relativism and decolonial

Gender, Religion, and Harm  3 critiques act as crucial analytical tools to understand gender inequality and work as allies in a feminist struggle against patriarchy, in general, and against its most extreme forms of VAWG, in particular. The chapter then takes a critical look at ‘social norm theories’ that, in recent years, have become part of popular analytical frameworks that seek to offer potential remedies to GBV in the so-called developing world. The chapter ends with an introduction to the contributions made in the chapters that follow.

Interrogating Harmful Practices in Relation to Religion Although references to harmful practices against women in developing countries or what today is more commonly referred to as ‘the Global South’ have circulated in human rights and development circles since the fifties, the oft-cited UN Fact Sheet No.23, Harmful Traditional Practices Affecting the Health of Women and ­Children, set a particular tone with its emphasis on the role of ‘culture’, ‘tradition’, and ‘morality’ in its listing of women-targeted violence, abuse, and harm, referring to the ‘force’ of ‘beliefs’, ‘values’, and ‘norms’: Traditional cultural practices reflect values and beliefs held by members of a community for periods often spanning generations. Every social grouping in the world has specific traditional cultural practices and beliefs, some of which are beneficial to all members, while others are harmful to a specific group, such as women. These harmful traditional practices include female genital mutilation (FGM); forced feeding of women; early marriage; the various taboos or practices which prevent women from controlling their own fertility; nutritional taboos and traditional birth practices; son preference and its implications for the status of the girl child; female infanticide; early pregnancy; and dowry price. Despite their harmful nature and their violation of international human rights laws, such practices persist because they are not questioned and take on an aura of morality in the eyes of those practicing them. (United Nations, 1995, pp. 1–2) As noted above, while commonly used in human rights, development, and feminist activist policy programmes, practices, and discourse for decades, the notions of HCP/HTP/HP have only been applied and interrogated more critically in academic scholarship in more recent years. Scholars have questioned the neocolonialist bias and overwhelming focus on ‘non-Western’ HTPs/HCPs, the North/ Americo-Eurocentrism and problematic framing of ‘tradition’, and the static essentialist notion of ‘culture’ as a determinative factor, versus Western (secular) freedom and modernity (Jeffreys, 2013; Le Roux & Bartelink, 2020; Longman & Bradley, 2015; Lugones, 2010; Winter et al., 2002). From a post-development, postcolonial, and decolonial feminist perspective, the neo-colonialist and paternalistic, and sometimes femonationalist (e.g. see: Farris, 2017) framing of women

4  Brenda Bartelink et al. of the Global South and from minority or migrant backgrounds as victims of ‘tradition’ or ‘culture’, devoid of any internal diversity or individual agency, has also been problematized (e.g. see: Manning, 2020). Feminist calls have been made to abandon, or conversely broaden, the scope of HCP arguing that so-called patriarchal Western practices, included those now popular in parts of the Global South, fit the UN mould (beauty practices, ranging from make-up, high heels to non-medical and cosmetic surgery, etc.) (Jeffreys, 2013; Rahbari et al., 2018). The category has also been questioned from an intersectional perspective; the approach is almost exclusively applied to harm and violence to girls and women specifically, thereby omitting or deflecting attention to harmful cultural practices against, e.g. boys, men, and transgender and non-binary persons, and at times making insufficient distinctions between the roles and experiences of different age-categories, and ethnic, religious, or sexual minorities (Longman & Bradley, 2015). At the same time, paradoxically, the term itself can also be held accountable for deflecting attention away from VAWG, precisely due to its gender-neutral terminology (Le Roux & Bartelink, 2020). Finally, the emphasis on ‘culture’ or ‘tradition’ tends to prioritize the private sphere, thereby downplaying the systemic nature of harmful practices globally, and particularly the underlying patriarchal norms and the role of the state in sustaining and (re)producing gender inequality and VAWG (Le Roux & Bartelink, 2020). In this volume, we aim to take forward some of these discussions by focussing on the intersections between religion, culture, and gender in shaping practices deemed harmful by international development and feminist discourses. Although the notion of ‘religion’ does not figure centrally in earlier UN documents on HCP/ HTP, certain biases around religion on HTP/HCP circulate in a vast amount of public, policy, and academic discourses, such as an overemphasis on Islam (with some additional interest in Christianity) (Le Roux & Bartelink, 2020; Longman & Bradley, 2015). Western secularism in general, and specifically Islamophobic prejudices, have also contributed to faulty presumptions conflating ‘religion’ and ‘culture’, such as the erroneous framing of FGM/C and honour-related violence as ‘Islamic’ (Abu-Lughod, 2013a, b). Such biases can be traced back to dominant strands in development, human rights, and feminist thought as developed in the West that contained modernist-secularist presumptions with regard to ‘tradition’ versus ‘modernity’. Such binary thinking is also often racialized and gendered, conceiving of the autonomous liberated individual and its body (free from pain, modification, or harm) as secular versus the traditional religious body as coerced and oppressed (Longman & Bradley, 2015) Hence, the lens of the religious/secular binary complicates the notion of HCP/HTP, for example by raising the question whether particular ‘secular’ practices can be viewed as oppressive or harmful (e.g. bans on headscarves and veiling). The role of religion in its complex relationship to ethics, morality, social norms, and ‘culture’ similarly needs to be interrogated, as does its relation to the legal apparatus and politics of the nation-state. We simply need more empirical studies on how religion interacts with gender, violence, and harm in specific contexts, whether as a justification for its persistence or as a source for its potential eradication (Boddy, 2016; Østebø & Østebø, 2014).

Gender, Religion, and Harm  5 The chapters in this volume contribute to filling this gap in our knowledge, but in doing so also highlight how diverse women’s experiences of the relationship between religion and harm can be. Somewhat neglected in earlier scholarship, the role and impact of religion on gender equality has also become increasingly recognized in development initiatives and studies in recent years (Tomalin, 2015). It has been widely acknowledged that engagement between faith actors and development actors is a crucial step towards understanding the role of religion in approaching harmful practices such as FGM/FGC and child marriage (Boddy, 2016; Le Roux & Palm, 2018; Østebø & Østebø, 2014). There is also a need to understand the role of religious traditions, laws, and belief systems as well as the influence of religious leaders and communities on the ground (Deneulin & Zampini-Davies, 2017; Kraft & Wilkinson, 2020). However, in their recent study of the approach to a number of HCP/HTP practices (FGM/C, CEM, honour-related violence, and son preference) among development organizations – the majority of which were international faith-based organizations (FBOs) – it emerged that a more integrated approach by practitioners was preferred when approaching GBV and the structural gender equalities that underlie them (of which religion is a possible thread), whilst avoiding usage of the terms HTP or HCP because of their Western Colonialist connotations. (Le Roux & Bartelink, 2020). Taking religion as an entry point for addressing HCP/HTP also means looking critically at what religion is and does (as a concept) in the framing, problematizing, and solving of oppressive gender practices. As referred to above, a case in point is the (implicit) understanding of practices such as female circumcision, early marriage, or veiling as ‘Islamic’ practices when these occur in Muslim majority contexts or populations. However, when similar practices occur in non-Muslim contexts, they tend to be blamed on culture. It is therefore relevant and interesting to explore when, and indeed why, religion is framed as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ in relation to how culture or other intersecting identities such as gender, class, ethnicity, or sexuality are understood. Seeing the framing of forms of GBV as HCP/HTP can be traced back to colonial and missionary discourses, which were often concerned with creating ‘modern’ and ‘civilized’ societies. With this in mind, the current mobilization of these terms, which is mainly intended to address forms of gender-based violence and oppression as occurring in the Global South and in migrant-communities in the Global North, needs to be critically examined. This volume therefore calls for more attention to and analyses of how GBV is framed and understood by whom within a particular context and what these terms mobilize as a consequence. At the local level, people often refer to religion as being the means to explain the ‘why’ of practices such as female circumcision and early marriage, but theological research typically struggles to find strong links (Abdi, 2007; Al-Awa, 2019; Johnson, 2000; Lethome & Abdi, 2008; Rouzi, 2013; Wangila, 2007). While studies have emerged exploring the relations between harmful practices and religion, research that focuses on the myths surrounding religion in relation to HCP/ HTP is limited (Wangila, 2007). Yet research on religion and HCP/HTP since

6  Brenda Bartelink et al. 2015 has also given us a much more nuanced insight into what religion means to people and how it is used, both positively and negatively, to shape wider political discourses, to create safe spaces, to process trauma, and to strategize (Bradley, 2020; Longman & Bradley, 2015; Winters, 2014). Religion often provides leadership which can potentially be harnessed for change. In other words, religious figures who might otherwise be seen as a barrier to tackling HCP/HTP can also become change agents. However, in the process of bringing about change, the tensions among different facets and dimensions of religion often playout within cultural and social arenas, the impact of which is disproportionally felt in the lives of women and girls (Østebø & Østebø, 2014). Central to our approach is the recognition that, as social scientists, it is also important to interrogate our framings of gender, religion, and harm. As such, in this volume, we urge reflection on how women and girls actually experience a range of oppressive, harmful, and/or violent practices, which must precede any comparison or analysis, and subsequent policy recommendations. The global donor commitment to reduce and end gender-related harm, particularly VAWG, is arguably at the strongest it has ever been, but clear answers as to why harmful practices persist are proving slow to emerge. Religion as an entry point allows for a deeper exploration of the complexities of this question, which, in turn, can contribute to developing a better understanding of what possible actions can be taken to facilitate their eradication. What this means is that the dominance of social norms that sanction and might even reward the observance of, for example, forms of female cutting, male circumcision, early and forced marriage, nutritional taboos, birth practices, mandatory (un)veiling, harmful spiritual practices, polygamy, gender unequal marital and inheritance rights, and so-called honour crimes need to be understood contextually if they are to be addressed effectively. Additionally, through the chapters, we seek to capture the different ways women and girls as agents can and do navigate, subvert, and use aspects of both religion and culture as forms of capital to carve more positive gendered worlds. Women’s agency and an empowered view of the world can also be seen through various kinds of activism against harmful practices. Competing priorities mean that global and local actors often stand in the way of women’s own voices being heard, which, in turn, means that the strategies they use – which are specific to the social, religious, and cultural contexts in which they live – to realize their right to decide on their own bodies are not seen or understood. At the same time, local and global debates on these matters have often failed to acknowledge patriarchy as a structural form of violence (e.g. see: Hunnicutt, 2009). It almost goes without saying that violence, oppression, and discrimination of women and girls are produced by and legitimized on the basis of patriarchal discourses and power constellations that, while having a particular local form, is affecting them across the globe: in the Global North and Global South, in international politics and local contexts, across religious and secular contexts, in ‘developed’ and ‘developing’ contexts, and in so-called modern as well as traditional societies. In this volume, we understand ‘violence’ to operate as a spectrum

Gender, Religion, and Harm  7 ranging from physical, sexual, and psychological violence through to forms of social exclusion. Examples of this include women and girls from the South being marginalized from global policy/development forums and decision making and the absence of female voices in debates around veiling and unveiling that result in bans and restrictions on female dress (discussed further below). The denial of ‘voice’ and ‘representation’ from influential debates and forums, especially those that disproportionately affect the lives of women and girls, represents a form of oppression that should be regarded as violent (e.g. see: Murray, 2017; Lugones, 2010). We argue that the harm caused by specific types of HCP/HTP goes beyond their immediate impact to trigger and conceal multiple other forms for violence, though the practices themselves often represent the most severe forms of physical and psychological abuse. HCP/HTP have also become a global policy focus; multiple forums have been established to discuss the issue, but these often result in privileged professionals (mostly from the Global North, but also middle-class urban professional in cities in the Global South who work in sectors heavily funded within Global North/International development schemes) discussing what should and should not happen to girls predominately living in the Global South. The analysis we propose and apply in this volume seeks to push more critically into questions around the extent to which girls are included in discussions over the very practices that impact upon their lives. We combine this, through the inclusion of religion, with a more intersectional and nuanced approach to understanding the ‘why’ of HCPs. In this volume, our authors ask challenging and difficult questions that push us to reflect on our own biases and encourage us to question the very construction of notions of violence, oppression, and harm. We position the contributions of the volume in the wider context of academic and public debates about the problematization and solution strategies for GBV, oppression, and discrimination, particularly, but not exclusively, in its intersection with religion. While, depending on the context and case at hand, we find that the notions of HCP/HTP carry and cause too much epistemic violence to be applied uncritically in policy, activist, and development discourses, in light of its relatively recent introduction into academic work we contend that, for now, from a firm decolonial feminist perspective, it remains a useful term to think with critically and to push back against.

Feminism and Religion Any publication that takes ‘religion’ and ‘gender’ as central categories of analysis requires a brief refection on the rather contentious relationship between these terms in gender studies and feminist research. From the Western modern liberal point of view, in progressive social and political movements, and in the secular academy, religion has generally been seen as oppositional to sexual and gender equality, often oppressive and therefore ‘harmful’ to women. The second wave feminist and other liberation movements in the mid-twentieth century coincided with processes of societal secularization, including reduced church attendance and a decrease in individual religious self-identification. The role of the church

8  Brenda Bartelink et al. was diminished in terms of its regulatory and ideological hegemony in gender arrangements and epistemes, particularly regarding ideals of womanhood and femininity and traditional views on gender roles, reproduction, and sexuality. For the most part, in the twentieth and twenty-first century, the progressive liberation of women has therefore been viewed as tied to the anticipated linear process of secularization; religion was identified as universally ‘patriarchal’, and as having contributed to problematic binary gender ideologies by propagating subservient images of women (and sexual and gender minorities) and their role in society. Particularly in Western Europe, where the process of disaffiliation with traditional religious institutions has been most extensive, the feminist movement has largely perceived religion as antithetical to women’s emancipation (Badinter, 2006; Jeffreys, 2013; Knibbe & Bartelink, 2019). In addition to negative and critical views, in feminist and gender research, a negligence or marginalization of the role of religion in women’s lives has been observed (Llewellyn & Trzebiatowska, 2013; Longman, 2021;). Colonial and paternalistic biases in the representation and on the plight of ‘non-Western’ women in feminist and gender research, whether located in the so-called Global South or concerning the position of women from ethnic-religious minority groups and migrant backgrounds in the North, have been widely criticized over the past decades (Abu-Lughod, 2015). Terms such as ‘femonationalism’ (Farris, 2017) and ‘homonationalism’ (Puar, 2018; see also Allen, 2016) capture the insidious way in which the feminist and LGBT rights agenda has been co-opted across a spectrum of actors (ranging from left to right, including neo-liberals, nationalists, and feminists), in a ‘white saviour’ civilizing mission of oppressed ‘others’. But this also serves to stigmatize ethnic, cultural, and religious minorities and migrants as both backward and potentially threatening to the – falsely perceived – homogeneous white liberal progressive nation-state. In Western Europe, this has selectively and overwhelmingly focused on Muslims, and Muslim men in particular (Boulila, 2013; Boulila & Carri, 2017; Hark & Villa, 2020), where gender and sexuality have played central roles in the ‘religionization’ of racism (e.g. see: Nye, 2019), particularly with the rise of Islamophobia in the twenty-first century. The result is that ‘Muslim’ has, in Western Europe, become a racial category as well as a religious one. In the 2000s, issues such as (un)veiling, honour-related violence, FGM/C, and forced/arranged/sham marriages had already gained increased public and political attention and featured prominently in the so-called feminism versus multiculturalism debate in Western societies (Volpp, 2001). In her important essay, ‘Is Multiculturalism Bad for Women?’ (first published in 1997), Susan Moller Okin warned about the threats to gender equality when granting special groups rights in the name of ‘respect for cultural diversity’ or multicultural toleration (see Okin, 1999). Western societies could possibly tolerate or turn a blind eye to ‘imported’ practices that might harm women and vulnerable groups ‘within’ minorities, such as polygamy among migrant populations. This unfolded alongside parallel debates in the arenas of international gender politics, feminist and human rights activism, and the field of development (as we detailed in the previous paragraph and in a

Gender, Religion, and Harm  9 previous volume) during which the notion of ‘harmful cultural practices’ gained more and more currency. In this volume, we problematize practices that might fall within the scope of this now widely used concept, but now do so by focussing more specifically on ‘religion’. While ‘religion’ can be conceived of as a part of – an equally if not more complex to define – ‘culture’, we think the shift in public and political debates from accommodating ‘group rights’ or ‘multicultural policies’ to the role of religion in private and public life warrants a closer look, specifically regarding the relationship between gender, religion, and harm. Furthermore, both religion and culture are frequently mentioned, and are often problematically conflated, when harmful practices such as those referred to above are being discussed. For example, while veiling (and Islamic veiling in particular) is often assumed to be a religious prescription and/or practice rather than a cultural norm, its position in relation to notions of ‘harm’ is somewhat more complicated. When it comes to discussing practices often identified as ‘harmful’, the conflation of religion and culture is both mistaken and problematic. FGM in its various forms, for example, is present among populations of different religious persuasions, including Muslim, Christian, and secular, yet at the same time, the majority of the communities of any given religion either concede that the practice is not religious or are altogether oblivious to its existence within their religion. The same holds for the complex notion of ‘honour’, which is often expressed through religious rites and their related social concepts (e.g. marriage and family). Honour appears to act to ensure obedience through its oppositional relationship with notions of dishonour and the stigma applied to not conforming. Again, from an emic point of view, it might well be that particular groups, communities, or individuals claim that a certain HCP is ‘religious’ and experience it as such. Religious discourse or (counter-)authorities might also be appealed to in defending and justifying, or potentially countering, a certain practice. For this reason, rather than assuming a straightforward relationship with either ‘culture’ or ‘religion’, we question which ‘harmful’ cultural practices might also be religious practices, and ask when do they become, or perhaps cease to be, religious? What is the role of ‘religion’ in supporting, legitimizing, and reproducing these practices, or conversely, in what way might ‘religion’ function as a structural or political resource to combat or eradicate them, or can it offer the individual ‘victim’ forms of agency that allow them to resist or cope with the threat or experience of inflicted harm? While religion it is often asserted that religion is at least partly to blame for the persistence of harmful cultural practices (e.g. see: Manson, 2019), research (Le Roux & Bartelink, 2017) has shown that some religious leaders blame ‘culture’, thereby side stepping any responsibility. The division into the two categories of ‘religion’ and ‘culture’ is often made for the convenience of supporting one’s own position: one or the other can be blamed depending on where a person stands on along the religious-secular continuum. In any case, from a decolonial post-secular feminist perspective (e.g. see: Runyan, 2018; Vasilaki, 2016), we do not want to make the rather simplistic assumption that religion would always and only be oppressive to women (and

10  Brenda Bartelink et al. sexual and gender minorities) and that secularism would be the only liberatory path to salvation. As authors such as Scott (2017) have argued, gender equality and women’s rights were historically not incorporated in the project of secularism in the West. The separation between church and state accompanied binary constructions of the secular versus the religious, the public versus the private, and the male versus the female sphere. The development of Western modernity is tied to the process of colonization, and this gendered and binary arrangement is part of an oppositional framework in which the secular emancipated (and masculine) West is positioned versus a traditional, oppressive, religious (and feminized) ‘Other’: i.e., the Global South. In a play on Susan Okin’s earlier provocatively titled essay ‘Is Multiculturalism Bad for Women?’, feminist scholars of religion Kristin Aune et al. (2017) recently provocatively question if secularism might also be ‘bad’ for women. In our previous volume, we similarly discussed veiling, which, save its most extreme forms perhaps, does not inflict any bodily injuries or physical harm upon its wearer. Forced veiling – ostensibly in the name of religion – can certainly be viewed as oppressive to women denying them free choice of what to wear. But forced unveiling can be seen in certain secularist regimes (e.g. Burqa bans in France or Belgium) where – in the name of gender equality, public safety, and security, or neutrality – women who choose to veil may similarly be denied a free choice of what to wear, and may be subject to imprisonment, fines, and expulsion from or discrimination in schools or the workplace (Longman & Coene, 2015). Religious and secular worldviews both make claims regarding how the world is, and for those who believe these claims they also act as an authoritative force behind moral claims regarding how the world ought to be, including where men and women are positioned and how they should act. Values, norms, and beliefs (religious or otherwise) feed into a cultural process in which human environments are shaped. A stark example of how contradictory and inconsistent norms, and indeed laws, around what is deemed acceptable attire for a woman arose in France during the early stages of the pandemic: for a time, overlapping laws meant it was both illegal to cover one’s face (for religious reasons) and also illegal to not cover one’s face (for public health reasons) (e.g. see: Warner et al., 2020). This serves as a reminder that why something is being practised matters as well as what is being practised. In any case, considering the so-called post-secular turn in the study of gender and religion (see McLennan, 2010), which marks shifts in feminist and gender scholarship towards recognizing the potential agentic and empowering role that religion may have in many women’s lives (Braidotti, 2008; Graham, 2012; Vasilaki, 2016), we wish to underline the contextual, complex, and contradictory relationship between religion (and secularism), power, and in particular, gendered harm and oppression. That said, as already alluded to, untangling this relationship and confronting the problems that emerge is not straightforward. Challenging or even identifying entry points to destabilize the process of construction, enforcement, and reinforcement of negative gendered norms is difficult, not least because religion and religious leaders are able to assert a firm claim to ‘know’. Moreover, many religious women do not feel that they are being constrained because they have

Gender, Religion, and Harm  11 carved a form of ‘religious feminism’ (Tomalin, 2015) that allows them to operate in accordance with the identity they feel they ‘freely’ own.

Harmful Power Structures and Globalizing Dynamics In view of our aim of ‘thinking with and against’ HCP as a means of interrogating the wider geographies of knowledge that gave rise to the forms of social engineering that we observe today, to historicize contemporary global and local dynamics around gender, religion, and harm is crucial step. Contemporary understandings of these notions, as scholars of decoloniality have argued so convincingly and powerfully in recent years, have been shaped by the European project of modernity and its expansion through colonized societies across the globe (Chidester, 2014). As such the historic context of colonialism and its ongoing impact should be treated as a central focus of critical reflection when thinking about HCP/HTP. The project of modernity in Europe amounted to a fundamental transformation of how societies were organized. Subjects were increasingly distinguished from social structures of kinship, such as the extended family, and these traditional forms of organization were actively rejected. In the context of the encounter between Europeans and ‘other civilizations and traditions’, in particular, a conception emerged of modern nation-states that would govern the lives of people (e.g. see: Chakrabarty, 2008; van der Veer, 2015). This came with a particular conception of progressive time, cast against the so-called traditional societies of medieval Europe as well as the colonized societies, that were seen as backward and outdated (e.g. Fabian, 2014). As van der Veer (2015) reminds us, our contemporary concept of culture has emerged out of that assumed opposition between ‘traditional cultures’ and ‘nationalist cultures’. In addition, colonizing societies, such as England, the Netherlands, or Belgium, have produced their own forms of religious superiority, built on the racialization of cultural and religious others. In Europe, during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, this stabilized into a discourse on the civilized Christian nation, which was cast against the ‘uncivilized’ ‘traditional’ spiritualities of Islam and African cultures (Chidester, 2014; van der Veer, 2015). The hierarchies that emerged – of good and bad religion, culture, and tradition – deeply influenced the organization and positioning of religion in (post-)colonial societies across the globe. In contemporary discourses on religion, gender, and harm, we still observe certain religions being considered ‘good’, whilst others are located in the past or considered harmful or dangerous. For example, the privileging of Christian religion over African Traditional Spiritualities in Kenya (Meinema, 2020) and the marginalization of Coptic Christianity in Egypt as a response to Christian colonial dominance by the Sunni Muslim majority need to be seen in the context of this history (Mahmood, 2015). Similarly, contemporary Muslim politics in India, against the background of Hindu majoritarianism and Muslim marginalization, recreate colonial representations of Islam as ‘uncivilized’, which are mobilized alongside particular religious (Brahmin) notions of purity (Ghassem-Fachandi,

12  Brenda Bartelink et al. 2010; Matthew, 2021). As mentioned earlier, in Europe, older colonial stereotypes on Islam have been revived in the context of concerns over the integration and access to citizenship of Muslim migrants and refugees (Scott, 2017). It is therefore important to distinguish between the ‘empirical heterogeneity’ of religions (Chakrabarty, 2008) and the particular forms of religion that have been accepted as part of modern postcolonial societies and their governing bodies states for their potential to contribute to unity (e.g. van der Veer, 2015).

Secular Formations The elephant in the room here, as the anthropologists Talal Asad and Saba Mahmood have so convincingly argued, is, of course, secularism. The process of separating out categories of traditional and modern, bad religion and good religion, and past and future, emerged in the context of the secular formation of modern societies. As is well known, the secular formation of European societies was focussed on the emancipation of society from religious rule and relegating religion to the private sphere (Casanova, 2006). Although the Christian church and doctrine continued to have significant influence on social life in Western Europe well into twentieth century, religious views were increasingly seen as a matter of private conscience. The separation of the public from the private is crucial to our understanding of how and why religion and gender became a subject of contestation in modern societies. In particular because, along with religion, gender and sexuality also came to be considered as matters of the private sphere (Mahmood, 2012; Scott, 2017). Therefore, and as Mahmood (2013) reminds us with reference to the colonized societies of the Middle East, in particular, religious governance of private and family matters increased as a result of secularization (Mahmood, 2012, 2013). Following the same binary logic that was characteristic of modernity as described above, the private sphere became seen as primarily a women’s domain. At the same time, the public became the domain of the masculine, women’s participation in the public domain became closely tied to fitting within neat gender and sexualized categories (Cady & Fessenden, 2013). This fitted the desire of governments of nineteenth-century nation-states to manage and control the sexuality of subjects, and especially the rules regarding women and men’s public behaviour based on moral, interiorized notions of what was ‘respectable’ and ‘normal’ in that particular context (Mosse, 2020). As Lugones furthermore reminds us, ‘respectability’ is not only gendered but is also racialized (Lugones, 2008). Gender norms that were focused on the preservation of sexual purity of white European bourgeois women continue to live on alongside and in contrast to the orientalist fantasies of sexuality in the colonies and the violent exploitation of black women and men (Licata & Volpato, 2010; Lugones, 2007) Contrary to what is often assumed from a secular perspective, the historical structures of superiority and marginalization have not disappeared with secularization. Rather, religion has been given a particular place in the context of secular formations (e.g. see: Chakrabarty, 2008; Keane, 2016), which means that religious

Gender, Religion, and Harm  13 influence on sexuality, reproduction, and other intimate dimensions of people’s private lives has increased (Mahmood, 2015). Contemporary struggles and contestations over religion and gender need to be understood against the background of the dynamics described above. This also requires, as we pointed out earlier in the overview of the contentious relationship between religion and feminism, a deeper reflection on how the secular is entangled into this. The aforementioned example of forced unveiling illustrates how secular politics legitimizes forceful imposition of certain gendered bodily practices. As Nadia Fadil (2011) argues in her article on unveiling as a practice of Muslim self-formation in Belgium, even in contexts where women have the agency to choose to wear a veil or not, this choice must be understood within the broader webs of power in which people are embedded. Since many of the cases discussed in this volume are situated in secular states, secularism should be considered a formational structure.

Methodological and Ethico-political Positionings As feminist anthropologists who have worked for decades on the intersections between gender, religion, and culture with specific focus on the impact they have on and for women’s lives, we do not apply a strict analytical division between the categories of ‘religion’ and ‘culture’. From a feminist perspective, we also see them as deeply intertwined by and through a patriarchal gendered ideology that embeds power dynamics as a structural reality on the lives of men and women. We are, in line with gender theory (see Connell, 2020), that this ideology serves relatively few men well. Men and women have had to find ways of carving out space within it to exercise agency and express identity and subjectivity. However, the harsh realities of gender power and how it operates can be seen as a deprivation of capabilities; it restricts individual freedoms and, in turn, limits one’s opportunities to flourish (see Sen, 1999, pp. 87–88) in accordance with principles of human equality and well-being. This applies especially, but not exclusively, to women (including those who self-identify as such) and sexual and gender minorities. From an intersectional perspective, we underline the necessity to complicate and always contextualize these categories and inequalities further. This includes the axes of race, ethnicity, social-economic status, ability, geographical location, and, of course, religious/secular life stance, identity, or affiliation. This volume takes an even more nuanced view of the global situation by highlighting the absence of any obvious link between religion and HCPs in a number of contexts, as well as acknowledging that those who have been ‘harmed’ by cultural practices do not necessarily see their experience this way. Many women who have undergone FGM, for example, do not see it as a harmful practice at all. It is critical that we address this tension; we must seek to both understand and respect women’s own reflections and experiences whilst at the same time holding firm to activist convictions that such practices represent abuse. FGM is now acknowledged by UNICEF to be among the most extreme forms of child abuse. How, then, might we move towards an understanding of why some women seemingly embrace and endorse such practices that, from the outside and for many on

14  Brenda Bartelink et al. the inside, represent harm? Here the adoption of a culturally relativist stance is useful. Anthropologists have at times come under harsh criticism for incorporating relativism into their methodology, which many have viewed as endorsement for the beliefs and practices recorded through ethnography (e.g. see: Lewis, 2013 for an overview of critiques of anthropology). But as Bradley (2020) highlighted, rather than being an apologetic approach, relativism as a useful research tool for studying and understanding the lives of others. Our argument in this volume is, if we are to see change, understanding how change might be possible, we have to appreciate at a deep level the motivations and attitudes of different individuals and communities. We must seek to understand why harmful practices persist. This requires close insight and a nuanced approach. Cultural relativism teaches us to reflect on and honestly acknowledge our biases, which may otherwise prevent us from gaining such insights. Understanding in detail the lives of ‘others’ often reveals the differences between an individual’s view and a community attitude. In other words, a girl may not want to be cut or enter an early marriage, but because her community legitimizes these practices, for her to reject them would lead to extreme forms of social sanctioning and stigmatization that could represent greater harm than conforming. Thus, what appears to be a ‘choice’ may in fact be subject to intense social pressure and/or coercion. Another important reflection to be made in our attempt to understand why individuals seemingly endorse practices that, through a human rights and feminist gendered lens, are seen as harmful is on the meaning of the notions such as ‘harm’ and ‘pain’. It is possible that individual girls and women separate ‘harm’ from ‘pain’. That is to say, they may experience being cut as extreme pain but do not see it as harm because it gives them access to adulthood and a respected place in their community complete with marriage prospects. The pain then is a necessary part of the transition. There are many and varied rites and traditions across societies that involve ‘painful’ body modifications, including piercing, tattooing, and stretching, binding, or shaping of various parts of the body (DeMello, 2007). Some studies looking at women’s experiences of childbirth in Africa go further, arguing that pain itself is socially constructed to the point that the intensity of giving birth can be lessened through the cultural and psychological normalization of pain. Conversely, the medicalization of childbirth in the West has been accused of increasing a woman’s trauma and feelings of pain because the biomedical discourse tells women what they will experience and how to respond (Gottlieb, 1995). ­ In short, cultural relativism understood as an anthropological and methodological term (as opposed to a political stance), if applied with sensitivity, supports a form of activism that begins with an understanding of context and the identification of how, when, and if change is likely, and whether it can be nurtured and supported. As feminist editors to this book from diverse religious and secular backgrounds, yet belonging to the ethnic majority, and living and working in the privileged contexts of North-western Europe, we also need to reflect upon our own positions and biases with regard to cross-cultural comparison, assessment, and intervention. Feminist anthropologists have been among the first

Gender, Religion, and Harm  15 and most staunch critics of the colonial roots of their own discipline, and have struggled to establish more collaborative and reciprocal forms of research that seek to challenge, rather than reproduce, power inequalities between researchers and researched (Craven & Davis, 2013; Morgensen, 2013). We similarly fully support recent calls to decolonize disciplines of anthropology, gender and religious studies, the academy, and our societies more generally (Chidester, 2014; Lugones, 2008, 2010; Mogstad & Tse, 2018). This means, to the best of our abilities, to take an ethico-political stance as allies and, where possible, as advocates for all those affected by the harm caused by what bell hooks (1981) many years ago referred to as ‘white supremacist capitalist patriarchy’.

Social Norm Theories Ethical considerations have also entered the debate on gender, culture, and harm, and particularly in how to end abusive practices, through the lens of social norm theory. In recent years, the body of theoretical and empirical literature on social norms across a wide range of fields (including sociology, anthropology, social and moral psychology, economics, law, political science, and health sciences) has grown considerably, and this has been accompanied by an increased interest in social norm approaches among Global Health practitioners and donors (Cislaghi & Heise, 2018), including those seeking to end HCPs. Social convention/norm theory posits that change happens as more individuals shift attitudes to the point when gradually the whole community holds them. At this point, the once individually held view becomes the community’s view (see Mackie et al., 2015). Mackie (2018) accepts that this takes considerable time, but when individual attitudes start to change at a pace, this wholesale shift can and will happen quickly. What we do not know as activists is what triggers this process or specifically what the tipping points for sustainable change may be. Theorists working within this social norm approach have drawn on a number of country case studies to develop insights into how norms are maintained and what might be the best triggers for change. Much of this work has focused on the practice of FGM, with the most in-depth studies emerging from Senegal and Kenya (e.g. see: Kandala et al., 2019). Yet many African feminists argue that the focus cannot be placed solely on the norms themselves, but rather the analysis of the operation of both power and gender within the wider socioeconomic and political contexts is critical. In this volume, we intend to illustrate the complex ways in which religion and power operate in both challenging and sustaining HCP/HTP, and we seek to demonstrate that it matters whose social norm it is. This requires us to focus on the gendered webs of power in which norms are practised and legitimized or problematized. Van Bavel’s chapter is an example of the complex ways in which religion and power operate in challenging and sustaining FGM, demonstrating that it matters whose social norm it is, and speaks to a focus on the gendered webs of power in which it is practised and legitimized or problematized. In light of this, intersectionality as an approach has become important in developing social convention theories in such a way that they can elicit the

16  Brenda Bartelink et al. nuance of how power operates through gendered constructions and networks of various kinds that build and sustain broader systems of social inequalities that divide and marginalize people, on the basis of not just gender but also ethnicity, race, and education (see Iyer et al., 2008; Hankivsky, 2012; Hill Collins & Bilge, 2016). Shell Duncan et al. (2020), citing Hill Collins and Bilge (2016), describe intersectionality as an analytic tool that holds that people’s lives and organisation of power in society are shaped not by a single axis of social division, such as gender, but instead by many axes that work together and influence each other. Applying this to FGM and social norm theory requires a number of perspectives to come together. Mackie (1996) argues that FGM represents a social norm that has become ‘locked’ into a broader social system because it provides access to status through marriage. Social competition between families and groups means that any avenue available to extend status will be used. The locking-in of FGM is arguably also the result of the risks involved in not marrying well, including stigma, ‘illegitimate’ child rearing, and a loss of status (see also Mackie & LeJeune, 2009; Mackie, 2019). Shell-Duncan et al. (2020) added to this understanding of how FGM as a norm becomes ‘locked-in’ by highlighting the operation of peer pressure. Peer pressure is linked to stigma in that identity as part of a peer network is critically important in contexts where livelihoods are precarious, and membership to such a network requires conformity to certain practices, such as FGM. Social networks represent important sources of different forms of capital, ranging from economic capital during times of hardship to emotional. Moreau and Shell-Duncan write: It is important to recognise that the practice is not, for the most part, perpetuated out of ignorance of the health risks or criminal ban, nor out of a blind adherence to ‘tradition’. Instead, it represents a strategy to cope with the challenges faced by families who seek to assure the future welfare of their daughters. (Moreau & Shell-Duncan, 2020, p. 66) This work is important not only in helping us understand why individuals and communities persist with practices that appear harmful but also in giving us a much more complex insight into the intersections of power, gender, age, class, and ethnicity, and we argue in this volume that religion must also be part of this analytical web. Cislaghi and Heise (2019) have brought together gender and social norms to form a practical and theoretical lens through which to understand the relationships between individual attitudes and expressions of identity and personhood and the wider contextual realities of peoples’ lives. In this volume, although

Gender, Religion, and Harm  17 we recognize the potential of the recent framework of social norm theories to analyse and strategize against HCPs among women and girls, there are still several shortcomings (e.g. see: Piedalue et al., 2020). Furthermore, we argue that these approaches still need to be developed further to better include the influence and role of religion both in terms of leadership influence but also in providing systems of values and beliefs that entrench certain harmful attitudes and behaviours. Criticisms of social norm theories state that the wider context is both centrally important but also fluid. Social and even gender norms are not static but will change as other factors in the environment change. For example, the economic dimension to FGM, through its link to bride price, will be and is more or less significant depending on the socioeconomic climate. In short, this volume brings religion more centrally into the theoretical discourses on social and gender norms, while recognizing its importance with regard to patriarchal power dynamics.

Structure of the Book The nine case-study chapters in this volume demonstrate how adopting a gendered lens, sensitized to the impact of religion and culture, can generate a much-needed evidence base regarding what works to end harmful practices while avoiding the reifying and essentializing pitfalls outlined in this introduction. The volume begins by exploring harmful practices and religion in the context of the COVID-19 pandemic. While COVID-19 did not exist at the time when we convened the first meetings that led to the eventual publication of this book, throughout the writing and editing process while the pandemic swept across the globe it became clear that amongst its lesser-known, yet grave impacts was an increase in harmful gender practices. In Chapter 2, Bradley and Meme explore this and consider how COVID-19 has created an economic crisis that may compel families who already live in poverty to force their daughters into marriage at an early age, which, in turn, can mean securing successful marriage arrangements through subjecting girls to FGM or other forms of harm. Even in contexts where significant progress has ostensibly been made in recent years – including where religious actors have been successfully engaged into transforming harmful practices, taking part in initiatives, and challenging the related discourses to eradicate them – these moves have been rolled back, while underlying structures of gender inequality have re-emerged to further legitimize the forms of violence and oppression these girls are subjected to. In Chapter 3, Oka and Storms argue that the understanding of cousin marriage among Dutch-Turkish and Dutch-Moroccan people as a ‘Muslim’ practice obscures the multiple meanings of cousin marriages as a strategy for establishing loving relationships, intimacy, and raising healthy children. Rather than building on this existing value to further promote healthy and free partnership choice among these communities, the framing of cousin marriage as a problematic Muslim practice in public policy contributes to the further marginalization of Muslims in the Netherlands, meaning transparency on marital decisions is less likely to be

18  Brenda Bartelink et al. realized. In Chapter 4, Bradley and Mubaiwa further demonstrate how national policies that frame religion as a social problem hampers open conversation and may in fact contribute to a rise in harmful practices. In the UK, securitization policies affect Mosques in such a way that efforts to challenge forced marriage and FGM from an Islamic perspective are hindered, which may contribute to strengthening assumptions on how Islam sanctions these practices and ultimately put more women and girls at risk of being forced into marriage or subjected to FGM. These examples all speak to how particular discourses and policies affect religious minority groups and therefore may indirectly and unintendedly create space for harmful practices to continue or increase. In Chapter 5, Hamilton explores the complex intersections between particular practices among Bangladeshi, Indian, and Pakistani (BIP) communities in the UK, including forced marriages and FGM. The vulnerability experienced in the daily lives of the women who took part in the research comes through strongly in the interviews presented. This vulnerability can be seen as a feature of social relations: when people are at risk, they have been made vulnerable to violence. In the case of the refugee women interviewed, for example, it was clear that the ways in which people are marginalized and maintained in a state of poverty, and the constant insecurity over their status, all contribute to significantly increasing the likelihood of them suffering other forms of violence, including those categorized as HCPs (if they have not already). The chapter draws out key themes relating to notions of izzat, power, and religious and cultural identity, which are presented thematically with reference to extracts from the women’s narratives. The volume then turns to discussing the cases of national policies that create and legitimize gendered practices – such as forced veiling and early marriage – informed by explicit religious and secular political ideologies. In Chapter 6, Rahbari explores the effects of Shi’i juristic rulings on child marriage in Iran. Rahbari critiques common assumptions of harmful practices as merely cultural or religious practices, pointing out the variation in religiously and culturally informed marriage practices across diverse communities and regions in Iran. She discusses the social opposition to legalizing child marriage, arguing that legalization must be understood as part of a hegemonic religio-political agenda, which makes child marriage a form of gendered biopolitics that disproportionally affects women and girls. Understanding such harmful practices as political, when they are legalized or legitimized by state law, is of crucial importance to the transformation of these practices, which in the case of Iran can be done through developing a legal framework for consent in marriage. In Chapter 7, Sarah Fischer continues this discussion, taking us through a comparative analysis of forced veiling in Iran and forced unveiling in Turkey. In both contexts, state regulation of women’s veiling practices leads to the discrimination of women in the education system, in the workplace, and within their families. This means that women face constant surveillance on their veiling practices, while it limits their room for manoeuvre in education and on the labour market. It strengthens the forms of control over how women conduct themselves and behave in the family sphere. The comparison between two states, with

Gender, Religion, and Harm  19 very different religious/secular histories and opposing veiling policies, has some striking similarities when women’s lived experiences are considered. This suggests not only that the direct influence of the nation-state in creating gendered forms of harm needs to be considered, but also that only research into women’s experiences of such forms of oppression and discrimination can offer insight into the multi-layered social consequences of such national policies. The next three chapters explore harmful gendered practices that are understood or addressed more explicitly as cultural forms of gender-based violence. In Chapter 8, Chipenembe, Longman, and Coene focus on the gendered forms of harm that lesbian, bi-sexual, and transwomen women in Mozambique experience as a consequence of their sexual orientation. In particular, women often face severe oppression and harm from within their families and communities when they publicly challenge their sexual and gendered marginalization. This may include being forced into certain cultural and/or spiritual practices ‘to cure’ them, such as early or forced marriage, rape, and other forms of sexual violence. Chipenembe discusses two groups of traditional religious leaders: those who promote such practices and others who resist them. However, the chapter calls us to consider the physical and psychological forms of violence that LBT women face while navigating their sexual wellbeing when their families, communities, and spiritual leaders want them to submit to hetero- and gender-normative ideals. While the forms of violence Chipenembe’s interlocutors experience cannot be explained by referring to culture or tradition alone, the dominant ‘hetero-normative culture’ in which this violence is legitimized needs to be acknowledged. In Chapter 9, van Bavel discusses Protestant activism against female circumcision practices among the Maasai in Loita, Kenya, that include a firm rejection of Maasai cultural and spiritual practices. Van Bavel demonstrates that rejecting female circumcision is only possible for a small group of formally educated protestants that become part of a community in which ‘not cutting’ is the social norm. However, for many, this does not only contribute to increased secrecy around the practice but also to forms of counter-activism that understand female circumcision as a way of protecting, of even ‘rescuing’, Masaai cultural identity from erosion. This then provides a context in which interventions fail to have a sustainable  impact, and in which prevalence of female genital cutting may ­actually increase. In Chapter 10, Le Roux explores the understandings of girl’s sexuality in religious communities across different contexts. Comparing early marriage practices among Christian, Muslim, and Hindu communities with the abstinence movement in the US, Le Roux argues that harmful practices are found across different contexts and cultures. Furthermore, the problematization of ‘culture’ and ‘tradition’ in relation to harmful practices in non-Western contexts obscures the drive to control female sexuality that is underlying many of these practices. Undoubtedly, religion often plays a role in facilitating and legitimizing such practices, which Le Roux argues with reference to cases from Bangladesh and the US. Yet these cases also demonstrate that religion is, in turn, is often closely intertwined with state politics.

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The final chapter in this volume questions both the extent to which lenses of culture and tradition can help us understand how these gendered forms of violence are shaped and their efficacy as the focus of interventions that seek to challenge harmful practices. The contributions of Le Roux and of Chipenembe, Longman, and Coene illustrate how this obscures a more nuanced understanding of how gender and heteronormative structures operate to control female sexuality. The role religion plays in this is hard to grasp as it may be used to legitimize particular harmful practices, but it can also be used to resist them. However, all the chapters in this volume speak to the importance of having a rigorous understanding of how religion is entangled with power within a particular context, including state politics as well as the gendered webs of power in which people – and women and girls in particular – are embedded. The volume is concluded by Professor Azza Karam, who currently serves as the Secretary-General of Religions for Peace – the largest multi-religious leadership platform with 92 national and 6 regional interreligious councils. Her contribution, titled Faith-full Reflections from a Civically minded, Radically Inclusive, Other, considers the value of the work presented in the ten chapters, particularly in relation to the role of religion in ‘doing’ development, and especially doing ‘gender’ in development. She also asks important questions that, as yet, have not been answered, including what happens when certain religious organizations become bigger, stronger, and more impactful partners of political and economic regimes and interests? The reflections end with the reminder that, while the pendulum of judgement about religion has, in recent years, moved from extreme harm to extreme good, neither is entirely accurate: narratives of this kind, which mirror the arrogance of absolutism of truth, rarely move us further in the arc of history. Karam maintains that there is indeed harm done to human rights and particularly to gender when powerful religious institutions and faith-based organizations are able to shape global development practices, but argues that when religions work together to serve as civic agents, and to serve all barring none, that is when the arc of history can bend towards justice.

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The Impact of COVID on Efforts to Reduce FGM and Child Marriage Understanding the Intersections Between Religion, Gender, and Culture Tamsin Bradley and Jane Rita Meme

Introduction This chapter reflects on data that has begun to emerge from African and South Asian contexts that suggests instances of harmful practices, such as child marriage (CM) female genital mutilation (FGM), have increased during the global COVID-19 pandemic. Despite increases in donor funding being directed towards ending harmful cultural practices (HCPs) in the years prior, the pandemic has exposed the fragility of the inroads that had so far been made, which has been worsened by an absence of a girl-centred approach in global and national responses. In their analysis of the Secondary Impacts of COVID-19 on Women and Girls in Sub-Saharan Africa, Rafaeli and Hutchinson (2020) found that country responses to COVID-19 show that there has been a shortage in a gender based lens in their design and implementation, which increases the probability that the unique and acute needs of adolescent girls and women will not be addressed properly. (Rafaeli & Hutchinson, 2020, p. 4) It is now more urgent than ever that we continue to develop our understanding of why HCPs are so difficult to end and that we use what we already know to integrate a more nuanced approach across the programming. During this pandemic, the influence of religion in terms of being a force for good and/or bad in the short term is unclear, and it is certainly still too early to assess the long-term fallout regarding HCP. However, we argue in this chapter that in contexts where religious institutions have influence over the values and beliefs of people, religion needs to form part of the analysis. What we can say is in communities where CM and/or FGM have suddenly increased since the initial outbreak of COVID-19 in late 2019, responses from religious leaders have been largely absent. We can see from this, as is also the case among many humanitarian stakeholders, religious actors and organisations still do not consistently prioritise the rights of girls. Opportunities to bring about sustainable and positive changes in the lives of girls are once again being missed. It is becoming clear that

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246046-2

The Impact of COVID  27 the pandemic has intensified patriarchal divisions with more girls entering even more precarious and vulnerable situations. Whilst little evidence exists that religion directly endorses practices of CM and FGM, arguments have been forcefully made by feminist scholars that the unquestionable authority of religion can be used to normalise the use of violence (e.g. see: Bradley & Kirmani, 2017). The patriarchal and hierarchal values and beliefs of most (if not all) religions are strongly influential in shaping the gendered world in which women and girls are so often marginalised and rendered vulnerable to many forms of violence. These values and beliefs translate into the structures and practices of everyday life which embed and enact gendered inequalities and abuse. Postcolonial critiques warn us against essentialising the Global South and reducing our analyses to problematic cultural explanations, especially in relation to violence. However, many activists in and from the Global South themselves talk about the harmful effects of culture and religion and call for a more nuanced understanding of the different ways in which patriarchal values and beliefs are constructed, communicated, and reflected in day-to-day behaviour. The authors of this chapter each have more than 20 years of experience researching violence against women and girls in South Asia and Africa and draw on hundreds of conversations, many of which are ongoing, as well as more formal interviews with feminist activists and members of women’s organisations particularly from the Global South. These engagements have helped frame and understand the influence of religion and culture on gender relations, and they form the foundation of this chapter. In July 2019, one activist in India reminded us that now is not the time to sidestep what the root causes are of gendered abuse. Both religion and culture are often powerful forces in shaping the ecology of violence and we need to start saying that more directly. It is not colonialist to want to challenge and end violence against women. However, in bringing religion and culture more directly into the language of activism around CM and FGM, we need to challenge the cultural categorisation of HCPs. As one activist in Kenya stated, “FGM is labelled as a cultural problem rather than what it is, which is child abuse. This has meant that for decades it could be ignored and not treated with the same seriousness as rape” (Interview conducted in January 2021). It is necessary at this point to find ways to strike a careful balance that shows how different strands, including religion and culture, weave together to produce and support HCPs and other forms of violence. The analysis should be used to gather evidence that helps us establish HCPs as forms of extreme violent abuse rather than to create categories that somehow suggest CM and FGM represent something that is fundamentally different from, for example, rape. In other words, practices of this kind need to be viewed and approached in the same way as all other forms of violence. At the same time, however, religion and culture also hold at least part of the answer as to how we might

28  Tamsin Bradley and Jane Rita Meme transform practices and remove harm, which can potentially be achieved by reinventing or introducing new culturally appropriate practices that celebrate gender equality. The influence of religious leaders has long been seen as a potential resource in and/or barrier to development. In this chapter, we reassess the complex and contentious relationship between religion, culture, and gender to ask what the COVID-19 pandemic has revealed about it and what this means for HCP. We begin by outlining the situation before the pandemic began, including a review of what are considered the main root causes of HCP. We then look at the impact that COVID-19 has had on already troubling data on rates of FGM and CM. In the final section, we bring the focus back to the construction of the patriarchal gendered ideology that underpins both CM and FGM and we argue that a more complex and multidimensional lens is needed to understand why even wellfunded and well-intentioned activism is struggling to bring about significant and sustained reductions in prevalence.

Child Marriage and FGM Before COVID-19 Child marriage is more widespread than FGM. Approximately 650 million women alive today were married as children while 200 million women have been cut (UNICEF, 2012). Child brides can be found in every region across the world, from the Middle East to Latin America, South Asia to Europe. According to the International Non-governmental Organisation (INGO) ‘Girls Not Brides’, “Child marriage is a truly global problem that cuts across countries, cultures, religions and ethnicities” and in terms of the scale of the problem, the organisation found stats that • • •

12 million girls marry before the age of 18 every year 1 in 5 girls in the world are married before 18 Over 650 million women alive today were married as children (Girls Not Brides, n.d.).

The practice of FGM has been recorded in 30 countries, mainly in Africa but also the Middle East and Asia, and among some ethnic groups in South America. It ranges from being a relatively fringe practice among certain sub-groups of a population to being widespread, even ubiquitous, across entire countries. According to the WHO: The prevalence of female genital mutilation has been estimated from largescale, national surveys asking women aged 15–49 years if they have themselves been cut. The prevalence varies considerably, both between and within regions and countries […], with ethnicity as the most decisive factor. In seven countries the national prevalence is almost universal, (more than 85%); four countries have high prevalence (60–85%). (WHO, 2008)

The Impact of COVID  29 Indonesia is among the countries with the highest prevalence of FGM. It has been estimated by United states Agency for International Development (USAID) and United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA) (2003) that between 86% and 100% of girls aged 15–18 years had already undergone some form of FGM, though for many, it had happened when they were much younger. In 2012, UNICEF reported that (as reported by the girls’ mothers) 49% of Indonesian girls under the age of 12 years had undergone FGM, and of these, 72% had been ‘circumcised’ before they were six months old. While the UN holds statistics on over 30 countries, accurate and up to date prevalence data remains difficult to gather. This is in no small part because of a reluctance among families to admit that they practise FGM, but it can also be because there are misunderstandings of what constitutes FGM.

Root Causes of CM and FGM Before we go further, we need to drill down into the root causes of CM and FGM and explore how, in many contexts, the two separate practices are in fact linked. A leading girl-centred INGO ‘Girls Not Brides’ has pointed out that, as well as being linked, the harm caused by the two practices can be compounded when a girl is subjected to both: Child marriage and female genital mutilation/cutting (FGM/C) are two harmful practices which hold back millions of women and girls throughout their lives. Where the two exist together, the impact on girls’ lives is even greater. (Girls Not Brides, n.d.) Presenting a cut girl for marriage evidences her sexual purity and ensures the maximum bride-price possible can be secured. At the same time, having undergone FGM signifies womanhood and marriageability regardless of the girl’s age. For this reason, there are strong links between CM and FGM and other practices associated with marriage, including dowry and bride-price. Both dowry and bride-price are associated with high levels of different forms of domestic abuse, including intimate partner violence (IPV) and psychological harassment (Bradley & Pallikadavath, 2016; Ellsberg et al., 2020) (more detail is given later in this chapter). Though linked, CM also exists in places where FGM is not practised, but in such cases, the practice can often be linked to other types of HCP, such as female infanticide (Longman & Bradley, 2015). Firstly, we need to distinguish between the different theoretical discourses that – from the same empirical data that offers evidence of the prevalence of HCP, shifts in patterns, and the impact of interventions – offer distinctive approaches to understanding the ‘why’ of HCP. The gendered feminist framing of CM and FGM links it to the systematic devaluing of girls by patriarchy (Abathun et al., 2017; Gruenbaum, 1988; Van der Kwaak, 1992; Wade, 2009). In social convention/social norm theory, the practices are typically understood as being embedded

30  Tamsin Bradley and Jane Rita Meme in shared community attitudes (Kandala & Shell-Duncan, 2019; Kandala et al., 2020; Matanda et al., 2020; Population Reference Bureau, 2020). However, and as already stated in the introduction, gendered inequalities do not always produce CM and/or FGM: they are two forms of gendered abuse, but we know that the full spectrum consists of many, many more. We can be confident, however, that where FGM and CM exist patriarchy is the underlying cause.

Sexual Purity and Marriageability Context affects prevalence in many ways, and it also has wide-ranging impacts on the likely success of efforts to end HCP (Kandala & Shell-Duncan, 2019; Kandala et al., 2020; Matanda et al., 2020; Population Reference Bureau, 2020). We can identify certain risk factors that, in a given context and under certain circumstances, can be understood as the causes of or contributors to CM and FGM/C. However, the extent of this link between risk factors and outcomes depends on the extent and degree of intensity of specific risk factors and the relationship between multiple risks. For example, the link between chastity, sexual purity, and marriage is well documented (see Abusharaf, 2001; Archambault, 2011), and a further link can be seen between FGM and CM, which together mark a girl’s transition into womanhood meaning she is no longer the responsibility of and burden to her parents (Abusharaf, 2000; Ahmadu & Fuambai, 2000; Thomas, 2000; Toubia, 1994; Yount, 2002). Thus, the social value and status/honour of a family (and the economy of the family, as discussed below) is associated with the sexual purity of daughters, and this results in social sanctions, including stigmatisation being triggered within a community towards families that do not adhere to the related conventions (see Mackie, 1996). This sanctioning, or the threat of it, operates to ensure compliance.

The Economic Dimension In the introduction, we stated that both FGM and CM are linked to other marriage practices that carry an economic value, such as bride-price and dowry. Of these, the bride-price exchange places a higher value on a sexually pure bride. However, it does not only occur in areas of FGM prevalence, and FGM exists in areas where bride-price is not observed. On the other hand, dowry involved an exchange in which wealth flows in the opposite direction. This obligates a bride’s family to raise large amounts of money and this economic pressure can trigger CM in poor families, because it is seen as a means to reduce or avoid paying a dowry (see Bradley & Pallikadavath, 2016). In relation to FGM, families must pay cutters for the service they provide. This means that FGM provides an income for some women in communities because it is typically women who provide the service. Alongside to the income that can be generated, the status of being a cutter is also significant: those who perform the cut are held in high esteem, not just by the family of the girl who has been cut but also by the community at large. Though FGM is often assumed to be a ‘traditional’ or ‘cultural’ practice, there are also some examples of midwives working

The Impact of COVID  31 within the biomedical health system and simultaneously carrying out FGM in their communities. The income they generate from FGM subsidises their state salary, which is often relatively low. The income FGM provides means that although midwives may have received anti-FGM public health training, an incentive remains to continue providing the service. For these reasons and many more, economic empowerment is an important pathway to ending FGM. The concern that has recently emerged, however, is that as economies shrink due to the COVID-19 so reliance on income generated (or marriage costs avoided) through FGM and CM will only intensify, making them even harder to end.

Notions of Beauty and Hygiene In relation to FGM in particular, notions of genital beauty and hygiene are also frequently recorded in research. Emerging research suggests that growth in the use of aesthetic medical techniques to perform FGM has been fuelled by the globalisation of beauty, which has intersected with patriarchal beliefs to further cement FGM in the lives of women and girls (Boddy, 1996, 2016; Guiné & Moreno Fuentes, 2007; Hale, 1994; Johnsdotter & Essén, 2010; Kennedy, 2009; Kotaska & Avery, 2014; Whitcomb, 2011).

Pandemics and Risks to Women and Girls: Lessons from the Ebola Outbreak Evidence from the Ebola epidemic indicates that increased poverty, school closures, and lack of economic opportunities meant girls spent more time with men, which resulted in increased pregnancies and school dropout rates (Rasul, 2020). Such trends were more pronounced for girls living in rural areas (UNFPA, 2015). Rasul (2020) make the point that there will be economic consequences as a result of lost education and associated lost opportunities for girls. If girls are being held back by a lack of schooling or by being exposed to abuse and teenage pregnancy, and/or CM, they will have access to fewer livelihood opportunities. Humanitarian responses rarely include a provision to mitigate these negative and gendered effects of pandemics (Haneef & Kalyanpur, 2020). The lessons from Ebola are now well documented, but they do not seem to have fed into more gender-sensitive responses. During the Ebola pandemic, organisations such as Plan International and Womankind recorded a sudden increase in the sexual exploitation of girls, which triggered both a sudden rise in early marriage and early pregnancy. These organisations and many activists predicted a sudden increase in abuse against girls during COVID-19, but these warnings once again fell on deaf ears.

The Impact of COVID-19 on Levels of CM and FGM UNFPA (2020) predicts around 13 million CMs that could (and would) have been averted will occur in the ten years following the COVID-19 pandemic and

32  Tamsin Bradley and Jane Rita Meme that 2  million CMs that otherwise would not have happened too took place by the end of 2021. The increase in CM that the pandemic has triggered is in part linked to rising poverty. Families suffering food insecurity need to reduce expenditure and many – as emerging research in South Asia and Africa shows – have opted to do so by marrying off their young daughters. Marrying off girls before they reach adulthood passes the perceived problem of feeding them to another family. At the same time, the value associated with young brides removes the pressure to generate a dowry, which in South Asia is commonly offered by a bride’s family to the groom’s. Conversely, in many African contexts, capital is generated by marriage through the practice of bride-price. Bride-price works in reverse to dowry in that a groom must give money, goods, or cattle and livestock to the bride’s family. Despite the direction in which the payment flows, both practices reflect the commodification of women and girls and leave them vulnerable to violence in marriage because they convey a message of ownership and subjugation. COVID-19, then, has triggered a resurgence of CM on economic grounds, either to avoid the expense or to raise funds. This means that the underlying gendered norms that sanction dowry and bride-price not only clearly remain intact, but are also being intensified, reinforced, rationalised, and legitimised in new ways. In a similar way, startling reports have emerged across Sub-Saharan Africa of rising cases of FGM, including mass ceremonies to cut girls. The UNFPA (2020) states that, as a result of COVID: it is anticipated that 2 million cases of FGM will occur between 2020 and 2030 that could have been averted, resulting in a 33 per cent reduction in the progress toward ending this harmful practice. (UNFPA, 2020) The sudden surge in FGM is attributed to COVID-19 containment measures – such as movement restrictions and night curfews, and school and medical centre closures – and the fact that these prevented community and health workers from moving freely to educate communities and support and protect vulnerable girls. The media and NGOs have since run stories documenting the impact of these measures. In Sub-Saharan Africa, for example, CAMFED (an organisation that focuses on education of girls) indicated that “because the pandemic has worsened poverty and food insecurity – and with most schools closed – some girls are prioritising marriage and children over education” (Seo, 2020). Media sources in Kenya, Ethiopia, and Malawi have reported spikes in teenage pregnancies and early marriages raising fears that some of these girls may not return to school. According to the Country Director of Plan International in Kenya, “gains made in terms of delivering for girls and their rights have been eroded, and if it is not deliberately addressed in a concerted manner, we will not be fit for purpose in a post-COVID world” (Bhalla, 2020). Both CM and FGM are forms of violence against girls, and eradicating the practices therefore represents a critical step towards achieving Target 2 of

The Impact of COVID  33 Sustainable Development Goal 5 (SDG 5.2), which focuses on the promotion of gender equality with the aim of ending “all forms of violence against all women and girls in the public and private spheres” (see UN, n.d.). Research is gradually emerging that highlights the likelihood that women and girls will be at increased risk of suffering multiple forms of violence, often in parallel, as a result of COVID-19. It is therefore likely that a girl who endures the violence of CM and/or FGM will also suffer from other forms of violence, including domestic abuse and specifically IPV. In Kenya, for example, World Vision (2020) recorded a 35% increase in domestic violence in the first 2 weeks of the pandemic and a 50% increase in levels of violence against girls. A systematic review conducted by Rafaeli and Hutchinson (2020) to capture evidence around the impact of COVID-19 on the lives of women and girls found that during such health crises, girls are the most marginalised and that practices already harmful to their wellbeing and life choices intensify. There is a disproportionate increase in malnourishment and teenage pregnancies, as well as CM and FGM. Aware of this reality, UNFPA and UN Women early in the pandemic (March 2020) urged the world to include the impact of gender in their need assessments. In a gender guidance document, COVID-19: A Gender Lens, UNFPA urged policy- and decision-makers to be cognisant of how differently disease outbreaks affect women and men, making existing inequalities worse for women and girls. The guidance note further pointed that, in times of crisis, women and girls may be at a higher risk of IPV and other forms of violence and called for specific measures to be taken to protect them. In an effort to ensure better outcomes for everyone, in March 2020 (at the very beginning of the global pandemic), UN Women released a checklist for COVID-19 responses and urged governments to use it in order to add a gender perspective when making decisions and policies relating to the pandemic (see UN Women, 2020). The timing of these warnings is important to note because they came when there was still time for gender to be taken seriously in the COVID-19 response. It is not especially surprising that these organisations could foresee the disproportionate impact the pandemic was going to have because it continues a pattern of development and humanitarian aid that has perpetually underserved women and girls, especially in times of crisis. yet, despite pleas for a gender focus and for women and girls to be prioritised in pandemic responses, the grim predictions made by various organisations during the early stages of COVID-19 have, in many cases, become a reality. In several African countries, such as Kenya, Ethiopia, Malawi, Somalia, and Nigeria, COVID-19 has reportedly triggered ‘shadow pandemics’ of various forms of violence against women and girls, including rape, early pregnancies, FGM, and CM (Bhalla, 2020). Medica Mondiale, a women’s rights organisation, reported that the situation was similar in countries in West African countries, including Liberia, Sierra Leone, and the Ivory Coast. The organisation indicated that there was a significant rise in sexual and domestic violence, FGM, and teenage pregnancies as a result of less protection from institutions. The pandemic was exacerbating already-existing gender inequalities and the organisation noted the ways in which FGM and CM were related to each other and to economic pressure, which has

34  Tamsin Bradley and Jane Rita Meme worsened during the pandemic: “families were more likely to marry off a daughter in difficult times when it became harder to feed all children, and FGM was part of the marriage ritual”. The direct voices of stakeholders working on the front line challenging FGM and CM in Kenya, India, and Bangladesh were captured through 20 qualitative interviews conducted by the authors between March 2020 and January 2021. The consensus yet again emerged that COVID-19 had set back gains that had been made in ending CM and FGM. One stakeholder in Kenya offered the following observation: Remember there was the curfew and [movement] limitation. People could not travel making it easier for girls to be transported to the other country where FGM is not illegal. In Garissa for example and Wajir there is a border to Somalia girls are taken across the border, cut brought back and nobody can tell because there is a lockdown and there is no school the children are not missing school so the teacher will not know if the child is sick or what, so we feel during COVID-19 the cases of FGM have really shot up. Another stakeholder also in Kenya expressed the need to build in activities to prevent set-backs due to crises. “You are doing FGM programming, and you don’t have a sustainability plan for the gains you would have made, then they can easily be done away with by an emergency”. Stakeholders interviewed in Bangladesh and India shared concerns that girls would be sold into marriage by desperate families, and, in turn, these families would sell them to trafficking rings. One stakeholder in India stated, “we are about to see a significant increase in girls being sex trafficked, married into abusive homes or sold as sex workers”. A second civil society stakeholder in Bangladesh added, “as families run out of coping mechanism and exhaust savings and good stocks they turn to the next available commodity – their young daughters”.

The Intersections of COVID-19, Poverty, and Violence As the passages above attest, poverty is a significant factor that contributes to CM and FGM, and COVID-19 has deepened poverty by shutting down livelihoods. But the associated increases in the prevalence of the practices that have accompanied the pandemic reveal a troubling lack of progress in terms of changing the attitudes and values that underpin CM and FGM. Though the stress that COVID-19 has brought into households has clearly acted as a trigger, the speed with which harmful practices appears to be increasing suggests that they continue to be viewed as acceptable options in times of crisis: girls are seen as a financial burden or as a commodity. Along with CM and FGM, violence of other kinds has also increased. For example, in Bangladesh, World Vision (2020) reports that beatings by parents or guardians increased by 42%, that there was a 40% increase of calls to the child helpline, and that 50% of those interviewed said the safety and security of girls was an issue in the lockdown.

The Impact of COVID  35 The World Vision report goes on to detail: In just one area where we work in Kenya, 18 cases of sexual abuse against girls were recently reported. This echoes an announcement by the Chief Justice of Kenya that in just the first two weeks of April there was a 35% increase in gender-based violence cases and a 50% increase in violence against girls. (World Vision, 2020) Also, the executive director of Childline, an organisation that provides child protection services in Kenya and operates a 24/7 child helpline, reported that between March and June 2020, child abuse cases had gone up by 41% compared to before COVID-19. The same report also indicated that calls to helplines surged in Tunisia, Niger, South Africa, Uganda, Malawi, and Somalia (see also Bhalla, 2020). The financial strain of COVID leads to families quickly exhausting what c­ oping mechanisms they have available to them. Once savings and resources through family networks have been used, families then need to look at more e­xtreme ­actions. Both child labour and CM are examples of more extreme actions borne out of desperation. However, the decision making over who in a family should be sent to work and who should be married to reduce food burden is gendered. The associated financial transactions of dowry and bride-price mean early marriage is seen as a means of generating income. Girls given in marriage often find themselves later sold off by their in-laws into sex trafficking rings as a further negative coping action. In Ethiopia, for example, there are concerns that many girls may not return to school when schools re-open as they will have been married off during the COVID-19 crisis (Bhalla, 2020). This concern is in line with the findings of the previously mentioned report by the Malala Fund, which investigated the impact of Ebola on girls’ education and found that in Guinea, Liberia, and Sierra Leone, the enrolment of girls in school, which was already lower than that of boys, did not return to pre-Ebola crisis levels (see Fuhrman et al., 2020). In the next section, we consider in more detail how school closures, even for a short time, can affect the long-term opportunities of girls.

Impact of School Closures A study by Gender and Adolescence: Global Evidence (GAGE) in Afar, Amhara, and Oromia regions of Ethiopia found that in rural areas, some adolescent girls were at heightened risk of child marriage due to school closures. Concern around pre-marital pregnancy meant that parents rushed to marry off young daughters in particular. When schools have been closed due to COVID-19, community ­reporting mechanisms have no longer been accessible to girls: they cannot ­report to teachers or any other institutions if they are to be married off (Jones et al., 2020). In May 2020, the Thomson Reuters Foundation reported that during the two months when schools had been closed in Ethiopia, 540 child marriages had been stopped in the northern region of Amhara alone. These account only

36  Tamsin Bradley and Jane Rita Meme for the cases where authorities received tips that the weddings were imminent, enabling them to stop the marriages, but how many more may have taken place is unknown since other reporting mechanisms were hampered by school closures (Wuilbercq, 2020). The measures taken by governments to protect children from contracting COVID-19 have had far-reaching ramifications for the girl child. A report by Plan International and the African Child Policy Forum found that school closures had forced more than 120 million girls across Africa to stay home, leaving them isolated and vulnerable to abuse. The report further noted that the pandemic had exacerbated and added yet another layer to an already-dire web of vulnerabilities of girls in Africa. As a result, “Millions of girls have been deprived of access to food, basic healthcare and protection and 1,000 exposed to abuse and exploitation” (Plan International, 2020). In May 2020, Plan International also reported that the lockdown in Somalia had led to a huge increase in FGM, with circumcisers going door to door to cut girls stuck at home during the pandemic, and the organisation called for the government to ensure measures to address FGM were included in all COVID-19 responses. The same report also indicated that nurses across the country were reporting a surge in requests from parents to perform the cut on girls during the lockdown as families took advantage of school closures to carry out FGM. This was because girls had time to recover from the ritual before school resumed, which, in turn, meant the likelihood of cases being reported was reduced. In June 2020, Save the Children and its partners warned of a worrying spike in cases of FGM and other violations against girls in Somalia due to the closure of schools and suspension of community work by Civil Society Organisations (CSOs) (Save the Children, 2020). While reporting on “grassroots voices on COVID-19’s impact on ending FGC1”, the Orchid Project in June 2020 indicated that the “necessary responses to the COVID crisis are also likely to have a significant impact on adolescent girls, and social isolation, school closures, lack of law enforcement, food insecurity due to loss of livelihoods are well documented drivers of FGC” (Orchid, 2020). As Save the Children had found in Somalia, one of the Orchid Project’s partners, the Coalition on Violence against Women (COVAW), also reported that families in Narok, Kenya, were taking advantage of the school closures and suspension of public activities to subject their girls to FGM. COVAW argued that the closure of schools denied girls access to safe spaces where teachers could intervene if a girl did not turn up at school, while the ban on public gatherings had impacted community-based work meaning community dialogue sessions (an important tool in addressing FGM) could not take place. To reach communities during this period, COVAW turned to community radio programming and social media to reach members of the community with FGM related messages. The evidence presented so far in this chapter paints a worrying picture: there has been an unprecedented break in years of sustained and effective campaigning to end CM and FGM, not because of a lack of will or even resources, but because the pandemic presented structural and logistical obstacles to protecting girls. This has been exacerbated by increased economic pressure on families and a reduction

The Impact of COVID  37 in girls’ access to reporting mechanisms, which has revealed that apparent shifts in norms and beliefs around HCP are not always robust enough to withstand a crisis like COVID-19. The result is that inroads that have been made through decades of work have, in a relatively short time, been rapidly rolled back. This chapter will now return to the central question: how can we explain what is happening and in so many contexts?

The Intersections of Religion, Culture, and Gender and HCP In the introduction to this volume, we presented an analysis of how religion and culture feed into and support the perpetration of HCP. We argued that religion(s) and culture(s) are highly gendered, and that gender should represent the central lens through which to understand the multiple factors that intersect and maintain attitudes and behaviours that support the prevalence of HCP. In this section, we return to these arguments and apply them specifically to understanding why CM and FGM have both resurged as a result of COVID-19. In relation to CM, Winters (2014) argues, “religious injunctions and time-honoured cultural practices are used to justify the preference for early marriage by both fathers and mothers”. Religious reasons are often cited as responsible for FGM, and though various scholars from different disciplines have attempted to contest this link, many communities and individuals still hold to the belief that FGM is a religious requirement (see Rouzi, 2013; Ahmed, 2009; Al-Awa, 2019; Johnson, 2000; Asmani & Abdi, 2008; Longman & Bradley, 2015; Østebø & Østebø, 2014; Abdi et al., 2007; Wangila, 2007). This speaks to the authority that both religion and culture carry as sources of values and beliefs that shape and determine behaviours. Winters helps us unravel further the links between religion and culture describing religion as the ‘bedrock of culture’. She goes on to say that both are constituted and constitute social relations including power relations. This then helps us understand how both religion and culture influence how power operates and plays out in day-to-day life. From drawing on feminist theories, we know that the power relations that shape everyday life are gendered: dominant power relations create an environment that holds in place certain practices that, in turn, emphasise a gendered hierarchy that devalues girls and women. HCPs such as CM and FGM are evidence of how culture operates to constitute mechanisms that enforce notions of gendered inequalities. Or as Winter’s (2014) puts it, “The difficulty with which feminists are faced in dealing with culture, however, is that dominant cultural values are invariably masculinist (i.e., they serve the interests of men)”. Religion, as described by scholars such as Winters (2014) and Bradley (2017), is linked to culture and provides legitimacy for the gendered ideology it holds in place. The picture though is more complex, not least because neither religion nor culture are monolithic, and neither are they static. Rather, they are fluid, generating diversity within a national or community context, and arguably also at the household level. By this, we mean that individual and group motivations, values, and beliefs may not always be the same, and individuals themselves may

38  Tamsin Bradley and Jane Rita Meme move between positions (e.g. support of FGM or CM) according to how they assess a given practice at any moment. What we have learnt from within social norm theory is that community norms are the strongest in terms of influencing and shaping the dominant attitudes and behaviours that support practices such as FGM, for example. As such, shifting or changing these views requires targeted work at the local level in order to convince a sufficient number of individuals that they should abandon the practice. The same is true for other HCPs, including CM: building sufficient support eventually generates a tipping point between one dominant viewpoint and the adoption of a new one. Winters also argues that religion as a force often operates to resist change disempowering groups that want to see transformation (Winters, 2014). In contrast, culture and religion have been seen by scholars such as Appadurai as a resource that can motivate groups towards the tipping points that lead to the rejection of harmful attitudes and behaviours and the adoption of new gender-equal norms. Appadurai wrote specifically about the use of religious conversion (from Hindu to Christian or Buddhist) by Dalits in India as a way of this group rejecting the caste oppression imposed by Hinduism and moving to a new religious identity. This  shift in identity was seen by Dalit leaders such as Ambedkar as psychologically necessary because it signified a determination to see positive structural change. Bradley (2006, 2020) presents culture and religion as providing both positive resources but also negative constraints for women. Dowry, for example, in the Hindu tradition is endorsed by certain religious ideals regarding the role of a woman as a wife, which are, in turn, culturally embedded within marriage practices through dowry. In the context of rural India, for poor families that are unable to afford dowry for their daughters, marrying them early represents a resourceful way of avoiding more economic hardship whilst also ensuring their daughters a respectful status as a married woman. In most instances, girls comply. It is true that they have little power to resist, but they are also compelled into accepting early marriage by the religious and cultural norms surrounding what it means to be the ‘perfect wife’. If they were to push back, social sanctioning and the threat of stigmatisation operate to discipline anyone who transgresses, with honour crimes representing the very extreme of such sanctions. However, being married young also brings with it multiple vulnerabilities for girls and women. In response to this, many women in the Indian Hindu context turn to religion to find strength and courage to endure, but also challenge, their vulnerabilities. By drawing on the psychological courage that the worship of deities (particularly those that are perceived to represent empowerment) can bring, religious ritual has been shown to offer space within which transformative decisions are made and then enacted (Bradley, 2006). As argued in the introduction to this volume, the main thing that is missing in much of the social norm literature is an acknowledgement of the gendered dimension of the dominant attitudes that motivate harmful behaviours. Having said that, social norm discourses – including those that do work through a gender lens – often fail to acknowledge the extent to which the religious forces that

The Impact of COVID  39 may shape HCPs should also be seen as potential spaces for transformation. This is not just in terms of harnessing the influence of religious leaders in changing community views but also in terms of the spaces for peer discussions religion can provide. Either way we need to adopt a balance and nuanced understanding of how religion feeds into the wider environment and shapes cultural and social discourses that still dominate. As COVID-19 has clearly shown us, even when shifts happen at community level, external shocks (in this case a pandemic, but also other shocks such as political conflict or environmental disasters) can trigger a conservative backlash that renders women and girls more vulnerable to multiple forms of violence, including HCPs (e.g. see: Bartelink & Buitelaar, 2006).

Conclusion COVID-19 has revealed two critical realities in relation to HCPs. Firstly, it has brought to our attention that, despite apparent progress having been made in terms of prevalence, social, gender, and cultural norms around HCPs such as FGM and CM have, in many places and contexts, not been radically changed. If they had been, it is almost certain that the shift towards practising them again would not have happened so suddenly and would not have been so extensive. Second, it has shown us that we need to engage more deeply with the intersections that create and maintain such norms and find new entry points for change. There is also a further concern; with COVID-19 costing donor countries significant money and with economies spiralling into an ever-deeper recession, the current funding that has been allocated to ending HCPs is now being threatened. It feels very much that we are running out of time to reverse the recent increases in prevalence and transform the social ecology that sustains such violence. On a positive note, we have also seen a growth in grassroots activism that has risen in response to the rising levels of different forms of violence. We need now more than ever to work globally and collectively to harness and support the grassroots through social media platforms and other means that enable us to reach the local activists and populations from outside. Global and international religious figures are crucial partners in this, and we need them to join the campaign with greater force and to voice their support for national and local figures in condemning HCPs. In the introduction to this volume, the editors contested social convention theories as offering an overly simplified approach to understanding HCPs and transforming them. It was argued that understanding the gendered power dynamics of change and appreciating the nonlinear nature of it represents a more nuanced lens through which to push for such transformation. On the ground, COVID-19 is triggering a resurgence of both CM and FGM, which adds weight and urgency to this argument. Clearly, these HCPs still exist because the supporting gendered ideology remains, and the examples of CM and FGM point to the continued marginalisation of girls and the maintenance of a gendered ideology that does not regard them as equal. However, this chapter ends by pointing to some hope because grassroots movements across many countries have begun to mobilise using virtual forums to make visible the abuse happening under the

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veil of COVID-19. This is a critical moment: stakeholders and actors at all levels need to step in and support these activists, gather evidence of abuses, and drive interventions to reverse these troubling trends. In arguing that the gendered ideology that marginalises girls is the root cause of CM and FGM, we also assert that we must dig further into how this ideology is constructed and maintained. We argue that activists and campaigners must keep this conversation at the forefront of campaigns. It is only by dislodging this ideology from its dominant position, and perhaps decoupling it from notions of religious obligation that change will occur. Sadly, this is not just about new cultural and social norms being adopted universally but about a schismatic shift in the very structural underpinnings of society. Viewing the value of girls and boys as equal is critical and must be supported by an environment that nurtures and offers the same opportunities to all, regardless of gender.

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from DHS and MICS 2003–2017. Evidence to End FGM/C: Research to Help Girls and Women Thrive. Population Council. Kennedy, A. (2009). ‘Mutilation and Beautification: Legal Responses to Genital Surgeries’. Australian Feminist Studies, 24(60), 211–221. Kotaska, A., & Avery, L. (2014). ‘Female Genital Cutting’. Journal of Obstetrics and Gynaecology Canada, 36(8), 671–672. Longman, C. & Bradley, T. (Eds.) (2015). Global Perspectives on FGM/C and Other Harmful Cultural Practices and Their Implications for Women’s Rights. Ashgate. Mackie, G. (1996). ‘Ending Footbinding and Infibulation: A Convention Account’. American Sociological Review, 61(6), 999–1017. Matanda, D., Atilola, G., Moore, Z., Komba, P., Mavatikua, L., Nnanatu, C. C., & Kandala, N. B. (2020). Female Genital Mutilation/Cutting in Senegal: Is the Practice Declining? Descriptive Analysis of Demographic and Health Surveys, 2005–2017. Evidence to End FGM/C: Research to Help Girls and Women Thrive. Population Council. Orchid (2020). Digital Advocacy on Female Genital Cutting in the Time of COVID-19. Orchid Project. https://www.orchidproject.org/digital-advocacy-on-female-genitalcutting-in-the-time-of-covid-19/. Østebø, M. T., & Østebø, T. (2014). ‘Are Religious Leaders a Magic Bullet for Social/ Societal Change? A Critical Look at Anti-Fgm Interventions in Ethiopia’. Africa Today, 60(3), 83–101. Plan International (2020). How will Covid-19 Affect Girls and Young Women? Plan International. Population Reference Bureau (2020). Understanding Local Variation in How Female Genital Mutilation/Cutting Declines, Changes, or Persists: Analysis of Household Survey Data for Kenya, Nigeria, and Senegal. Evidence to End FGM/C: Research to Help Girls and Women Thrive. Population Council. Rafaeli, T., & Hutchinson, G. (2020). The Secondary Impacts of COVID-19 on Women and Girls in Sub-Saharan Africa. K4D Helpdesk Report 830. Institute of Development Studies. Rasul, G. (2020). ‘A Framework for Improving Policy Priorities in Managing COVID-19 Challenges in Developing Countries’. Frontiers in Public Health, 8, 589–681. Rouzi, A. A. (2013). ‘Facts and Controversies on Female Genital Mutilation and Islam’. The European Journal of Contraception & Reproductive Health Care, 18(1), 10–14. Save the Children (2020, June 11). More Girls are Being Mutilated Amidst Covid-19 Save the Children. https://somalia.savethechildren.net/news/ Outbreak. more-girls-are-being-mutilated-amidst-covid-19-outbreak. Seo, N. (2020, June 3). As COVID Shuts Schools, Girls Marry Out of Poverty. VoaNews. https:// www.voanews.com/covid-19-pandemic/covid-shuts-schools-girls-marry-out-poverty. Thomas, L. (2000). ‘“Ngaitana (I will circumcise myself)”: Lessons from Colonial Campaigns to Ban Excision in Meru, Kenya’. In B. Shell-Duncan, & Y. Hernlund (Eds.), Female “Circumcision” in Africa: Culture, Controversy and Change (pp. 129–150). Lynne Rienner. Toubia, N. (1994). ‘Female Circumcision as a Public Health Issue’. New England Journal of Medicine, 331(11), 712–716. UN (n.d.). 5. Achieve Gender Equality and Empower All Women and Girls. United Nations Department of Economic and Social Affairs. https://sdgs.un.org/goals/goal5. UN Women (2020). Checklist for COVID-19 Response by UN Women Deputy Executive Director Åsa Regnér. https://www.unwomen.org/en/news/stories/2020/3/ news-checklist-for-covid-19-response-by-ded-regner.

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UNFPA (2015). Demographic Perspectives on Female Genital Mutilation. United Nations Population Fund. UNFPA (2020). Impact of the COVID-19 Pandemic on Family Planning and Ending Gender-based Violence, Female Genital Mutilation and Child Marriage: Pandemic threatens achievement of the Transformative Results committed to by UNFPA (Interim Technical Note). United Nations Population Fund. UNFPA (2015). Institutional Analysis into the Response to Ebola. In Guinea, Liberia and Sierra Leone and readiness assessment of Sexual and Reproductive, Maternal, Neonatal and Adolescent Health Services. United Nations Population Fund. UNICEF (2012). Female Genital Mutilation Country Profiles. UNICEF. https://data.unicef. org/resources/fgm-country-profiles/. Van der Kwaak, A. (1992). ‘Female Circumcision and Gender Identity: A Questionable Alliance’? Social Science and Medicine, 35(6), 777–787 Wade, L. (2009). Defining Gendered Oppression in US Newspapers: The Strategic Value of Female Genital Mutilation. Gender and Society, 23, 293–314. Wangila, M. N. (2007). Female Circumcision: The Interplay of Religion, Culture, and Gender in Kenya. Orbis Books. World Vision (2020). Kenya Annual Report: 2020. World Vision Kenya. Whitcomb, M. (2011). Bodies of Flesh, Bodies of Knowledge: Representations of Female Genital Cutting and Female Genital Cosmetic Surgery. Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies, 1, 1–46. WHO (2008). Eliminating Female Genital Mutilation: An Interagency Statement. OHCHR, UNAIDS, UNDP, UNECA, UNESCO, UNFPA, UNHCR, UNICEF, UNIFEM, WHO. Winters, J. (2014). Afro-Eccentricity: Beyond the Standard Narrative of Black Religion. Springer. World Vision (2020). Covid-19 Aftershocks: A Perfect Storm. Millions More Children at Risk of Violence under Lockdown and into the ‘New Normal’. World Vision. Wuilbercq, E. (2020, May 24). Hundreds of Child Weddings Thwarted in Ethiopia as Coronavirus Locks Girls out of Schools. Reuters. https://www.reuters.com/article/ health-coronavirus-ethiopia-childmarriag-idAFL8N2CW2JU. Yount, K. M. (2002). Like Mother, like Daughter? Female Genital Cutting in Minia, Egypt. Journal of Health and Social Behavior, 43, 336–358.

Note 1 Female genital cutting.

3 Cousin Marriage Among Turkish and Moroccan Dutch Debates on Medical Risk and Forced Marriage1 Oka Storms and Edien Bartels Introduction Gülcen is a 25-year-old second-generation Turkish Dutch woman whose f­amily comes from a rural area in Anatolia. When she was 14 years old, her family ­decided that she should get engaged to her second cousin in Turkey; in Gülcen’s family, marrying within the family was very common. “My husband studied in Turkey. He was a good person, character wise. So, the family thought, ‘This girl fits this boy’. They do not look at your feelings, your dreams, what you want to do when you’re older”. Gülcen’s mother thought it was such a good opportunity, her daughter should not let it pass by. But Gülcen did not want to get engaged and marry, she wanted to finish secondary school and then go on with her studies. In the end, her family, especially her mother, convinced Gülcen; she got engaged when she was 14 and married her cousin when she was seventeen years old. Gülcen’s story can be typified as a forced marriage and is exactly the sort of case  for which the Wet tegengaan huwelijksdwang (Act Combatting Forced ­Marriages) was brought into effect on December 5, 2015, in the Netherlands. This law ­consists of four items: the Netherlands will (1) not recognise a marriage that was concluded abroad until the age of both partners reaches 18 years, (2) ­restrict ­polygamous marriages concluded abroad, (3) make it easier to annul a forced marriage, and (4) make marriage between cousins more difficult. Consanguineous spouses, for example, now have to declare to the wedding officer that their marriage is not being forced. If it is suspected that a forced marriage is taking place then the public prosecutor can prevent it (Kamerstuk, 2011). Although there were serious reservations about this law – especially regarding cousin marriage – its adoption was accelerated so that a legal tool would be available to protect child brides among the recent refugees, primarily from Syria.2 In this chapter, we focus on the last item of the law: cousin marriage. Cousin marriage is not a new phenomenon in the Netherlands: in closed – often religious – communities, people did and still do marry within their family or local group, a part of which is extended consanguineous family. Moreover, with migration from regions where cousin marriage is customary, the number increased. So, in the Netherlands, cousin marriage is practised primarily among immigrants, most of whom are from Moroccan and Turkish descents.3 In many parts of the world,

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246046-3

Cousin Marriage Among Turkish and Moroccan Dutch  45 cousin marriage is an accepted and often preferred form of marriage, but in the Netherlands, it is mostly associated with Dutch Muslims and framed as a “harmful practice”4 (De Koning et al., 2014; Storms & Bartels, 2015; see also Kuper, 2008). In the 2015 law mentioned above, cousin marriage is framed in these terms. The public (political, media, and digital) debates on cousin marriage typically focus on two points: whether there is a medical risk and whether cousin marriages are forced. During the early 2000s, the medical risk in particular was the key issue being discussed. From a clinical genetic perspective, consanguineous couples do have an increased risk of offspring with an autosomal recessive disorder (see Storms & Bartels, 2013), which is partly why cousin marriage among migrant groups is often associated with incest, inbreeding, and disabled children, and frequently invokes reactions of disgust (De Koning et al., 2014; Storms & Bartels, 2015; see also Kuper, 2008). In the past two decades, cousin marriage has also been a politically contentious issue in the Netherlands, especially in debates relating to migrants with Islamic background. In Great Britain, the debate started in a similar way but was focused on British Pakistanis (Kuper, 2008; Shaw, 2001; Shaw & Raz, 2015). In 2009, the cultural discourse surrounding cousin marriage expanded from solely focussing on the medical risk posed to offspring to instead focus on whether these marriages were forced. Forced marriage is against the moral norm of self-determination. Giddens (1992, 1999) and Bauman (2003), among others, have argued that unions based on romantic love typify the late modern world. Romantic love and modern marriage (also companionate marriage) is from a Western perspective regarded as the (moral) norm, including in the Netherlands. Conversely, cousin marriage, which is associated with force rather than choice, is perceived as being in stark contrast to this ideal.5 De Koning et al. (2014) described how this change in focus or elaboration of the discourse (from the medical approach only to an approach that also focused on forced marriage) was part of a broader pattern of the culturalisation of citizenship. The idea of the Netherlands as a moral community based upon one’s affiliation with a religious or ideological community (Van Rooden, 1996) was replaced by the idea of a moral community with a shared secular culture, which was based on sexual freedom, women’s liberation, and freedom of expression (De Koning et al., 2014). Thus, Dutch citizenship would no longer indicate a primarily legal status, but rather became increasingly associated with the concept of morality. To be a member of the moral community, one must acquire not only legal citizenship but also moral citizenship (De Koning et al., 2014; Schinkel, 2010). Religion plays a key role in this because, as Scott (2009, 2017) notes, the discourse that secularism provides freedom and gender equality, while religion (and Islam in particular) is associated with oppression, is still very much at the forefront of debates around migration in Europe and beyond. Following the idea of legal versus moral citizenship and the role that religion – specifically Islam – plays in this, in this chapter, we retrace and study the recent political attention given to cousin marriage and the evolution of the debate. We argue that the Act Combatting Forced Marriage (specifically regarding cousin marriage), which is presented as a potential solution for a harmful practice (i.e.

46  Oka Storms and Edien Bartels forced marriage), works to exclude certain people from full moral citizenship because of their cultural or religious background. In other words, Muslims cannot be fully part of society: they cannot be Dutch moral citizens. The consequence is that the everyday perspectives and experiences of people who practise cousin marriage remain hidden in a sphere of resistance and unaffected by policies, while the changing perspectives on marriage informed by love (e.g. cousin marriages that are based on love) also remain unnoticed. The structure of this chapter is as follows. We begin by discussing the conceptual and theoretical perspectives and the methodology of the research. This is followed by a summary of the medical risk debate that characterised the discussions around cousin marriage in the Netherlands in the early 2000s. We then address the discourse of forced marriage, which came to frame discussions on consanguinity from 2009 onwards. We describe what was said by politicians and the reaction this received from a juridical and social science standpoint. As often occurs in such debates, the people involved are not heard. For this reason, we have focused our anthropological research on the views relating to cousin marriage expressed by Turkish and Moroccan Dutch. This is presented through extended case studies of two women, Meryem and Sarah, which are referred to throughout this chapter, and with reference to the stories of two more women Nesrin and Gülcen.

Conceptual and Theoretical Perspectives Cousin Marriage and Religion A consanguineous union is usually defined as a union between two individuals related as second cousins or closer (Bittles, 2001). In this chapter, when discussing cousin marriage or consanguineous marriage (terms that are used interchangeably in the literature), we mean marriages first and second cousins. Tillion (1983) points out that, although primarily associated with Islam, the origin of cousin marriage can actually be found in pagan prehistory, which influenced Christianity as well as Islam. Hence, in Western Europe and North America (as primarily Christian), cousin marriages, although few in number, also exist today, particularly in small, closed communities (e.g. see: Taussig, 2009; Shaw & Raz, 2015) and in recent history, cousin marriage was commonplace. Kuper (2008), for instance, discusses Victorian England, where cousin marriages were common and played a crucial role in the rise of the bourgeoisie. Although it has been and remains a widereaching cultural phenomenon, including in Europe, with increased migration to the Netherlands and the establishment of a Muslim second generation, cousin marriage in the country today is primarily associated with Muslim people. Marriage is an important institution in Islam where, in general, relationships between men and women are socially and culturally restricted to family life. There are also rules about who you can and cannot marry. Mahram is the term for people that Muslims cannot marry according to Islam (Surah An-Nisa, 4: pp. 22–24) (see

Cousin Marriage Among Turkish and Moroccan Dutch  47 Leemhuis, 1989, p. 61), while Namahram is the term for the people Muslims can marry. First and second cousins are considered potential spouses; the Prophet Muhammed married his first cousin Zaynab, and the prophet’s daughter married her cousin Ali. But there have been debates about cousin marriages since the time of the Prophet Mohammed. In the Hadith (sayings of the Prophet), arguments can be found, both in favour of and against the practice. Our research in Morocco and in Turkey and on Turkish and Moroccan Dutch people showed that cousin marriages are commonplace and broadly seen as a valued marriage pattern (especially in rural areas) in Morocco and Turkey and among first-generation migrants who have cousin marriages in the Netherlands. However, although Islam does not prescribe this marriage pattern and Islamic theologians and scientific scholars are challenging the preference of cousin marriages, Islam is used to legitimise the preference for marrying cousins. Meanwhile, we see a shift in preference for partner marriage in Morocco and Turkey, and also among the second-generation migrants in the Netherlands (Storms & Bartels, 2015). Cousin Marriage and Love: Mutually Exclusive? Bonjour and de Hart (2013) show how suspicion of forced and arranged marriage has been a recurring theme in Dutch politics since the 1980s. A clear distinction is made between “us” “native” Dutch who advocate for free partner choice, based on romantic love versus “them”, migrant (Muslim) communities who practise arranged and forced marriage. A few comments on this assumption are important here. The connection between “love” and “marriage” is relatively new. For centuries and in many parts of the world, even today, marriage was, and is, not an individual undertaking, but an alliance between two families. It is not the search for “true love” that comes first but finding a partner to secure the family. We came across this type of marriage a lot, especially among our older, often first-generation respondents, and many of them said “love comes after you marry” (De Koning & Bartels, 2005; Storms & Bartels, 2008, 2015). Relationships based on love have always existed (often outside of marriage), but the rise of marriage based on love has its roots in the Western world and is very much part of our society today, as Stephanie Coontz describes in her book Marriage, a History. Coontz (2006) argues that an important reason for its development in the Western world is prosperity, which allows us to consider aspects other than the wellbeing of the family when we search for a partner. Worldwide, in popular culture, one is constantly confronted with views on how love “should be”. In such representations, love in partnership and marriage is the norm. Love is also associated with individualism (as opposed to collectivism) and with modernity (e.g. see: Hirsch & Wardlow, 2006; Giddens, 1992; Donner, 2012). And regarding cousin marriage among migrant communities, the assumption is that these cannot be based on love. In the past ten years, many research projects have shown how partner choice among Dutch migrant communities, especially second- and third-generation Turkish and Moroccan Dutch, is becoming

48  Oka Storms and Edien Bartels more individualised (De Koning & Bartels, 2005; Smits van Waesberge et al., 2014; Sterkx et al., 2014; Storms & Bartels, 2008). In line with this, the research shows that love also seems to be playing an increasingly important role in cousin marriage. Cousin Marriage and Debates: Public and Hidden Transcripts To analyse the complexities of the debate on cousin marriage and the actors involved, we draw on anthropologist James Scott’s work on resistance (1990), which follows Erving Goffman in offering an onstage and offstage metaphor but provides a deeper understanding of underlying power relations.6 Scott (1990) proposes a situation in which what he calls “dominant” and “subaltern” groups both have public and hidden transcripts. The four transcripts can be understood as ways of speaking and behaving that fit particular actors in various social settings, whether dominant or subaltern. The public transcripts appear in an open, public interaction, while the hidden transcripts are critiques that take place offstage. The subaltern, in contrast to the dominant, are described as being relatively weak in the political and economic sense. In the following discussion, government politics can be understood as dominant, and our Moroccan and Turkish Dutch respondents as subaltern. The term subaltern does not mean that members of this group are powerless. As Abu-Lughod (1990, p. 42) states “where there is resistance, there is power”.7 Scott (1990) describes this as “everyday resistance”, which appears in how people act in everyday life, and acts as a means through which to resist and undermine the power of the dominant (Vinthagen & Johansson, 2013). As Vinthagen and Johansson put it: Everyday resistance is not easily recognized like public and collective resistance – such as rebellions and demonstrations – but it is typically hidden and disguised, individual and not politically articulated. (Vinthagen & Johansson, 2013, p. 2) However, the rather simplistic dichotomy of “dominant” and “subaltern” is problematic. First (e.g. as Gal, 1995 notes), the lines of division between subaltern and dominant are impossible to draw because everyone can experience both domination and subordination. Second, dominant and subaltern are not “clearly definable, unified, and separable groups, unambiguously opposed to each other” (Gal, 1995, pp. 416–417). Bearing this in mind, in this chapter, we describe public transcripts and hidden transcripts, and we add concealed transcripts, which we see as a transcript related to, but distinct from, the public transcript. When describing the debates about cousin marriage, we focus on politicians and we do not use the term hidden but rather use the term concealed to refer to the frame in which cousin marriage is discussed: immigration and integration policy, especially regarding Muslim communities. This takes attention away from the population in general,

Cousin Marriage Among Turkish and Moroccan Dutch  49 directing it instead towards to a special group (Muslims) and relates the subject of consanguinity to another subject – immigration and integration – which is negatively framed. This is what we call concealed. The focus on immigration and (potential) immigrants is very public. However, by framing the issue solely in terms of certain groups in society, the issue regarding the population in general is concealed. For example, when talking about the medical risk linked to parental consanguinity, a serious topic for all consanguineous couples, it is not about the population in general, but about “them” (i.e. the migrant communities), and yet healthcare to consanguineous couples is provided for all (regardless of migratory background). Because of their dominant position, politicians can develop transcripts; they can also choose whether, and in what way, transcripts become public (framing), and therefore what is concealed. Conversely, the subaltern do not have this choice. We describe how these transcripts interact via the actors who are involved in the debates surrounding cousin marriage. But before we elaborate on the medical and the forced marriage debates, we first discuss the methodology of our research.

Methodology In this chapter, we offer the perspectives given to us by four women: Meryem, Sarah, Nesrin, and Gülcen, second-generation women that we met during our extensive research project. In seven group discussions, we spoke to 86 first- and second-generation Moroccan and Turkish Dutch women, some of whom were married to their first or second cousins. Three group discussions were held with Moroccan Dutch women, two with Turkish Dutch women, and two with a mixed group, one of which was with women who all had a child (or children) with a disability. The group discussions were organised by ethnic group-specific welfare organisations that support immigrants who want to learn about, and integrate in, Dutch society. Eleven in-depth interviews, including those of Meryem, Sarah, Nesrin, and Gülcen, were conducted with women/couples who were consanguineously married and had either (1) a desire for a child, (2) a healthy child or children, or (3) a disabled child or children. In addition, we interviewed nine key figures from the immigrant groups and four medical practitioners. The research focused on the interviewees’ views on partner choice, the medical risks of consanguineous reproduction, and reproductive options. This research built upon previous research conducted on partner choice, and on arranged and forced marriages among Moroccan and Turkish Dutch (De Koning & Bartels, 2005; De Koning et al., 2011; Storms & Bartels, 2008). Our anthropological research was embedded within the work of an interdisciplinary team. The Community Genetics Department (VU University Medical Center), for example, researched the question of how the risk of having a child with an autosomal recessive disorder in consanguineous unions could be predicted by developing new screening methods (Teeuw et al., 2015) and the Department of Medical Humanities (VU University Medical Center) focused on the ethical aspects of applying genetic knowledge to the field of public health.

50  Oka Storms and Edien Bartels

Cousin Marriage Equals Disabled Children? Public and Concealed Transcripts in Political and Media Debates In recent history, from 2000 onwards, the medical risk attached to cousin ­marriage  has been a topic of significant discussion, and the distinct medical, ­political, and media debates surrounding it have become increasingly intertwined. This ­began with questions being raised with regard to mortality rates among ­children of ­consanguineous couples and it is now generally discussed in terms of genetic risk. In 2001, Schulpen, a paediatrician (see Schulpen et al., 2001), published a study indicating that the perinatal mortality rate was higher in the ­Netherlands than in other countries. This same research also drew a link between the perinatal mortality rate and the consanguinity rate among migrant groups. Perinatal mortality was twice as high among couples with a migratory background when compared to couples with a Dutch background and this was thought to be primarily caused by genetic disorders. The researchers ascribed this phenomenon to consanguineous unions and argued that the respective practice should be discouraged. Around the same time, Eldering (2002) a professor in ­intercultural pedagogy, gave a farewell speech as a professor at a university, in which she alerted the audience to the growing number of Turkish and Moroccan Dutch couples having children with a mental or physical disability due to their parental consanguinity. Based on qualitative research Eldering (2002) (Eldering et al., 1999), like Schulpen et al. (2001), connected parental consanguinity directly to children ­being born with a disability. Furthermore, she argued that many young Turkish and ­Moroccan Dutch feel pressure to marry a partner from the country of origin (of their parents), and this means they often marry a cousin. As Kuper (2008, p. 731) argues regarding a very similar situation concerning Pakistani British: “we might well expect that this debate is not only about health risks. At any rate, it helps to sustain ­another, broader argument about immigration”. And this focus was public. These Dutch research projects in the early 2000s (Eldering 2002; Schulpen et al., 2001) contributed to a moral panic in the media (e.g. see: Genovesi, 2002), the general thread of which Borm (2002) summarised as follows: “migrants hold on to archaic marriage patterns despite the fact that they remain in an intellectual Western society. They still marry a family member, resulting in unnecessary high perinatal morality among their children”. Thus, again like the UK, cousin marriage “is taken to be a defining feature of ‘Islamic culture’, and it is blamed not only for overloading the health service but also for resistance to integration and cultural stagnation” (Kuper, 2008, p. 731). Borm (2002) describes how this media attention to marriage behaviour was accompanied by the publication of international research on the topic (Bennett et al., 2002; Modell & Darr, 2002). This ­research offered further insight into the potential medical implications of ­parental consanguinity revealing that the actual risks were much lower than ­assumed and that the disorders associated with consanguinity differed. The health risks related to parental consanguinity are often overestimated by lay people (Ten Kate et al., 2015). Though some risk does exist, it has been

Cousin Marriage Among Turkish and Moroccan Dutch  51 ­

Although the percentage of infant deaths ascribed to paternal consanguinity in the first year is very low, the disorders it can contribute to can have an enormous impact on the child and family. The RIVM advocated genetic counselling (preferably before pregnancy) and possible genetic screening, especially in case of consanguineous couples but also for other couples who may be at risk (Teeuw et al., 2015; Waelput & Achterberg, 2007). Teeuw et al. (2015) write that, although there seems to be a consensus based on the outcome of the RIVM study, neither the government nor the policy makers have (yet) taken any action. Preconception care, for example, by midwives and general practitioners, is still not uniformly organised and is not systematically reaching those couples who might benefit from it. Moreover, it is dependent on the individual qualities of caregivers and an active request being made by a couple (Teeuw et al., 2015, p. 207). Public and Hidden Transcripts of our Respondents In public, members of migrant communities in the Netherlands are rarely heard talking about the medical risks related to parental consanguinity: the association with (Muslim) migrant groups, Islam, and the negative connotations appear to be a barrier to discuss it openly. In Morocco and Turkey, this is different; the medical risk seems to be more openly discussed, with discourses of both acceptance

52  Oka Storms and Edien Bartels and denial (Storms & Bartels, 2013). Moreover, primarily seen in studies from the Middle East, medical risk is seen as a given and the boundaries of Islam in relation to testing and reproductive options are explored (e.g. see: Clarke, 2006; Inhorn, 2006, 2011; Inhorn et al., 2012). But the Netherlands, as a multicultural society, has a very different dynamic than that of Muslim majority societies. As noted, it comes with negative connotations surrounding cousin marriage, which is linked (Muslim) migrants and (moral) citizenship, which is reflected in the accounts given by our respondents. The following two cases illustrate the hidden ­transcripts that our respondents have, namely, a reluctance to talk to primary care professionals about their consanguineous relationship and any possible medical risk. Meryem’s case in particular demonstrates the hardships facing a couple in the  high-risk  category and Sarah’s exemplifies the questions surrounding medical risk. Meryem Thirty-year-old Meryem was born and raised in the Netherlands and is married to her first cousin, 31-year-old Kerem, who was born and raised in central Turkey and moved to the Netherlands after marrying Meryem. She and her husband have a busy life: both are working, and they are raising their young twins. Before their twins were born, they had lost two children to different autosomal recessive disorders, neither of which had been known to be in the family. They had, therefore, no way to identify an extra risk or screen for it. Before the children were conceived, the couple had no preconception care or advice around the significance of them being cousins, nor did they mention this to their general practitioner or midwife. They had, however, heard about the increased risk facing the offspring of consanguineous parents. Meryem explained, “We knew it. Yes, the chance exists. But you think “it will not happen to me”. It feels so far away, and you love each other, and you want to have children”. Like Meryem and her husband, our other respondents were all aware of the medical risk related to cousin marriage and adopted various positions ranging from acknowledging and accepting the risk to doubting whether there was, in fact, any increased medical risk at all. For those who did accept the risk, this did not compel them to marry outside the family. “Acceptance” does not mean that the medical risk has taken priority in their discourses and practices. Rather, it is often considered to be simply one of the many risks one faces in life or is explained in terms of fate (Storms & Bartels, 2015). After losing their first two children, Meryem and her husband had genetic counselling and decided to try IVF with PGD,8 which resulted in them having healthy twins. To get the treatment, they went to Turkey because of, among other reasons, the long waiting list in the Netherlands. Having experienced it, they were very positive about the option of IVF with PGD. Other respondents considered this option to be the most acceptable of the medical reproductive options for Muslims9 (Verdonk et al., 2018).

Cousin Marriage Among Turkish and Moroccan Dutch  53 Sarah Twenty-four-year-old Sarah was born and raised in the Netherlands and her parents are from urban central Morocco. She married her first cousin four years ago and now they have a one-year-old daughter. Her 33-year-old husband lived in Morocco prior to their marriage. Like the majority of our respondents, Sarah considers the primary risk related to consanguineous marriages to be that it can cause a rift in the family if the marriage ends in a divorce (Storms & Bartels, 2015). The secondary risk is that of having children with a disability: “I’ve heard that when you marry your cousin, you’ll have disabled children. I found that very scary, but my child is perfectly healthy”. Sarah explains that she read about it on the internet: “It was very scary to me when I was pregnant. But it’s not true, there is nothing going on”. When asked if she had spoken to a general practitioner or midwife about her concerns, she said: No, I didn’t say it then because I was very scared and I thought that when I would say something, they would do more research and they would find something. And I thought, “I’ll let it be but if it’s so [her child having a disability] I’ll just accept it”. As well as many of our other respondents, Sarah looks to her surroundings for examples and concludes that not all consanguineous couples have disabled children and that non-consanguineous couples also have disabled children (see also Storms & Bartels, 2013, 2015). During the interview, it becomes clear that Sarah did have some knowledge of the risk related to parental consanguinity, but she did not have a clear grasp of it: Sometimes, you can marry a stranger and then there is something similar in your blood, then you also have increased risk. So, you don’t have to be cousins. It has something to do with your blood. But of course, you do have increased risk if you’re cousins. Then you have more of the same blood. What is striking about Sarah’s story is that she still fears that there might be a risk (for a future child) but is discouraged from talking about it to primary care professionals by her mother who commented during Sarah’s pregnancy “yes there is a risk, but now you are pregnant and shouldn’t worry too much about it”. She had a similar reaction from her husband, who also acknowledged the risk but argued that she shouldn’t worry so much about it and that people must accept it when it happens to them. Furthermore, Sarah took the advice of a neighbour, also married to a cousin, who told her: “If a midwife hears that you’re family, they’ll always do extra things, and I didn’t want that”. Her neighbour told her that midwives often ask Moroccan and Turkish Dutch women if they’re married to their cousin and, according to her: “If you say yes, they’ll do extra research, also blood research, and also your husbands. And it’s so much hassle, so she [neighbour]

54  Oka Storms and Edien Bartels said: ‘you don’t have to say it’, and then I didn’t”, Sarah explained. During our conversation, slowly but surely, Sarah’s extant fear came to the fore. She was afraid of the possibility of having children with a disorder due to parental consanguinity coming to the fore. She became visibly nervous, and we discussed her fears (and I connected her with a geneticist specialised in parental consanguinity to answer all her questions). Meryem and Sarah do not openly contest laws or customs. In public, outside their family and friends circle, they hide the fact that they are married to their cousins. Sarah is afraid of the consequences and Meryem explained that she knows how “they” think. Remarkably, not only do our respondents frequently express reluctance to discuss the topic, Teeuw et al. (2012) found that although Dutch primary health care professionals considered it their task to inform couples about the risks, the topic was often only briefly discussed. Some of the reasons for this were related to the professionals’ beliefs about the religious and social values of the couples, their low perception of the reproductive risk, and the belief that making any referral for support would be of limited use. In addition, the majority of health care workers found consanguinity “inappropriate”. We’d like to make two remarks. First, public disapproval by the dominant ­sectors of society appears to influence the openness shown by our respondents with regard to their choice of marriage partner. Second, in the study by Teeuw et al. (2012), dominant negative opinions on cousin marriage held by primary care professionals also appeared to influence the way that professionals discuss topics such as heredity, preconception screening, and reproductive options.

Cousin Marriage Equals Forced Marriage? Public and Concealed Transcripts in Political Debates In politics, the shift towards addressing cousin marriage in relation to forced ­marriage rather than in terms of medical risk started in 2009. At that time, the government announced that it intended to explore the possibilities of taking ­legal measures to counteract forced marriage and drew up a draft law, which was adopted by subsequent governments and became law in 2015. The public ­transcript is that this measure will help to counteract forced marriage; however, we argue that the proposed measures are framed within immigration and integration ­policy. That is to say, what is presented as challenging a harmful practice is in fact excluding p­ eople from full citizenship and belonging in society on religious grounds. The 2010 Coalition Agreement (Cabinet Rutte I) stated under the paragraph “­Immigration: family migration” that “in principle, cousin marriages will be prohibited”. Thus, although it says that cousin marriages in general will be prohibited, the paragraph under which it is stated indicates that these measures are not intended to prohibit cousin marriages among “natives”, but among “them”, i.e. the migrant ­communities. This is what we refer to in this chapter as the concealed ­transcript. Here, it is important to note that cousin marriages in the Dutch population in general are also concealed; they are barely mentioned. There are, however,

Cousin Marriage Among Turkish and Moroccan Dutch  55 ­

The section of the draft law containing the part on cousin marriage was criticised on several different grounds (political, scientific, juridical, and social). Many questions were raised, such as what corroborative material is available to support the link between consanguinity and forced marriage? (First Chamber, 2014; Kool, 2012; Rutten, 2014). Several recent qualitative research projects provided real insight into partner choice, arranged marriages, and forced marriage among migrant groups, and about cousin marriage (e.g. see: De Koning & Bartels, 2005; Smits van Waesberghe et al., 2014; Sterckx & Bouw, 2005; Storms & Bartels, 2008). A critical point here is that the idea that cousin marriages are mostly arranged marriages, and that they are therefore more likely to be forced, is merely an assumption; there is no statistical research to support this (e.g. see: Rutten, 2014). In an attempt to close this gap in data, the Dutch government initiated a number of research projects (see Smits van Waesberghe et al., 2014; Sterckx et al., 2014). Smits van Waesberghe et al. (2014) tried to gain insight into the actual number of forced marriages in the Netherlands by making an “educated guess” based on national research among professionals.10 The study suggested that between 674 and 1914 forced marriages take place per year, but how many of this total were thought to be cousin marriages was not specified. Rather than research identifying a specific link between forced marriage and cousin marriage, the practice is instead simply included within the definition offered in the law, i.e., that forced marriage refers to underage marriage, polygamy, and cousin marriage (Act Combatting Forced Marriage). A second point relates to international obligations. Rutten (2014, see also Kool, 2012) argues that, from a juridical perspective, there are fundamental interests at stake regarding forced marriages that justify the intervention of the legislator; however, the measures chosen also affect other very significant and fundamental interests. Specifically, the right to marry (and have a family) and the right to a family life, which is secured in several Human Rights conventions.11 Rutten (2014) states that, with these measures, a larger group is affected than necessary and therefore the law is disproportionate. Third, several parties (e.g. see: First Chamber, 2014; Rutten, 2014) have questioned the extent to which this law will counteract forced marriage as the degree of kinship between spouses is not registered in the Netherlands, and it will therefore be impossible for a wedding officer to check this. There is also no reason to assume the marriage officer asking if the marriage is by free choice will have a positive effect. A recent evaluation of the law (Rutten et al., 2019) confirmed this and, as Rutten (2014) noted, the law could create a greater barrier to asking for help because the intended spouses have potentially committed perjury by swearing under oath that the marriage was by free choice. The law is therefore

56  Oka Storms and Edien Bartels sometimes referred to by politicians as symbolic and political. All these questions and concerns were overlooked when the law was accepted by the First Chamber because of the urgent matter of Syrian child brides. This resulted in a law that is based on assumptions, that contradicts human rights, and that operates in a way that can be counterproductive with regard to challenging this harmful practice. For example, Rutten (2014) argued that, from a juridical perspective, there are fundamental interests at stake regarding forced marriages that justify the intervention of the legislator; however, the measures chosen effect other, very significant and fundamental, interests. Specifically, the right to marry (and have a family) and the right to a family life is secured in several Human Rights conventions. By limiting these negative implications to migrants, the law and its application exclude migrants and their second generation from full moral citizenship and belonging in the Netherlands, based on their religion. Public and Hidden Transcripts of our Respondents Nesrin, a 26-year-old woman, born in Turkey and raised in the Netherlands, is married to her first cousin. Nesrin explained that their families introduced her to her husband as a possible marriage partner. They got to know each other, fell in love, and married. Nesrin offered the following comment regarding the (then proposed) law: In my opinion politics have other things to deal with. […] Because I see these sort of proposals [the then proposed law], not to enhance the wellbeing of allochthonous groups in the Netherlands, or in the end also of autochthonous groups. But I see it more as a barrier to counteract marriage migration, to make it more difficult. And they cannot forbid it, so they start looking for ways to decrease it. Nesrin went on to list a number of things that the government could instead focus on, such as the economic crisis, and concluded by saying: “I think that is more important than worrying about cousins who love each other. I find it very strange that they talk about that”. Nesrin stated that her marriage can be typified as arranged, while at the same time emphasising the role of romance and love in her story. What free partner choice, arranged marriage, and forced marriage entail is not black and white, and neither is it clear what role cousin marriage plays in each. As argued by Casier et al. (2013), there is no simple dichotomy between romantic marriage and an instrumental marriage, the two are intertwined. In practice, arranged marriages range from young people taking their “own initiative” but with their parents’ permission, to marriages that are arranged but that are concluded by free choice (like Nesrin’s), to “planned” marriages arranged by the family with (almost) no influence from the prospective spouses (De Koning & Bartels, 2005; Qureshi, 1991). The latter is often assumed to be associated with cousin marriage, and marrying a cousin (in migrant communities) is, according to the classification in the new law, assumed to often be forced.

Cousin Marriage Among Turkish and Moroccan Dutch  57 During our research, we heard many stories from across the spectrum of partner choice. What was striking was that almost all of our respondents had transnational marriages. Migration has given cousin marriage “a new rationale for an old practice” (Reniers, 2001, p. 37). The traditional reason – keeping wealth in the family – has, for some, been replaced by a transnational strategy to bring family members to Europe and to create security for marriage partners in a new environment. Gülcen’s story, at the start of this chapter, can be typified as a forced marriage. While Nesrin’s story, although her family had similar motives, can be typified as an arranged marriage concluded by free choice. It should be noted, however, that while Nesrin describes her acceptance of the marriage in terms of love, there is some discussion as to what extent young people in this context actually do have freedom of choice (e.g. Sterkcx & Bouw, 2005). However, we also found stories outside this spectrum – stories about romance and love motivating a cousin marriage rather than any family interest. Meryem Meryem spoke affectionately how she and Kerem fell in love: He was in military service [at that time, in Turkey]. And I went on holiday [to Turkey] after not visiting [Turkey] for many years. And he visited his parents during his holiday. And we saw each other, and that was… the spark caught on. That was about ten years ago. As children, they saw each other during holidays in rural central Turkey, where Meryem’s parents grew up and Kerem lived. However, they hadn’t seen each other for years before they met again in their early twenties when they fell in love and got engaged. Meryem said: “I fell in love with him for who he is, not because he is my cousin. Of course, you do know him, you know who he is”. Meryem talks in terms of love. In their family, they are the only ones who have married as cousins. Like other young respondents in our research, Meryem had somewhat mixed feelings about marrying a cousin: she expressed that she did not fully understand why she fell in love with her cousin: “I had some difficulties with it. Well, not really difficulties, but just, I found the idea a bit strange. But afterwards, not anymore”. INTERVIEWER: “Why did you find it a bit strange in the beginning?” MERYEM: “Well, because you think… well, because we are not used to it here [in the Netherlands]. Being family, you know, Meryem says laughing. But there [Turkey] it is very normal”. MERYEM:

It is public disapproval that deters Meryem from telling colleagues at work that she is married to her cousin, and Meryem has only confided in one or two colleagues. “I don’t really have the need to tell them”, she said, and then went on to explain that she feels her colleagues would automatically assume it was an arranged or

58  Oka Storms and Edien Bartels forced marriage: “Because I was born here, I just know what it’s like. How they can think. Because they just really, they measure everyone by the same standards. So, I don’t talk about it”. Sarah Sarah and her cousin did not really know each other. They had met when they were children, but she had no vivid memories of him. When she went on holiday to Morocco at age 17, they saw each other again. Her cousin liked her, called her, and they stayed in touch. Sarah said, “The initiative came from him, but I also liked him”. Like Meryem, Sarah had mixed feelings about liking her cousin: “I thought ‘no, he’s my cousin’. I always said, ‘I’ll never marry my cousin or somebody from Morocco’. I had never expected it from myself, but I did want it myself eventually”. They married three years later when Sarah was 20 years old. During this time, they had a lot of contact and Sarah visited him during the summer holidays: “Because he’s family my father didn’t really mind. Because normally, when you have a boyfriend, you can’t just say to your father ‘I’m visiting my boyfriend in Morocco’”. Sarah’s father harboured doubts about the marriage because her cousin lived in Morocco, and it would be a challenge to bring him to the Netherlands. He also thought Sarah was too young for such a big step. But they left the decision to her, she explained. Some older and distant family members of hers had married within the family, but none of the younger generation had, and marrying a cousin had never been an option for Sarah. Now that they are married, Sarah does not consider her husband to be a cousin: I don’t see my husband as family. Sometimes you grow up together with your cousins and they become more like brothers and sisters. Then you are so close, you do not think about marriage. That’s why I always thought: “I will never marry a cousin”. But him [husband], I didn’t know. I didn’t think “oh, it’s a cousin or a brother”. We encountered the sentiment of this last comment made by Sarah among many of our respondents. Among the women who had married their cousin out of love, all had married their cousin in the country of origin (of their parents). Many respondents, not only young women, but also first-generation mothers, excluded a cousin that they grew up with as a marriage partner because they regarded cousins as siblings, and marriage with one of them would be incest. However, if there is no emotional proximity to the cousin, and this is combined with geographical distance, a cousin can be an eligible spouse (Storms & Bartels, 2015). A similar pattern was found by Charsley (2007) among British Pakistanis. Whether a person is considered “to feel like family” (as opposed to “being family”) seems to be act as indicator that they are not suitable to marry. If a person does not feel like family, a romantic relationship with them can develop (Storms & Bartels, 2015). This was the case for Meryem and Sarah, and Nesrin summarised the point as follows: I think it is actually very simple. If you don’t know somebody, and you get to know this person, even if it’s your cousin, he doesn’t feel like your cousin. It’s

Cousin Marriage Among Turkish and Moroccan Dutch  59 the same with having a grandmother in Brazil and you never see her, then she doesn’t feel like a grandmother. A grandmother is only a grandmother if you can go and visit her, taste her dishes, lie on her lap and stay over. Sometimes a neighbour can mean a lot to you; you can also say grandmother to her. A blood tie does not say much, in my opinion. These young women redefine the boundaries of who you can and cannot marry and, within these boundaries, love is a central concept. Furthermore, the grounds on which one marries a cousin are also shifting. Although these women mention some advantages, i.e., the “traditional” reasons for marrying within the family, these reasons do not play an important role in their stories, as Nesrin explains: Previously, it was normal everywhere [in Turkey] to marry your cousin. Because the property stayed within the family and […] it had many advantages. […] But we youngsters, who live in the Netherlands, we have no stake in this property in Turkey, it doesn’t interest us. Of course, cousin marriage has become a transnational strategy for immigration, but this is just part of the story. “New” partner choice patterns have developed that incorporate the different norms of the society in which these young people live: cousins are viewed as appropriate spouses, on the one hand, but, on the other hand, feelings of love can also come into conflict with other emotions relating to the perceived inappropriateness of cousin marriage in the Netherlands. To conclude, a proportion of our respondents demonstrated everyday resistance to the dominant society’s moral norm of not marrying a cousin. The stories of these young women, however, are strongly influenced by this moral norm. These women explained that they are or were conflicted about their choice: not wanting to marry a cousin, but then falling in love and doing just that. They decided to hide the fact that they had married a cousin in public, and in this sense, it is a hidden act. While according to the law cousin marriage and the moral norm of love are presented as being mutually exclusive, these stories reveal a conformity to the moral norm of love within cousin marriages. Among politicians in the Netherlands, there is a perception that cousin marriage and forced marriage are intrinsically linked, and because of this, these dynamics are overlooked in politics and law-making. The idea that cousins can and do marry out of choice and because they love one another is rarely even considered. Nonetheless, our findings correspond with the broader dynamics in partner choice among young people in migrant communities that other studies have shown (e.g. see: Smits van Waesberge et al., 2014). The public and concealed transcripts of politics unfortunately obscure these dynamics.

Conclusion In a multicultural society like the Netherlands, consanguinity can be seen as a contested norm-setting concept. It is contested because people disagree with one

60  Oka Storms and Edien Bartels another about the desirability of consanguinity, and it is norm-setting because it marks different values for groups. While it is a common and sometimes even preferable type of union for some, it is strongly disapproved of by others. The boundaries of these groups, however, are not clear-cut. De Koning et al. (2014) showed that while cousin marriages among “them” (migrants) is associated with incest and inbreeding and is considered a “harmful practice”, cousin marriage among “us” (native Dutch) is either explained in terms of “true love”, downplayed as an unusual practice in one “stupid village” or even denied altogether (De Koning et al., 2014). We have described this as acting to exclude certain people – Dutch Muslims – from full moral citizenship because of their cultural religious background. Cousin marriage is a political concern that, in recent history, has been discussed in relation to medical risk (from the early 2000s onwards) and in relation to forced marriage (since 2009). The latter resulted in an item in the Forced Marriage (Prevention) Act (2015), in which marriage between cousins is made more complicated. In this chapter, we described the public and concealed transcripts in political debates, and the public and hidden transcripts of our respondents around cousin marriage, and the interrelation between the two. Asymmetric power relations mean that politicians are in a more dominant position and can therefore develop transcripts and choose whether to make them public for a broad audience or, alternatively, conceal them. The women in this chapter do not have this option, but on an individual level, they can decide what to hide and when with regard to their marriage. However, the public and concealed transcripts of politics, as well as the sentiments held in the dominant culture, play an important role in what women choose to make part of their public transcript. First, we argue that the public and concealed transcripts contained in political debates result in a further distinction being made between who “we” are and who “they” are, with “them’ – primarily Muslims – not being moral citizens. While the change in addressing cousin marriage (from medical risk to forced marriage) in politics might seem strange at first glance, when you take a closer look at the concealed transcript, the thread that links these debates is the focus on immigrants and immigration and integration politics, especially with regard to Muslim communities. The framing of consanguinity within immigration and integration diverts us from the population in general, where there are similar issues. Thus, it conceals the part about “us” and, because the law on forced marriage incorporates cousin marriage, the double standards for citizens and “non-citizens” (i.e. people who are not considered moral citizens) is institutionalised. In other words, it is an example of how citizenship is culturalised. Second, we argue that public politics does not do justice to either issue: not to the medical issues related to parental consanguinity, or in the promotion of “free partner choice” as part of the political strategy to counteract forced marriages. We have described how the current scientific debate (among geneticists regarding the medical issues related to consanguinity, for example) is barely taken into account when political choices are being made. The health risks related to parental consanguinity were, and are still, often overstated. In the medical debate, the

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highly increased risk that had been ascribed to migrants has been reassessed, with the general view now being that the risk is comparable to other risks in the general population. This does not mean that there should not be any action taken to contact consanguineous couples, as it can be a very serious issue as the stories of Meryem and Sarah illustrate. In the development of the new law, the juridical and social science perspective on forced marriage and cousin marriage was, in part, also ignored. The link between forced marriage and cousin marriage has not been clearly substantiated, and in light of this, as Rutten (2014) noted, the juridical measures taken are disproportionate and affect other very significant and fundamental interests. Finally, we argue that the law, which was aimed at broadening partner choice, in reality limits it. As the stories of the women in this chapter show, there is a broad spectrum of partner choice in relation to cousin marriage. By maintaining stereotypical views on cousin marriage in migrant groups – linking them to forced marriages and therefore labelling them as a “harmful practice” – we fail to see the full spectrum of dynamics in partner choice that may be present. Dynamics in which, for instance, cousin marriage and love are not mutually exclusive, but rather can coexist. The stories of Meryem and Sarah, however, illustrate how public and concealed transcripts in politics, as well as sentiments among dominant sectors of society, can exert a great influence on their choice of what to make part of their public and hidden transcripts. Ironically, it results in them hiding their choice of partner, one who was chosen in a morally approved way (i.e. for love) because the choice they made (a cousin) is not deemed morally acceptable.

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Notes 1 This chapter has been adapted from a chapter in the thesis Muslim women navigating marriage. A study of women in Northeast Morocco and Dutch Moroccan and Turkish Women in the Netherlands by Oka Storms, 2016, VU University Amsterdam. 2 With the arrival of (primarily) Syrian refugees in 2015–2016, the Netherlands was confronted with child brides being legally reunited with, and joining, their older husbands in Asylum Centres. Until the introduction of the Wet tegengaan huwelijksdwang, under Dutch law, marriages were acknowledged when the marriage was valid in the country of origin, even in the case of child marriages. In the discourse that emerged, some argued that the Netherlands was condoning paedophilia, and the First Chamber rushed to bring the law into effect (October 2015) in order to provide a legal tool to protect child brides. In the Netherlands, when a law is proposed to the First Chamber,

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they can only adopt or decline the law, not amend it. In this case, because the issue of child marriage was politically charged (and despite significant criticism), the decision to adopt the law was made quickly. It is unknown how many cousin marriages occur in the Netherlands because there are no national figures on consanguineous marriages. There is a study in which pregnant women in Rotterdam were asked about the relationship with their partner, the Generation R study, a longitudinal study of growth, development, and health of approximately 10,000 growing children in Rotterdam, born between 2002 and 2006 (see www.generationr.nl). This research showed that 23.9% of Turkish and 22.2% of Moroccan pregnant women were married to a relative, approximately 12% to a full cousin and the rest to a second cousin or other relative. Among women of Dutch descent, 0.1% of the partners were related (Waelput & Achterberg, 2007). In the Netherlands, forced marriages is also a relevant factor in relation to those with a Hindu background, although debates tend to focus on Islam. It is difficult to identify how many forced marriages take place in the Netherlands. Estimates for the years 2011 and 2012, for example, range from a lower limit of 674 to an upper limit of 1914 (Smits van Waesberghe et al., 2014). Sociologist Erving Goffman (1978) uses the dramaturgical metaphor of frontstage and backstage, arguing that “presentation is structured by spaces which provide sensory cues, or frames that instruct the participants on appropriate ways to perform. This information is sent back and forth between parties until a ‘working consensus’ emerges on which behaviours are appropriate and which would meet disapproval” (Gal, 1995). Frontstage is in the spotlight and therefore vulnerable for disapproval, while backstage is a safe space. Abu-Lughod (1990) reverses Foucault (1978, pp. 95–96) here, who states that “where there is power, there is resistance” (cited in Abu-Lughod, 1990, p. 42). Furthermore Abu-Lughod (1990, p. 42) cautions against “the tendency to romantise resistance, to read all forms of resistance as signs of the ineffectiveness of systems of power and of the resilience and creativity of the human spirit in its refusal to be dominated”. She argues that “resistance should be used as a diagnostic of power”. In vitro fertilisation (IVF) combined with pre-implementation genetic diagnosis (PGD). Most common options: (1) refraining from having children, (2) termination of pregnancy (TOP) after prenatal genetic diagnosis (PND), (3) IVF combined with PGD, (4) IVF with a donor egg cell, (5) artificial insemination with donor sperm (AID), (6) adoption, or (7) not taking any special measures or preparing for the possibility of having a disabled child (Verdonk et al., 2018). According to the estimate by Smits van Waesberghe et al. (2014), between 674 and 1914 forced marriages took place in the years 2011 and 2012 (although these numbers have several bottlenecks, as described by the researchers). Though the number of cousin marriages among the forced marriages was not specified, some professionals did mention cases of force when the parents arranged the marriage with family. For example, Article 12 of the Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms states: “Men and women of marriageable age have the right to marry and to found a family, according to the national laws governing the exercise of this right”.

4

The Implications of the Securitisation of Mosques for Transformative Masculine Attitudes Towards Harmful Cultural Practices in the UK Tamsin Bradley and Ottis Mubaiwa

Introduction This chapter outlines research from a study based in Birmingham, UK. It presents evidence critiquing the impact of the Home Office’s Prevent CounterTerrorism Strategy (henceforth, Prevent) on and for the eradication of forms of violent cultural practices. The evidence presented suggests that counter-terrorist strategies of this kind have closed down mosque spaces in which men gather, thereby limiting the possibilities for critical inter- and cross-generational conversations regarding difficult and sensitive topics such as the continuation of female genital mutilation (FGM) and forced marriage (FM). The study sought to explore the reach and influence British Imams have in shaping the views held among their male congregation in relation to FM for Pakistani communities and FGM for Somali communities. During the early stages of the interview process, it became clear that the ten Imams and ten congregation members interviewed in Birmingham Mosques all felt their influence had been severely hampered by the Prevent programme, particularly by the manner in which surveillance operations were taking place inside their mosques. This was limiting their leadership role and the potential to create spaces in which challenging discussions could take place. They claimed that prior to Prevent, mosque spaces could be used to host controversial conversations on issues such as harmful cultural practices. In one instance, for example, a leading FGM activist organisation that ran sessions inside a mosque had to stop all activities because wide knowledge of surveillance meant nobody was willing to engage in open discussions for fear of being reported. We argue in this chapter that closing down conversations on harmful practices, specifically in this case between men, does not and will not reduce such instances of violence against women and girls. The constraints that Imams feel they are under further distances them from younger Muslim men who no longer feel connected to the worldview projected by their religious leaders. Instead, our research also shows, in line with other research, that young Muslims turn to internet Imams, some of whom hold much more extreme views, particularly on the issue of gender equality. The highly conservative Islamic views that flourish on the internet will further embed the structural inequalities that allow practices such as FGM

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246046-4

The Implications of the Securitisation of Mosques  67 and FM to continue, thereby contributing to sustaining the gendered violence experienced by Muslim women and girls. This chapter does not suggest that the Imams, who are often highly patriarchal themselves in their gendered outlook, are commonly champions of women’s rights. Rather it is arguing that engaging men in discussions about the harmful impact of FGM and FM is critically important for the removal of these forms of violence against women and girls. The research shows that Prevent has reduced the opportunities for men to discuss issues of cultural practices shutting down the possibilities for grass-roots change. Furthermore, as these community spaces close, others have opened in the virtual world with a growth in the number of internet Imams (Choudhury, 2007). There is a growing body of research that highlights the dangerous and radical views asserted by these figures, including fundamentalist ideologies that are, more often than not, played out on and through women’s bodies with destructive effect (e.g. see: Bradley & Kirmani, 2014). Given the amount of funding at global and national levels that is now being focussed on ending FGM and FM, it is important to acknowledge that the impact of the securitisation agenda is running counter to these campaigns and programmes. This chapter begins by reviewing research that explores the implications of the Prevent securitisation agenda on and for Muslim communities in Britain. This is followed by an exploration of the reasons why engaging men in conversations about cultural practices that impact on women is so critical in the process of ending them. We have little understanding of the roles different men play in supporting or resisting gendered practices, and for this reason, we sought to gain insights into how open Mosques are to facilitating discussions on these issues and the influence Imams have over them. Our findings are then presented as a case study. The conclusion to this chapter reasserts the central argument: Prevent has contributed to closing down spaces that once existed inside Mosques in which men could share thoughts and challenge aspects of their culture that they may have found harmful. In turn, this has served to render women more vulnerable to male authority and the violence that comes with it.

The Securitisation of Mosques The role of mosques in UK society has undergone a number of transformations as the first wave of male migrants settled and had families. Mosques then had to evolve to cater to the growing needs of more diverse and cross-generational Muslims communities (Muslim Council of Britain, 2003). The transformation is described by Brown (2008) as a shift from providing male migrants with a safe place of refuge to express their religious identity into sites of socialisation providing opportunities for social cohesion and continuity across generations (see also Wardak, 2002; Werber, 1996; Mcloughlin, 2005). As Brown (2008) writes: “Mosques act as a crucial focal point for the realisation of Islamic Identities at the community level serving a symbolic function as devotional sites” (Brown, 2008,

68  Tamsin Bradley and Ottis Mubaiwa p. 1). Mosques are also, according to Humayun Ansari (2004), sites for social and political campaigning urging a change to better support and include Muslim minorities in wider society and specifically in national decision-making processes. This picture of mosques as important spaces for the expression of agency and the mobilisation of minority religious and ethnic voices is contradicted by the security lens, which now regards mosques as a problem. They are problem because the spaces they provide are seen as being vulnerable to the influence of radical Imams who use them as platforms to articulate a “risky” worldview (Ansari, 2004). The particular way in which the state interprets and then translates this concept of security risk is two-fold; it is a physical threat but also poses a risk in the form of radical ideologies. As Malmvig (2005), Wæver (1995), Buzan et al. (1998), and Hayward (2006) have observed, securitisation is not about the immediate urgency of a threat, but rather it is invoked in a number of dramatised ways in order to alert the public that our world as we know it is under threat from the ideas and worldviews of others who are assumed not to share “our” Western liberal values. In short, the supportive social space that the mosque came to represent for Muslim communities has now become the focal point for the Prevent security agenda. These spaces are seen as sites for indoctrination, ironically because of the way in which they embrace opportunities for discussion and interaction between different Muslim perspectives. As Maussen (2005) notes, they are seen as “shelters for extremism”, outside of the control of democratic processes, or as Brown (2008) argues they are thought to operate like parallel societies.

The Importance of Engaging Men in Ending FGM and FM This chapter is concerned with the impact the securitisation of mosques has for and on the eradication of harmful cultural practices observed by some Muslim communities. The research cited above illustrates that there is a conflation of integration and security, which can also be seen in the repositioning of mosques as dangerous spaces. This has resulted, as our research also highlights, in a reduction in the opportunities for men to express freely their views on issues of harmful cultural practices (HCPs). Global literature on violence against women and girls, specifically what works to end it, increasingly points to the importance of engaging men in the process (e.g. see: Flood, 2011). In order to do this, men from different age groups and across the socio-economic spectrum must be encouraged to have conversations about gender. In particular, it is important that they consider the role and position of women in their community, and their own relationships with them. Behavioural change programmes that focus on shifting male attitudes highlight the importance of nurturing spaces in which men reflect on the behavioural norms that govern their attitudes towards women and begin to challenge each other, supporting each other in a process of reflecting on the necessity and “harm” of certain actions (Lefkowitz et al., 2014). Islamic masculinities are typically challenged on a number of fronts. It is important, however, to acknowledge that (as in any cultural and/or religious context) a singular masculinity does not exist in Islam (Charsley, 2005) and that

The Implications of the Securitisation of Mosques  69 the reproduction of masculinities is itself gendered and shaped by political and economic factors. Constructs of masculinity in Islam are undoubtedly also shaped by Islamophobia (Said, 1978). Said talked about an “Arab other” constructed out of fear and projected towards the “menace of Jihad” (Hussain & Bagguley, 2012, p. 12). The binary outlined by Said located Muslims as “aberrant” understood as “inferior” to the West, which in contrast is depicted as “rational developed and superior”. Practices such as FGM and FM feed into this destructive binary and add yet another layer to the anti-Muslim men discourse. Research on masculinities attests that an array of different characteristics and attitudes exist even within one religious grouping. It therefore makes sense that no one singular view on HCPs will exist between men. In fact, there are highly contentious and varied views even within groups of young Muslims who share peer networks (French et al., 2012). What we know is that men need to feel safe to express their views with each other (as do women) and this must be seen as part of a transformative process of change in which the views of those against FGM and FM gain audibility and challenge the legitimisation and continuation of such harmful practices. The process of securitising Muslim citizens that Hussain and Bagguley (2012) discuss runs counter to reducing violence against women and girls within ­Muslim communities. Similarly, the conflation of culture and religion in shaping this ­public security ­discourse is unhelpful for many reasons, not least because it stops us from acquiring a nuanced understanding of why specific harmful practices exist. ­Unfortunately, public political and media discourses in the UK have co-opted FGM and FM as useful examples of why we should continue to scrutinise and ­securitise Muslim citizens in an attempt to stamp out such violence. To be clear, this chapter is arguing that the agency of Muslim men to challenge HCPs in their own right is diminished by and through this public discourse around security, which is driven from outside of Muslim communities. As we will move on to discuss, the securitisation agenda has rendered Muslim women more vulnerable to such violence because it has removed the spaces in which communities openly discussed these practices. Spaces in which male (and female) change-agents from within could otherwise have actively challenged the mindsets that normalise practices such as FGM and FM.

Case Study: The Securitisation of Mosques in Birmingham In this study, we explored the impact of Prevent on and for a reduction in HCP within Muslim Pakistani and Somali communities in Birmingham, UK, through 20 interviews with Imams in the city and 20 further interviews with male m ­ embers of the mosques. The choice of Pakistani and Somali communities relates to the relatively high prevalence of FM and FGM in the two communities, respectively. We did not interview women, primarily because so much less is known about the views of men when it comes to HCP (see Bradley, 2011; Burridge, 2015; ­Bodian, 2015). We intended that this research would contribute to the growing view within the end violence against women space that male engagement is crucial to the goal of eliminating harm against women and girls.

70  Tamsin Bradley and Ottis Mubaiwa Data was collected over a five-month period (November 2014 to March 2015) and interview lengths varied (between 45 minutes and 1 hour 10 minutes) depending on the interviewee’s availability. The first stage involved a pilot study to check whether the design of the instrument yielded the results desired and was ethically sounds (i.e. did not cause any distress or negative reaction in the participants). The ethics of conducting research on a topic as sensitive as HCP is itself challenging. The researchers deployed strict protocols in collecting the data, all of which has been anonymised to protect the identity of the participants and to minimise any potential backlash they could face as a result of the views expressed. The research site, Birmingham, was chosen because it has been found to have the highest rate of FM linked to Pakistan compared to anywhere else in the country. The Office of National Statistics (ONS) found that in 2017, the West Midlands had the highest number of cases referred to the Forced Marriage Unit (FMU) in the UK, with 85 people from the region being given advice or support relating to the risk of forced marriages in Pakistan. Since 2005, the FMU have dealt with cases from over 90 countries, but Pakistan emerged as the focus country of this study because it has been identified as being linked to the most cases of FM. This link can refer to the country where the forced marriage is due to take place or the country that the spouse is currently residing in (or both) (Belcher, 2018). In relation to FGM, one Birmingham hospital dealt with 1,500 cases in just five years (McCarthy, 2015). This statistic was discussed at a meeting of the West Midlands Police and Crime Panel in 2015 where members were told that cases of the practice peaked at Birmingham’s Heartlands Hospital in 2013 with 349 recorded victims, nearly 20% more than the previous year. Though this does not account for every incidence of FGM, it highlighted the true scale of this hidden crime. FGM has been illegal in the UK since 1984, and since 2003 anyone found to be taking a child out of the UK to perform the practice faces 14 years in prison (McCarthy, 2015). In 2002, following an influx of Somali immigrants to the city, the hospital also began seeing pregnant women who had undergone type three, the most severe form of FGM. However, McCarthy asserts that despite the rise in hospital cases and an increase in reports to police, in 2014, there had not been a single conviction in the UK (McCarthy, 2015). In Birmingham, there are over 175 mosques, most of which were established after 1981 when the City Council adopted a much more flexible approach, easing some of the earlier restrictions, particularly upon the use of houses for religious purposes (Nielsen, 1988). Since the implementation of the new policy, several new mosques were established in the city (Gale, 2005). The participants in the study included ten Imams and ten congregation members, all from different Mosques. Five of these Imams are of Pakistani heritage (and were interviewed on FM) and the other five were of Somali heritage (and were interviewed on FGM). One of the mosques included was the Birmingham Central Mosque, which is the oldest and biggest mosque in Birmingham. It provides a Sharia council and is nationally known to be a source of reference and recognised for its advocacy on behalf of

The Implications of the Securitisation of Mosques  71 Muslims and Islamic Issues in the UK. The mosque’s congregation and staff have been the subject of numerous television and news features in recent years. Much of the media attention has focussed on the mosque’s involvement in national and international human rights and political issues as well as its involvement in inter-faith alliances (Ali, 2013). The other nine mosques were chosen because they were frequented by Pakistani or Somali congregants and/or led by Imams from these heritages. The interviews were transcribed and then coded for analysis. The coding highlighted a number of recurring views that were shared by most, if not all, of the Pakistani and Somali Imams and their views are presented first. The Imams interviewed felt they were no longer able to engage freely with their congregation on issues related to FGM and FM. For example, one Imam stated: My role is affected as people rarely open up to discuss something that is deemed illegal and also the fear of state agencies monitoring and surveillance props up. Criminalisation has made it worse as the police have a statutory obligation to investigate criminal offences once reported. This only drives the problem underground as any investigation will involve hauling the family suspected to a police station or court. Those involved in forced marriage are unlikely to want to see their family criminalised, they just want to help. The problem is to serve the interests of victims, who are likely to have divided loyalties and interests. I should stress that the law has been a catalyst in the work that we do. (Imam 1) Debates around whether the criminalisation of FM and FGM is a positive step towards eliminating them remains contested with no clear evidence either way (Gangoli et al., 2009; Momoh, 2005; Phillips & Dustin, 2004; Wilson, 2007), and much qualitative research suggests that criminalisation merely pushes such practices underground (Bodian, 2015; Burridge, 2015; Gill, 2014). The Prevent agenda, we argue, has added to this process because, if individuals and families feel their conversations are being monitored, they are less likely to disclose criminal behaviour. Closing down the spaces used in mosques to discuss such issues limits the potential for Imams and community professionals to work with men in changing mindsets and make it more difficult to identify vulnerable girls. All the Imams stated in their interviews that they felt frustrated by the constraining impact of the continued surveillance in their mosques. They talked about how they felt their role should be one of offering advice and guidance to their congregation. In particular, they focus on spiritual and cultural guidance, which includes advice over marriages and the observance of practices such as FGM. For example, one Imam said: Religious leaders need to come out and either condemn or issue a collective statement, otherwise our (religious leadership) position remains unclear. Religious leadership may include teachings against FGM during our sermons.

72  Tamsin Bradley and Ottis Mubaiwa I think people in the community perceive us as a reference point, therefore it is our duty as Imams to educate the congregation about the dangers of FGM. Furthermore, we must help raise awareness, by telling our congregation that it is against the law and re-emphasising the brutal nature of FGM. (Imam 3) Some of the Imams highlighted how important their role was in terms of maintaining links to the “homeland”. The mosque structures, some felt, help to ­reinforce connections to home, which for first-generation Muslims is particularly important. Community cohesion, they felt, is threatened by the intrusion of MI5 operatives inside their mosques. Given that promoting integration (to curb ­feelings of alienation that may make some susceptible to radicalisation) is seen as a key dimension of the Prevent strategy, the decision to increase surveillance inside mosques runs counter to this aim. The Imams across the two cultures felt that their abilities to perform these important functions were curtailed in a way that could lead to damaging dislocating consequences. They stated that securitisation would further marginalise communities that are already feeling isolated and subjected to disproportionate scrutiny from the state. Ironically, they felt such moves could increase the security risk from radicalisation rather than diminish it. Imams feel their authority is being threatened ­because they no longer have the freedom to communicate with their ­congregation as they please. Everything was fine prior to 9/11, since then the monitoring, the cameras [Project Champion],1 have all made everyone very cautious about what they say. It feels like freedom of speech or expression has died for us. ­Religious ­leaders cannot freely express their views for fear of being labelled as the brains behind radicalization. Simply put, there is a lot of suppression of p­ eople’s ­feelings, which is not a healthy state of affairs in the long run. You have to rehearse your sermons so that they are politically correct. I know for certain the secret services, MI5 and MI6, have informants in my congregation. This is because they recently tried to recruit two young men who happen to be members of my congregation. We suspect a few are ­working undercover. We are aware that all forms of communication such as internet are monitored, and phones are bugged. (Imam 10) Followers expect their Imam to teach them about spiritual and ritual practices but also want to ask them technical questions about the legal situation in relation to a range of activities including marriage and practices such as FGM. If Imams feel they can no longer have these conversations because of fear their congregation will face recrimination because of surveillance, then the situation becomes counterproductive to the goal of ending abuses, including FM and FGM. As already stated, it also runs the risk of driving these practices underground and further isolating the women and girls who suffer most. As one Imam explained:

The Implications of the Securitisation of Mosques  73 There is a problem of suspicion on both sides; the security forces monitoring our conduct, the sermons and our members. Whilst we are careful about what we say to the congregation and community due to the perceived influence that we hold in our community. This makes discussion of sensitive issues difficult as we know that people won’t respond freely. The sooner this mistrust is dealt with the better. Working together should be the way forward. The security agenda has contributed to a further resentment of government representatives [police] by the Muslim community at large. The use of surveillance cameras in Birmingham was a big issue. The resented project [Champion] involved the police placing a net of cameras around several areas with large Muslim populations. This measure was criticised for collectively stigmatising and targeting Muslims in these areas. There has been a huge impact of the security agenda on Mosques, which have come within the scope of counter terrorism policies implemented to address violence and extremism. However, Muslims feel that they are under a close watch. This has created anger among young men and women who are likely to radicalise as they feel that Mosques are spaces were young people should explore ideas as well as develop a sense of identity and belonging. (Imam 8) These transcripts clearly endorse the arguments made by the scholars cited earlier: rather than stopping radicalisation and encouraging integration, Prevent has instead moved the possibility of integration further away. It has also problematised Muslim citizens who are being sent a clear message that their behaviour is automatically suspicious simply because of their religious and cultural identities, and so they must be monitored. The fear expressed by the Imams interviewed is that the anger they hear being expressed among their congregations could easily turn into radicalisation as a backlash to the Prevent strategy itself. The interviews we conducted with a selection (using purposive sampling) of 20 Muslim men across the Pakistani and Somali Muslim communities in Birmingham also highlighted vulnerabilities, not just to radicalisation but also to the adoption of more conservative religious views that are ultimately detrimental to women. The influence of Imams on the Views of Young Muslim Men Many of the men interviewed spoke about the influence their local Imams had in shaping their views and opinions of regarding cultural practices but also stated that they felt the Imams were out of touch with their daily lives. Many went on to say that their local Imams were therefore unable to offer them the guidance and support they sought. Some, particularly among the younger Muslim men interviewed, had turned to the internet in search of transnational Imam figures who were able to talk about the issues they felt troubled by. An important issue that they sought guidance over was how to combat experiences of marginalisation that they felt were triggered by a lack of understanding among wider society of Islamic identities.

74  Tamsin Bradley and Ottis Mubaiwa For many years, there have been discussions within and between Muslim communities in Britain, and amongst non-Muslim observers, about the roles and influence of Imams (Gilliat-Ray, 2010). In 1997, it was reported: There is an increasingly widespread perception in Muslim communities that Imams are not equipped by their own training to help young British Muslims cope with issues such as unemployment, racism and Islamophobia, drugs, and the attractions of Western youth culture. (Runnymede, 2018, p. 33) And the same report commented: By and large mosques do not provide educational activities for young people over the age of 14, and are thus not well placed to support them if and when they question, as many in their mid and late teens are inclined to do. (Runnymede, 2018, p. 35) A report in 2006 for the Muslim Council of Britain also stated that “there is a feeling that not enough Imams are being developed from Britain and the existing training is inadequate or has serious shortcomings” (Rahman & Bukhari, 2006, p. 45). Despite the general observations above, the teachings of Imams in the UK should not be assumed to be the same across the board and are not always communicated clearly to all members of congregations. For example, teachings can vary across generations, and diverging levels of British language skills can make communication between Imams and their congregation challenging. Gilliat-Ray (2006, p. 5) claims that graduates from British Imam training centres leave “without sufficient communication skills, without leadership skills and without a good understanding of British culture”, and our research reveals a further problem that limits the potential influence Imams have over the views of young Muslim men: even when an Imam may understand the importance of supporting young Muslims in the processes of change, they feel unable to do so freely because of the surveillance restrictions placed on them. Given the barriers already outlined in (e.g. limited language skills or a lack of cultural knowledge), the impact of Prevent seems to have been to further compound the generational gap. Young Muslim men who took part in our research reiterated concerns that mosque leadership was out of touch with them. The potential limitations of poor training and limited leadership skills means it is unclear to what extent this can be addressed by Imams themselves. However, if mosques represented a safer and more open space for Muslim men of different generations and positions to come together to discuss issues of social and cultural change, such as ending FGM and FM, then perhaps Imams and their role in facilitating these spaces would become more instrumental in challenging HCPs. In our interviews, there was an agreement across young second- and thirdgeneration Muslim men that their religious leaders should hold a commanding

The Implications of the Securitisation of Mosques  75 institutional status as head of worship, prayer, and teaching. Yet they expressed frustration that they seemed unable to communicate well with them. Nonetheless, they seemed to suggest that they would listen and engage with their Imams if conversations about their struggles in day-to-day life were introduced. One of the men, a student in his early twenties, stated: They instruct us that education is important and that you can win with your pen. Religious leaders must hold a certain personal charisma and demonstrate empathy regarding the day-to-day settings in which young people find themselves. (Congregate 1) In practice, each Imam does this differently. Likewise, according to another young man interviewed also in his twenties, existing Imams are not always able to respond to their needs. He said, “Some special Imams have real authority, but many ordinary Imams do not”. In our conversations with young Muslim men across the two cultural groups, there was a widespread feeling that their local Imams must be respected because of the status and position they held. But as this quotation illustrates, they were clear that they will not and do not accept the guidance of Imams indiscriminately, nor do they deem it compulsory to follow any advice given by their local Imam if it fails to resonate with their concerns and struggles. The gap in responsive leadership is clear. In the present moment, a time when messaging about women’s rights and specifically gender-based violence is highly visible, an opportunity to engage young men in discussions over positive masculinities is being lost. Gilliat-Ray (2006) went on to suggest that Muslim educational institutions in Britain ought to adapt and develop their syllabuses and pedagogical approaches to align them with the needs of young Muslims, and we argue here that this needs to extend into discussions around harmful practices that impact on women. But given the impact of the current security realities, the potential for the disconnection between younger generations of Muslims and their leaders in the UK to be bridged is limited. Yet there is, and has been for some time, an urgent need for Islamic discourses on issues of gender and culture – the conversations that are already happening – to be publicly acknowledged, recontextualised, and celebrated as part of a process towards positive change. This requires a much stronger Islamic leadership that is open to the belief that mosques are important spaces for men and need to be used better to generate cross-generational discussions focused on triggering change (Matters, 2010). Some of the young men interviewed felt that they did respect and follow the religious teachings conveyed by Imams but would not necessarily follow advice over day-to-day matters. A 20-year-old interviewee explained: I think an Imam ought to be knowledgeable about what takes place within British society. So, he must know about British culture. But my local Imam

76  Tamsin Bradley and Ottis Mubaiwa doesn’t. That’s why I am open to his advice on religious matters, but I do not feel strongly about his advice on civic matters. Very few of the men interviewed stated that they did regularly (or ever) consult the Imam over personal matters. The younger men (those aged between 18 and 28) emphasised that the degree of influence the Imam can possibly have depends on his knowledge and the content of his message. They objected to the Imam having an indiscriminate influence on their individual moral opinions and societal actions. His personal “charisma” and his ability to be empathetic and sympathetic about the daily circumstances of young people emerged as important elements for establishing his authority. This clearly calls into question the extent of the influence Imams have over young Muslim men. It also suggests that the Prevent programme, rather than asserting and supporting Imams in their role as community leaders, is in fact distancing them further from this section of their congregation who arguably are the most vulnerable to radicalisation. The Influence of Internet Imams These interviews then raise the question of where young Muslims are going for guidance over how to navigate their faith in daily British life? The answer, we know, is the internet, and the growing number of religious leaders who utilise social media to convey their message to an ever-evolving global audience (e.g. see: Siddiqui, 2007). Relatively little is known regarding the views held among key influencers of young Muslim men with regard to gender, specifically cultural practices such as FM and FGM. There is perhaps an assumption that young Muslims who use the internet more often tend to have more radical and intolerant views compared to their peers who rarely go online (Elshimi, 2017). Ragab (2012), for example, has argued that religious websites are dominated by exclusive and intolerant views and that those who preach these views, which include radical narratives that often endorse strict gendered codes, are popular among young Muslims. Toni-Uebari and Inusa (2009) and Bräuchler (2003) also expressed similar concerns, calling on large Islamic organisations to promote moderate values and create more youth-friendly religious content on social media platforms like YouTube and Instagram in order to counter the more extreme narratives. Ali (2010) revealed that more young Muslims who are “digital-savvy” are abandoning mosques, as they prefer to study religion via social media. This, he contends, is worrying as the internet does not provide a space within which important reflective and open discussions can occur. These discussions are critical in order for peers to challenge the legitimacy of the ideas they are being exposed to. In response to this shift among young Muslims towards the internet a new online resource, Haqiqah magazine, was launched in 2015 with the aim of “reclaiming the internet” from extremists (Wyatt, 2015). More than 100 Imams gathered in London for the launch of the magazine. Qari Asim, a senior editor at the website imamsonline, said, “Someone has to reclaim that territory from ISIS, and that can

The Implications of the Securitisation of Mosques  77 only be Imams: religious leaders who guide and nourish their community”. Wyatt (2015) also stated: Now that we live in a digital mobile world, some young people are not coming to the mosque so we must reach out to them - and this is the Muslims’ contribution to combat radicalisation on the net. He described the magazine as a call to all Muslims to “log on, get informed, and share the magazine with all your friends and family online” (Wyatt, 2015). Jamhari Makruf, lead researcher on a 2019 of Indonesian Muslim who use the internet reiterated the need for Islam to adapt to online culture as follows: the youths want to access religious knowledge as easily as they access information about food; we have to accommodate them (Makruf, cited in Atina Arbi, 2019). Imams (online or otherwise) are not the only figures to whom young male Muslims turn to for guidance. In our interviews, men also named parents, peers, internet forums, television, lecturers, and “self-made-preachers” as people or mediums that influenced their thinking. In seeking out new ideas the younger generation are hoping to locate narratives that resonate with their feelings of marginalisation and exclusion. Many of those we interviewed identified their faith as a key cause of prejudice and segregation against them, made worse by anti-extremism strategies that have further embedded cultural stereotyping of “problematic” Muslims. They are seeking leaders who not only understand their alienation but also offer them spiritual guidance. As discussed earlier, the securitisation of Mosques is justified and legitimised by and through a particular framing of radical Islam. The young Muslims we interviewed did not see themselves in this category or through this lens but were acutely aware of the oppressive force the security state brings to bare on their lives. The interviews revealed that Muslims in the communities we studied feel that their physical movements are scrutinised through ever more pervasive surveillance, and feel they are oppressed by the gaze the security agenda has engendered in the rest of the population, and through which they feel constantly judged as they move between and within other communities, cultures, and ethnicities. For younger Muslims, Imams are seen as being unable to support them in navigating this. The Imams interviewed tended to view this gap not in terms of their own disconnection from the issues of concern for younger Muslims, but instead blamed it squarely on the securitisation agenda. For example, one Imam said: Men’s groups used to meet in town or go on weekend breaks but it is now near impossible. The checks, the monitoring, have become a joke. Don’t you know UK is a police State, maybe more so than North Korea under the disguise of fighting terrorism. We know social problems exist. We used to articulate these in consultation with our congregations but with cuts [austerity] all this is gone. (Imam 7)

78  Tamsin Bradley and Ottis Mubaiwa This last passage highlights the impact of securitisation on the possibilities for transformation to take place within mosques, including in relation to ending HCPs. Mosques, as our interviews with young Muslim men reveal, are still important spaces. The internet has not replaced the necessity to come together with peers, but rather fills a void in terms of guidance and reassurance, which some young Muslims feel they need in order to navigate the societal pressure of being seen as a problem. The challenge, then, is in identifying how this important space for male communication can be reclaimed in ways that allow them to contribute to ending harmful practices that disproportionately impact upon the lives of women and girls.

Conclusion This chapter has illustrated how attempts to eradicate the violence caused by harmful practices from the lives of Muslim women is hampered by a number of interrelated factors. Firstly, women and men are no longer free to consult openly with Imams or to use mosque spaces to converse and share views relating to harmful practices, such as FM and FGM, because the fear of criminalisation is too great. The process of securitisation has made congregations feel especially uncomfortable, and so mosques no longer provide a haven for communities to come together to work through problems. Secondly the unhelpful construction of a problematic Muslim citizen, in part through the securitisation discourse, has further marginalised Muslim men labelling them as the perpetrators of backward religious and cultural thinking practices, including FGM and FM, that are thought to have been widely abandoned. This has made it harder for Muslim men and women to exercise agency in the public political spheres to seek changes for themselves. Finally, the feelings of disconnection from the teachings of local Imams expressed among the younger generation of male Muslims points to a worrying vulnerability to the influence of highly conservative thinking on gender, which they often encounter in online spaces. As Bradley and Kirmani (2014), Patel (2016), and Siddiqui (2018) have noted, violence against women spikes upwards in highly religiously conservative environments. Our research did not produce evidence of a link, as we did not probe for details on how conservative the internet Imams that our participants encountered were. We know from other research that the internet provides platforms for radical and extreme religious views to be expressed (e.g. see: Barzilai-Nahon & Barzilai, 2005). These extreme radical ideologies are gender-coded in the ways outlined above and therefore have potentially negative implications on and for the lives of women and girls. Whilst we have not evidenced this link, we can point to an urgent need to better understand the types and nature of the teachings young men in particular are exposed to and analyse these teachings through a critical gendered perspective in order to understand the possible implications the teachings may have for women’s right to live without fear of violence. Our research offers optimism. Young men still see the

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physical space of a mosque as important. As such, there is a possibility that these spaces can be reclaimed and recontextualised as places where peers can come together to challenge each other’s views regarding many issues, including gender and the position of women in their lives and society more widely. Overall, there is a need to be reflective and critically reconsider how enhanced security can be achieved for all citizens. This approach must apply a value-driven approach to community engagement that is about dialogue, understanding, and the promotion of agency. Change agents exist in every community, and ending FGM and FM will happen if space and support is given to those with the courage and determination to claim a different and better society. If this is to be achieved, the importance of including men in the process must continue to be acknowledged.

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Note 1 Project Champion spied on two predominantly Muslim areas in Birmingham using CCTV cameras. Under the initiative, two suburbs (Sparkbrook and Washwood Heath) were to be monitored by a network of 169 automatic number plate recognition (ANPR) cameras – three times more than in the entire city centre. The cameras, which include covert cameras secretly installed in the street, form “rings of steel”, meaning residents cannot enter or leave the areas without their cars being tracked. Data was to be stored for two years.

5

Izzat and Forced Marriage in the Constructing of Cultural and Religious Identities in the UK Sukhbinder Hamilton

Introduction In recent years, awareness of forced marriage (FM) in the United Kingdom (UK) has increased significantly, in part due to media coverage, particularly since the first UK convictions for the offence in 2015 (e.g. see: Bingham, 2015; Price, 2021). This has been accompanied by a growing body of research into its prevalence and its causes (e.g. see: Samad & Eades, 2002; Anitha & Gill, 2011), as well as efforts to mitigate its harmful impact (Chantler et al., 2009). However, despite the expansion of reporting and a somewhat improved understanding of forced marriage, there is still often a conflation (especially in the media, but also at times in research and policy) with arranged marriage, which is a separate but sometimes overlapping cultural practice. A surface-level explanation of the difference between the two could be presented as the issue of consent. However, a more complex dissection is warranted, especially since there is also uncertainty regarding how FM fits into the broad categorisation of ‘harmful cultural practices’ (HCPs), a term that has been unpacked in the introduction to this volume. The data presented in this chapter was gathered during two research projects on women from various migrant and minority communities in the UK, both of which took a woman-centred methodological stance (Almeida, 2017) and were mindful of women’s agency with regards to unequal “power, status, privilege and options” (Hanmer & Statham, 1999, p. 138). This meant offering the women who took part the space to narrate their own stories when and however they chose to. There was no expectation for the participants to divulge any information they chose not to, and no pressure to expand on what they had said unless they chose to. Taking a woman-centred research approach meant documenting the stories and experiences that the women wanted to communicate and listening to the accounts of trauma and stress they were enduring in the manner that they chose to share them (e.g. see: Grant, 1991; Bungay et al., 2009). It was not the role of the researcher to push the participants to talk about experiences that they wanted, for now at least, to keep to themselves. Through the interviews, insights into the religious and cultural aspects of women’s lives in the UK emerged, highlighting the importance of cultural and religious values for sense of identity. However, the women also acknowledged

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246046-5

84  Sukhbinder Hamilton that these same values were often problematic in terms of limiting their options and, in extreme circumstances, leading to FM and other harmful practices. Whilst many of the women situated FM within gendered cultural and religious expectations, it was clear from the data that there was a significant blurring of cultural and religious lines. Upon analysis of these interviews, it became apparent that notions of izzat, lojja, and sharam, which are sometimes defined as ‘honour’ and/or ‘shame’, were central to how expectations relating to marriage were shaped and reified. These concepts draw on both religious and cultural ideals, potentially making them hard to challenge, and both are articulated through the control of the female body. Listening to the stories of the women revealed the multiple layers of vulnerability they endured. Many of them had come to the UK as refugees and still experienced an unsettled status. Their anxiety in relation to this added to the restrictive nature of gendered norms within their cultures and religions. What this chapter seeks to do is highlight the complexity of the lives of the most marginalised women. In a context such as the UK, this is further deepened by a lack of understanding of the ways in which specific religious and cultural concepts play out and intersect with other forms of vulnerability.

Methodology This chapter presents relevant findings from 71 semi-structured interviews from two separate research projects conducted with women from a variety of heritages and family origins in South Asia. The nature of these interviews meant that broad data on a variety of themes was collected, but in this chapter, only that which revealed most about women’s experiences of and/or perspectives on FM is drawn upon. The women quoted have been given pseudonyms, but their country of origin and age are included to provide context and to show the differences within and between certain communities. The participants are referred to collectively as ‘the women’ or individually by their pseudonym. The data collection methods for both research projects were reviewed by the University of Portsmouth Faculty of Humanities and Social Science Ethics Committee (FHSSEC). The first set of data was collected as part of a doctoral research project, which looked at the impact of izzat on the educational journeys of a group of 31 Bangladeshi, Indian, or Pakistani (BIP) heritage women. The women were engaged through the adoption of a semi-ethnographic methodological approach and were assessed through a range of techniques, including snowball sampling and networking through women’s groups and acquaintances. The only requirements to participate were that they had to have had some of their compulsory education within the UK. The women resided in a range of locations across the UK, and face-to-face, semi-structured interviews were carried out over a period of a year at a location of their choice. Whilst the set research tool was semi-structured interviews, the women were encouraged to narrate their life histories however they chose to. There was no expectation or requirement for them to do this, but a willingness to listen if they did. The key themes raised by the researcher were those of education, gender, identity, izzat, and family.

Izzat and Forced Marriage in the UK  85 This was supported by a secondary set of data collected as part of a research project that looked to provide a comprehensive understanding of the complex overlap of different forms of vulnerabilities that women from Black and Minority Ethnic (BAME) groups in Hampshire experience, and to ascertain where and how FM and female genital mutilation (FGM) intersect with other forms of violence against women and girls (VAWG). In total, 40 interviews were conducted, with a further three focus group discussions and four observations of support groups and trainings delivered as part of the project. The women represented in the data from the qualitative interviews and focus groups were from a range of countries, including Afghanistan, Iraq, Namibia, Sudan, Nigeria, Bangladesh, India, and Zimbabwe. However, as previously noted, this chapter draws primarily on the interviews with and observations of the women from South Asia (Bangladesh, India, and Pakistan). The interviews with vulnerable women were supported by local branch of the British Red Cross who acted as critical gatekeepers, facilitating the interviews and providing a safe enabling environment in which they could take place. The data presented in this chapter can be understood as a snapshot of women’s own narratives of their lives in relation to the themes that emerged at the moment when they took part in the research.

A Woman’s Honour: The Link Between Forced Marriage and Izzat In this section, I discuss understandings of what constitutes FM and how this is connected to but distinct from arranged marriage. Following this, I consider how cultural concepts relating to honour among BIP communities (i.e. izzat, lojja, and sharam) contribute to making FM possible. As noted in the introduction, FM is often conflated with the arranged marriage, but there is on the surface an important difference between them: consent. Within an arranged marriage, both parties enter the agreement willingly, while in a forced marriage, that is not the case. One party (usually the woman) has been given no choice or has been coerced into the marriage. It is sometimes difficult to identify whether a woman has entered into a marriage willingly because consent and coercion are not always easily identified. This is because they are positioned at either end of a spectrum that is dependent upon many interconnected social and gendered factors, and “between which lie degrees of socio-cultural expectation, control, persuasion, pressure, threat and force” (Anitha & Gill, 2011). FM has been defined by the UK Home Office (2000) as “a marriage conducted without the valid consent of two parties, where duress is a factor” (Home Office, 2007 cited in UK Parliament, 2011). The test for ‘duress’, according to the Court of Appeals of England and Wales, is whether “the mind of the [victim] has in fact been overborne, howsoever that was caused”, which can include physical, psychological, financial, sexual, and emotional pressure (HMG, 2008 cited in Refuge, 2010, p. 6). As is the case with HCPs in general, FM can have an impact on both men and women (Dutt, 2019). However, women are affected in greater

86  Sukhbinder Hamilton numbers and suffer a greater degree of brutality because of it. This can include facing serious violence (even death) if they refuse a match, or violence and abuse at the hands of husbands and other family members after the marriage has taken place (CPS, 2019). Included in this is another complexity that is embedded within FM: it can result in situations where other women (family members or those with key roles in the community) can also be instrumental in the perpetration of it. Prevalence data indicates that locating FM in particular communities, cultures, or countries is very difficult. The Forced Marriage Unit (FMU), which is a joint venture of Foreign and Commonwealth Office (FCO) and Home Office, has supported individuals with links to countries “across Asia, the Middle East, Africa, Europe and North America” (FMU, 2020, p. 3). However, they go on to list ‘hotspots’ of 66 ‘focus’ countries (notably with the exclusion of the UK), which are selected for one of three reasons: they are the site of the intended marriage, the site where the marriage took place, or the current abode of the intended spouse. Out of these 66 countries, the ones with the highest number of cases in 2019 were Pakistan (559 cases), Bangladesh (144 cases), India (65 cases), Afghanistan (54 cases), Romania (22 cases), and 72 cases had no overseas element. It is important to note that this shows that potential or actual FM in which both parties were living in the UK also exists, and that these account for the third-highest number by country. These 2019 figures show a slight decrease in 2018 figures (FMU, 2020). When examining this data, it is imperative to remember that these are official figures, but the actual numbers may be much higher as FM happens in a largely invisible way because what constitutes coercion and/or force is highly nuanced and often difficult to identify. It is important to note that FM does not only occur among diaspora communities because, although this chapter focusses on women whose cultural heritage is in the Global South, some of the patriarchal norms relating to women’s bodies and ‘honour’ are also reflected in problematic norms and practices in the Global North. Moreover, the women who participated in the research have lived much, if not all, of their lives in the UK: they are not outsiders but are instead situated within the Global North and are part of the contemporary culture of it. It would therefore be inaccurate to see FM as a something that exists only outside, and it would also risk further isolating and othering those who may be most at risk. The assumption that FM is a problem of the Global South is partly the result of certain cultures or communities (typically those whose cultural heritage or country of origin is situated in the Global South) to be viewed and critiqued through a colonialist lens. Subsequently, a bias can be formed that portrays women with Global South heritages as victims, and the result of this can be the othering of ethnic or religious groups that are assumed to sanction arranged marriages and/or FM. This assumption, which is prevalent in the Global North, overlooks the fact that child marriages, which often go hand-in-hand with FM, also occur in places like the US where 20 states have no legal minimum age for marriage (Equality Now, 2019) provided certain requirements (e.g. parental approval or pre-marital pregnancy) are met. The Tahirih Justice Centre (2017) suggests that many of the girls who are forced to marry under the age of 18 (some as young as 12) in the US

Izzat and Forced Marriage in the UK  87 may be victims of statutory rape who are then married off to the perpetrators. This observation from the US also highlights how FM is linked to both women’s bodies and notions of ‘honour’. In the context of the research, FM is understood as a harmful practice that is legitimised and made possible by several cultural concepts relating to honour, among which is the notion of izzat, a term used among many of our research participants from Indian and Pakistani heritage communities. It is part of the general lexicon among these communities and, although it transcends religious boundaries (being used among Muslims, Hindus, and Sikhs), it can be described as a socially constructed notion that sets out boundaries for both men and women regarding how they should live their lives. The word izzat is often translated as ‘honour’. The terms lojja and sharam are used in a similar way among the Bangladeshi heritage communities who took part in the research and are frequently translated as ‘shame’. However, these words are about more than just honour and shame; they represent the embodiment of “good conduct” and “modesty” (Siddiqi, 2005, p. 291), particularly for women, which, in turn, denotes what means to be a ‘good’ woman. Essentially, women are framed in such a way that they become the personification of male moral codes. Moreover, for women, as Feldman (2010) suggested, regulating boundaries are formed around notions of both honour and shame, which, in turn, become codes of conduct and rules that govern behaviour. These are then empowered through “religious or moral codes” (Feldman, 2010, p. 306). Thus, izzat, lojja, and sharam are about control and power, primarily over women’s bodies and women’s rights. On the surface, such power and control are situated within religion, but it is often played out through cultural norms that blur religious and cultural boundaries. These terms are about policing and surveillance, through which broader communities (and particularly families) became concerned stakeholders in one another’s moral lives. This observation regarding the perceived morality of HCPs is important because many such practices, including FM, are embedded within notions of honour and stigma and are also central to sustaining them and creating boundaries of normativity. In this sense, the reputation, social standing, and honour of a family can be measured through the bodies of women (and girls) in particular. The boundaries are then policed by the baradari (the community) the elders of whom tend to be men. Subsequently, if women do not conform to these principles and norms, they are at risk of isolation marginalisation, and potentially gendered violence (Greene et al., 2013; Hamilton, 2018). A clear example of how gender, honour, and HCPs interact to put women at risk is FM, which has been classified as HCPs by many including Gangoli et al. (2006) and Siddiqui (2014). Whilst the terms izzat (India and Pakistan) and lojja and sharam (Bangladesh) ­ are not all directly applicable to the lives of the individual participants this chapter, the underlying link to notions of shame and honour (shown in the way the terms are frequently translated) are connected to their shared experiences of patriarchal cultural boundaries that dictate the positioning and limit the experiences of women. A greater intersubjective understanding of the links between

88  Sukhbinder Hamilton the cultural and religious ideals that perpetuate a system that devalues women and renders them vulnerable to forms of abuse, including FM, is a necessary step towards ending such practices. With this in mind, it is important to note that among the participants, there was at times scepticism regarding whether this would ever be achieved. Many of the women expressed frustration at being asked about their personal stories: they share what they need, but then find that their needs are not met through the support that is subsequently offered. The extreme level of vulnerability endured in the daily lives of the women who took part in the research came through strongly in the interview data. This vulnerability could itself be seen as a form of violence. Butler (2020) sees it as a feature of social relations. When people are at risk, they have been made ­vulnerable to violence. In the case of the refugee women interviewed, it was clear that the ways in which people are marginalised and maintained in a state of poverty, and the constant insecurity over their status, all contribute to significantly increasing the likelihood of them suffering other forms of violence, including HCPs (if they have not already). As such, the findings of this research echo those of other work. For example, Chantler et al. (2009, p. 607) observed: “Issues of poverty, sexuality, gender inequalities, violence, child marriages, and immigration and asylum featured strongly in survivor accounts as conduits into forced marriage”. Although this chapter is focused on the relationship between forced marriage, religion, and culture, the web of different vulnerabilities that are described here as increasing the risk of FM can also be said to increase the risk of FGM and many other forms of HCPs. The sections that follow consider these complex intersections and draw out key themes relating to notions of izzat, power, and religious and cultural identity that emerged from the data, which are presented thematically with reference to extracts from the women’s narratives. Religious/Cultural Identities As detailed in the introduction and in other chapters in this volume, religion can rarely be directly linked to HCPs, but elements of it feed into the propagation of a specific social ecology that legitimises practices such as FM. In particular, it is the relationship between certain patriarchal religious values that helps to enforce and embed cultural norms that sanction gendered practices that harm women and girls. However, the picture is yet more complex. The data revealed the important role of religion in the daily lives of the participants, specifically in more supportive rather than oppressive terms, such as the safe spaces religion provided to observe ritual practices. Many of the participants talked about how appreciative they were of these spaces, which served to help ease their stress and anxieties. Religion, and their observation of their religion, not only gave them a voice, which, in turn, contributed to shaping their identity, but also played a part in the way they situated themselves both within the UK and the world. It also allowed them to not only feel a connection to ‘back home’ but also to be able to continue cultural practices that their community had brought with them.

Izzat and Forced Marriage in the UK  89 The women acknowledged that the way they practised their religion by themselves relied heavily on oral tradition, but another important aspect that influenced them was the observation of the practice of others, which had its roots within the confines of what male elders in villages (‘back home’) stipulated. The narratives of a number of the women revealed that there is a growing attentiveness and affiliation to religious identity, particularly amongst Muslim and Sikh youth. As referred to above, it is important to note that cultural and religious identities are intertwined and that among diaspora communities many interpretations of this relationship exist. This includes the emergence of cultural-religious identities and connected practices that are distinct and unique to the UK. However, whilst the opportunities for strengthening social and cultural ties are important for sustaining cultural practices across generations, it is also responsible for perpetuating izzat-based norms which, in turn, continues the cycle of gender-based cultural violence. The Link Between Izzat, Tradition, Marriage, and Male Decision-Making As noted above, izzat is reinforced through the notion of power. Gendered roles are assigned to women, and these roles are constructed within a framework of patriarchal rules and restrictions that also includes who and how they chose to marry. For example, Aashita (Bangladesh, aged 43) was told by her father that he was letting her go on to higher education because that would mean that he would be able to match her with someone who was better off financially and who the community would approve of. Siddiqui (2003) notes that there is a blurred line between forced and arranged marriages as women accept a marriage after coercion rather than defy their parents. This was reflected in the accounts provided, which highlighted how important it was to women that they did not let their parents down. For example, a 21-year-old woman from Pakistani said: “If I thought I’d disappointed my parents in any way, shape or form… I would be, you know, I would be devastated” (Azari, Pakistan, age 21). Whilst the line between arranged marriages and FM needs to be clearly understood, it must also be recognised as complex and the connection between them should not be ignored. Religious and cultural values are deeply intertwined and highly gendered, and the ways in which they shape how violence may intersect with marriage arrangements will often not be immediately evident, even to the woman herself (Bradley & Kirmani, 2015). The patriarchal foundations of cultural practices and norms are understood to be a fundamental problem in the achievement of gender equality and an end to all forms of VAWG (e.g. see: Alexander-Scott et al., 2016; Bradley, 2020). Patriarchal values give male family and community members control over the lives of women and girls, and it is a key trigger for violence, as well as the legitimisation of it. A significant number of the women who took part in this research said that their marriages had been arranged, and the power of tradition and culture, as well as the importance of family and community approval, came through in how

90  Sukhbinder Hamilton they talked about marriage. They shared how in order to show the community that they were ‘good’ women, they had to conform to expectations of who they could marry and when. Whilst this was not strictly FM, for some of the women, it certainly involved coercion through the form of worry about what the community might think about her or her parents, and the impact this might have. The relationship between izzat, the surveillance of the community, and how women have to behaviour is very clear. For example, a participant of Indian heritage recounted what was said to her by her mother when she began higher education: My mum just stressed to me that “you’re going to University and I want you to be a good girl and just remember that your family’s reputation is at stake if you do anything wrong. People will judge us by the way you behave. Our baradari are everywhere”. (Jeevan, Indian, age 26) Jaanki (Indian, age 45) also noted, “There’s Asians everywhere and everyone knows each other, and it wouldn’t be very good for the family reputation”. Essentially, what is said within the community about a woman can not only make her the target of gossip but can also potentially leave her unmarriageable as she might no longer be perceived as a ‘good’ woman. One participant, Aarshati, explained how for her this had resulted in a forced engagement and subsequent marriage: The community people that, obviously, she [her mum] was friends with were like, “Oh my God, your daughter’s going the wrong way [shocked]! You need to take her back home and get her married”. Erm… and my mum did. My mum took me back to Bangladesh and she got me engaged, and I absolutely begged my mum not to do that. She did it anyway. (Bangladesh, age 29) For Aarshati, there were direct consequences of the izzat lens, which was policed by the wider community and acted upon by her mother, whereby she was judged to be not following the acceptable path for women and girls. This is a clear example of how the community and shared notions of honour and shame can perpetuate HCPs. Dowry, Bride-Price, Izzat, and Links to Forced Marriage Identifying the underlying economic drivers is a crucial part of understanding why HCPs continue. Though economic incentives to marry can often be hidden, dowry and bride price are more visible examples of this relationship. Dowry is a transaction in which money, goods, and gold are transferred from the bride’s

Izzat and Forced Marriage in the UK  91 ­

Clothing, Control, Religion, and Power The data from the research projects indicated that clothing, particularly among Muslim women, is a critical factor in how they and their bodies are controlled, both by themselves and by others. There are many conflicting views about the wearing of a burkha, or indeed a hijab. Writers, such as Kabeer (2000), suggest that wearing a hijab is about choice and crafting agency; the recent 2022 high court

92  Sukhbinder Hamilton ruling in India suggests that the choice is not always given to the women to make. It can also be argued that Muslim women should not be framed in a lens that is reductionist and/or in a way that creates binaries in which Western women are seen as ‘free’ and Muslim women ‘subjugated’. Conversely, Jahan (2011) citing Rozario (2003) reasons that a woman who wears a burkha is turned into a “nonperson” and is viewed as “unapproachable”. From this perspective, the fact that women may have chosen to wear a burkha is not given credibility. However, hidden between the two viewpoints is much complexity. For example, many women do choose to wear a hijab, but if that choice is within the cultural expectations of izzat, then it is important to consider the extent to which this choice is ‘free’. Equally important is that the hijab as a religious artefact is contested, and that it is perhaps better understood as an external indicator of belonging. As Zaytoun and Ezekiel (2016, p. 89) observed, even if originally envisaged through patriarchal izzat rules, the hijab can also be an expression of a shared paradigm with others, which enables ‘sisterhood’ among those who wear it. Among the women who contributed to this research, there was a blurring of religious and cultural conformities. For example, Sadia explained that the purpose of wearing a ‘scarf’ in her religion was to stop a woman being sexually attractive because you’re meant to cover yourself from boys, before marriage you’re not really meant to, like, dress up in front of boys because it leads to going into sexual relationship and all of that stuff, and you’re not allowed to have sexual stuff before marriage. So, like, you’re never meant to feel attracted to boys, a boy is not even meant to look at you. (Pakistan, age 23) Sadia did not say that it was her choice to wear a hijab, as such, but also did not say she was forced to wear it. Some of the women, however, were very clear in stating that the choice of what they do (and do not wear) was not theirs but rather what their husband’s: I had worn jeans and stuff, but he wasn’t happy about jeans, so it was more long skirts and shirts and long tops and things like that, so I think that was fine, that was acceptable, you know, or Asian clothes. But I think we did have arguments and things about that, you know he wasn’t happy about me not covering my head. (Aadhya, Pakistan, age 34) Aadhya stresses that her parents did not force her to wear a hijab, but that the suggestion had initially come from her father. Inaya, a 19-year-old woman whose parents were from Pakistan, also said that she hadn’t been forced, though she conceded that it was her father’s request:

Izzat and Forced Marriage in the UK  93 When I first started to wear the headscarf, I started when I was in year five, and to be honest I did wear the headscarf because my dad tell me, told me to. Um, when I, um when I got older and I moved secondary school, then I realised I wasn’t doing it for him I was doing it for myself. Whilst it could be argued that Inaya’s conformity and explanation of why she wore a hijab was the result of indoctrination, this is a simplistic understanding. The fact that the expectation to conform because of the cultural expectations of izzat means that in order to create ownership, Inaya has to make peace with it. She explained that a headscarf gives her an identity, and that although she had been born in Britain, she remained a Pakistani because of the way she had been brought up. She says: My parents have influenced me in a way where they’ve brought me up in this Pakistani way, which I’m really happy and proud about, and when it comes to my religion I feel um, um, they have taught me about my religion. They brought me up in the sa- Pakistani um, way, where you know, I wear the clothes, I um, practice um, kind of um, in Pakistani culture, wh-what yeah um. I brought up in a way, in a way I would have if I was in Pakistan, like, but in a kind of, in a British environment. Similarly, Randeep narrated how, as a young woman, she was not allowed to wear certain clothes, such as miniskirts, because they were ‘immodest’. She said: It was an izzat thing. But I was a rebel, once I was out of the house, I used to just roll my skirt up. If some auntieji1 had seen you, then it would have been really bad, because you would be known as shameless. (Indian, age 44) Hridi, when explaining why she wore a hijab, noted that the way in which a woman is seen by the community frames not just her standing, but also the standing of the rest of her family, “I feel like others would be looking at me and saying why isn’t she wearing one, she should be wearing one. People judge you, and your family, on what you look like” (Pakistan, age 22). It is important to note, here, that the power politics involved in the choices women are able to make with regard to how they clothe their bodies is not just pertinent to the women discussed in this chapter. Across cultures, including in ‘British’ culture, women constantly negotiate clothing in terms of cultural expectations regarding being ‘too loose’ or ‘too uptight’. However, the power of izzat and the way in which a woman’s body is closely tied to the honour of her family, it’s social status and position in the broader community, as well as to her marriage prospects, brings an even greater degree of complexity to her decision to dress ‘modestly’ or not.

94  Sukhbinder Hamilton Izzat, Religious Scriptures, and the Relationship with Cultural Expectations As previously noted, religion played a significant part in the daily lives of many of the women featured within this chapter. Religious identity was seen to be an integral part of their character, particularly for the women who had external identifiers of difference, such as hijabs. This facet of their identity ranged from attending holy day celebrations at religious venues to observing fasting. Beyond these practices, modern technology has enabled younger generations to no longer rely on parental understanding of scriptures and has offered them access to a wealth of religious information at their fingertips. Thus, in many cases, secondand third-generational BIP heritage women are more knowledgeable about ‘their’ religion than their parents had been. For example, Palki (Bangladesh, aged 34) noted how her parents could never answer questions or “explain stuff” to her about her religion. She quickly learned that her “questions were not welcome” and that she had to “just learn” for herself. This is particularly true for the women with working-class parents who may not even be able to read any language (including English) as they often migrated from rural areas. This lack of direct access to scriptures and dependence on the interpretations of others, in turn, allowed for religious teachings to be conflated with cultural confines and traditions, and then to be disseminated as religious adherence. This is an important factor in understanding how cultural expectations come to be linked to religion, even when they do not have a foundation in scripture. Palki recalled how she had been “forced” to learn things by rote, and how any explanation that was offered was rooted in “superstitions and stuff… and [I’d] be told all these stories, and again, I’d challenge those stories”. For her, what she was being told about how to behave within her religion what she saw the patriarch of her family doing were incongruous. For example, she says: My dad would go and play the lottery and then say you shouldn’t gamble, and then I’d challenge him and say well playing the lottery is gambling, so how… like, how can you be a good Muslim if you do that? And then he’ll just say your mum’s raised you wrong and he didn’t like to be challenged by us girls. (Bangladesh, age 34) This narrative shows how izzat is used to control and govern how women should behave and how other women are given the role of ensuring those boundaries are upheld. Palki’s father’s actions and words demonstrate that he as a male has the right to interpret the teachings of Islam, whereas he expects his daughters to do what he says, and how it is his wife’s role to police that. Through her questioning, Palki is breaching the covert rules of izzat. Palki also offered a further observation of how and why her interpretation of Islam is different from her parents:

Izzat and Forced Marriage in the UK  95 I’ve studied, like I studied Islam extensively when I was at school, like I did a GCSE in it, I got an A* in it, like I understood it, I understood bits of my religion that I don’t think members of my family did, which is why I was so inquisitive… And um, I just feel like I’ve been let down a lot by what I’ve been told about my religion from people if that makes sense. For Palki, greater knowledge of her religion is not an entirely positive experience as it also alienates her from members of her family and wider community. Many young second- and third-generation people are choosing to read religious scriptures, some in translation and some in the original script, in order to further their knowledge of their heritage. This change in the way people develop their religious practice is outside of the scope of this chapter, but it warrants further investigation. Though it can enable women to reject certain cultural practices that are often cited as being religious requirements, it can also potentially lead to a singular understanding of scripture, within which extreme interpretations emerge. This is evidenced through punitive action by groups of young men boycotting and protesting (sometimes through violent means) mixed heritage marriage ceremonies (between Sikhs and other partners of other religions) at gurdwaras (Sikh temples) (Dearden, 2015; Neiyyar & Khatkar, 2013; Parveen, 2016). Religion, Izzat, and Cultural Exclusion Another facet of religion and its interpretation within the cultural expectations of izzat that emerged from the data was the way in which the Muslim women who had married non-Muslim (white British) men were only authorised to marry them if they (the men) first converted to Islam. For Aahna, the conversion was not for religious reasons, because she herself was not sure how strongly affiliated to Islam she felt. But rather, it was necessary in order to prevent her mother from being ‘shamed’ by and within the community. She says: If someone asks then my mum can say yeah you know what she is married, she married to a guy that converted, so there’s no embarrassment to my mum so that was very important to me. (Bangladesh, age 35) For other women who were not Muslim and who had married outside of their heritage religion, there was no requirement for their partner to convert or for conversion to be seen as a prerequisite to marriage. However, the impact of izzat was evidenced in other ways, such as being shunned by the wider community. This was through exclusions from (not being invited to) functions or religious events and/or an omission of key ceremonies that would otherwise have taken place at pivotal moments such as first wedding anniversary or the birth of a child. For example, Tej explained that because she had “married out”, she did not get the

96  Sukhbinder Hamilton customary visits from members of the community when her first child was born, but more importantly, her parents and brother did not undertake the customary birth ceremonies for her and her new-born child: I suppose the only time it really hurt was when I didn’t have the baby functions and stuff for my daughter because she wasn’t all Indian. My parents, and brother never came with the stuff they are supposed to bring. I didn’t say anything. It was my own fault… choice to marry a white guy. (Indian, age 48) Whilst Tej has not been exiled for marrying out, she has been denied access to traditions and customs because she violated the confines of izzat. This is a common theme whereby women who ‘choose’ not to conform to the cultural confines of izzat are then also denied any of the privileges of being a community member. What this implies is that the ‘choice’ to reject an arranged marriage, though it is not forced, does require a woman to balance her own partner preference with the risk of violating izzat.

Conclusion This chapter set about developing an understanding of the complex ways in which izzat impacts upon a woman’s choice. This issue of ‘choice’ is particularly pertinent with regard to the line between what constitutes a FM, as opposed to one that is simply ‘arranged’. That is to say, like choosing to dress a particular way, if the choice to enter into an arranged marriage is heavily informed by a requirement to adhere to the rules of izzat and maintain the honour and/or social status of one’s family, this ‘choice’ may be extremely limited by the potential social consequences a woman might face. As the links between FM and arranged marriage may not even be clear to the woman, safe spaces and opportunities to have wider conversations about the differences between a consented arranged marriage and one that has been forced or conducted under duress or coercion is a critical part of wider knowledge and change. What came across in many of the women’s interviews was that there is often a blurring between tradition, coercion, HCPs, and abuse, which revealed that the extent to which the violence bound up in certain practices, such as FM, had been normalised. At the same time, because of izzat and the importance of cultural beliefs: some women will not find it easy to confide in a stranger about personal experiences because cultural norms dictate that marital problems be resolved collectively within the extended family network. Moreover, women might find it difficult to answer questions about thoughts and feelings, and they may not openly acknowledge or complain about pain, discomfort, and mental health issues for fear of stigma and social isolation. Perhaps ironically, this points to the importance of religious spaces in the lives of women, which offer relative safety and freedom to work through and share quietly with peers their experiences and

Izzat and Forced Marriage in the UK 97 feelings. Whilst we might see certain patriarchal religious values as part of the problem, religion in a broad sense can also provide crucial space for activism and resistance. A key observation from the research data is the need for a woman-centred and multiagency approach to addressing HCPs, including FM, and it points to the wider issue regarding how little evidence and knowledge is held nationally on the categorisation of ‘cultural practices’, and how ‘harm’ is both interpreted and understood. Recognising how the gendered patriarchal values of izzat interact with HCPs is imperative in order to be able to hear women’s stories on their terms and to respond to their needs in ways that are culturally and religiously appropriate, properly contextualised, and holistic. Sensitivity to the importance of religious and cultural tradition, and actively recognising the role of religious spaces, occasions, and celebrations, should be encouraged widely within educational and community establishments in order to better understand the lives of women who have to operate within these parameters. This is an important approach, not least because it allows for HCPs to be distinguished from those cultural practices in which women find value, but also because it can potentially allow for HCPs to be addressed and challenged while still valuing the cultural and religious identities of women.

References Almeida, T. (2017). Designing Technologies for Intimate Care in Women. PhD thesis, Newcastle University. Anitha, S., & Gill, A., K. (2011). ‘Reconceptualising Consent and Coercion’. In A. K. Gill & S. Anitha (Eds.), Forced Marriage (pp. 46–66). Zed books. Anitha, S., Yalamarty, H., & Roy, A. (2018). ‘Changing Nature and Emerging Patterns of Domestic Violence in Global Contexts: Dowry Abuse and the Transnational Abandonment of Wives in India’. Women’s Studies International Forum, 69, 67–75. Bingham, J. (2015, June 10). First Ever Forced Marriage Conviction in the UK. The Telegraph. https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/crime/11665908/First-ever-forcedmarriage-conviction-in-UK.html. Bradley, T. (2009). ‘The Interfaces Between Gender, Religion, and Dowry’. In T. Bradley, E. Tomalin, & M. Subramaniam (Eds.), Dowry: Bridging the Gap between Theory and Practice (pp. 87–114). Zed books. Bradley, T. (2020). Global Perspectives on Violence Against Women and Girls. Bloomsbury Publishing. Bradley, T., & Kirmani, N. (2015). ‘Religion, Gender and Development in South Asia’. In Tomalin, E. (Ed.), The Routledge Handbook of Religions and Global Development (pp. 229–244). Routledge. Bradley, T., & Pallikadavath, S. (2013). ‘Dowry and Women’s Lives in Kerala: What has Changed in a Decade’? Contemporary South Asia, 21(4), 444–461. Bradley, T., & Pallikadavath, S. (2019). Dowry, ‘Dowry Autonomy’ and Domestic Violence Among Young Married Women in India’. Journal of Biosocial Science, 51(3), 353–373. Bradley, T., Tomalin, E., & Subramaniam, M. (Eds.) (2009). Dowry: Bridging the Gap Between Theory and Practice. Zed books.

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Bungay, V., Johnson, J. L., Boyd, S. C., Malchy, L., Buxton, J., & Loudfoot, J. (2009). ‘Women’s Stories/Women’s Lives: Creating Safer Crack Kits’. Women’s Health & Urban Life, 8(1), 28–41. Butler, J. (2020, March 6). Judith Butler on Rethinking Vulnerability, Violence, Resistance. Verso Blog. https://www.versobooks.com/blogs/4583-judith-butler-onrethinking-vulnerability-violence-resistance. Chantler, K., Gangoli, G., & Hester, M. (2009). ‘Forced Marriage in the UK: Religious, Cultural, Economic or State Violence’? Critical Social Policy, 29(4), 587–612. CPS (2019). So-Called Honour-Based Abuse and Forced Marriage. Crown Prosecution https://www.cps.gov.uk/legal-guidance/so-called-honour-based-abuse-andService.  forced-marriage-guidance-identifying-and-flagging. Dearden, L. (2015, August 12). Wedding between Sikh Bride and Non-Sikh Groom Stopped by ‘Thugs’ at London Temple. The Independent. http://www.independent. co.uk/news/uk/home-news/wedding-between-sikh-bride-and-non-sikh-groom-stoppedby-thugs-at-london-temple-10450476.html. Dutt, A. (2019). ‘Male Victims of Forced Marriages’. In Idris, M. M. (Ed.), Men, Masculinities and Honour-Based Abuse (pp. 24–43). Routledge. Equality Now. (2019). 5 Things You Should Know about Child Marriage and The Law In the United States. https://www.equalitynow.org/5_things_you_should_know_about_ child_marriage_the_us. FCO (2020). Forced Marriage: A Survivor’s Handbook. Foreign and Commonwealth Office. https://www.gov.uk/government/publications/survivors-handbook. Feldman, S. (2010, July). ‘Shame and Honour: The Violence of Gendered Norms Under Conditions of Global Crisis’. Women’s Studies International Forum, 33(4), 305–315. FMU (2020). Forced Marriage Unit Statistics, 2019. UK Home Office. Gangoli, G., Razak, A., & McCarry, M. (2006). Forced Marriages and Domestic Violence Among South Asian Communities in North East England. Northern Rock Foundation and University of Bristol. Grant, G. (1991). ‘That Was a Woman’s Satisfaction: The Significance of Life History for Woman-Centred Research (paper presented at the 1991 Learned Societies Conference at Queen’s University)’. Oral History Forum d’histoire orale, 11, 29–38. Greene, M. A., Robles, O. J., Stout, K., & Suvilaakso, T. (2013). A Girl’s Right to Learn without Fear: Working to End Gender-Based Violence at School. Plan Limited. Hamilton, S. K. (2018). Izzat, Intersectionality, and Educational Journeys: Hearing the Voices of British Bangladeshi, Indian and Pakistani (BIP) Heritage Women. PhD thesis. University of Portsmouth. Hanmer, J., & Statham, D. (1999). Developing Woman-centred Practice: Women Working with Women (2nd Ed). Basingstoke. Jahan, F. (2011). ‘Women’s Agency and Citizenship Across Transnational Identities: A Case Study of the Bangladeshi Diaspora in the UK’. Gender & Development, 19(3), 371–381, Kabeer, N. (2000). The Power to Choose. Guildford: Verso. Neiyyar, D., & Khatkar, P. (2013, March 2011). Sikh Weddings Crashed by Protesters Objecting to Mixed Faith Marriages. BBC. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-21721519. Parveen, N. (2016, November 3). I Never Thought I’d be Terrorised by my Fellow Sikhs at a Wedding. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/ nov/03/i-never-thought-id-be-terrorised-by-my-fellow-sikhs-at-a-wedding. Price, E. (2020, May 4). Under-18 Marriages ‘Thriving’ in UK and Should Be Banned, Say Charities. BBC. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-56982309.

Izzat and Forced Marriage in the UK 99 Refuge (2010). Forced Marriage in the UK: A Scoping Study on the Experience of Women from Middle Eastern and North East African Communities. Refuge. Rudd, J. (2001). ‘Dowry-Murder: An Example of Violence Against Women’. Women’s Studies International Forum, 24(5), 513–522. Samad, A.Y., & Eades, J. (2002). Community Perceptions of Forced Marriage. Community Liaison Unit. The Foreign and Commonwealth Office, UK. Siddiqi, D.M. (2005). ‘Of Consent and Contradiction: Forced Marriages in Bangladesh’. In L. Welchman & S. Hossain (Eds.), ‘Honour’: Crimes, Paradigms and Violence Against Women (pp. 282–307). Zed Books Ltd. Siddiqui, H. (2003). ‘It Was Written in Her Kishmet: Forced Marriage’. In R. Gupta (Ed.), Homebreakers to Jailbreakers (pp. 67–91). Zed Books. Siddiqui, H. (2014) Violence Against Minority Women: Tackling Domestic Violence, Forced Marriage and ‘Honour’ Based Violence. PhD thesis. University of Warwick. Tahirih Justice Centre (2017). Falling Through the Cracks: How Laws Allow Child Marriage to Happen in Today’s America. Tahirih Justice Center. UK Parliament (2011, May 17). Forced Marriage – Home Affairs Committee. Parliamentary Business. https://publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201012/cmselect/cmhaff/880/88003.htm. Zaytoun, K., & Ezekiel, J. (2016). ‘Sisterhood in Movement: Feminist Solidarity in France and the United States’. Frontiers: A Journal of Women Studies, 37(1), 195–214.

Note 1 It is a term that is on the surface about respect for an elder (older female member of the community) but is used more frequently in an ironic way to label someone who is quite often responsible for spreading gossip.

6

Harm and Consent in the Socio-Legal Perspectives on Child Marriage in Iran Ladan Rahbari

Introduction Marriage is an important social and economic institution in Islam. It is considered both a social necessity and a moral safeguard (Rahman & Kabir, 2005) with regulations on the biopolitical and economic realms of the Islamic family unit. As a significant regulatory measure, most Islamic perspectives encourage halal1 heterosexual relationships and denounce celibacy as an unwelcome practice, if not a disreputable and dishonourable one (Hathout, 1997; Zarean & Barzegar, 2016). There are multiple Hadith by the Prophet of Islam that are often quoted to highlight the importance of marriage as the ‘true’ way of Islam, including “whoever marries has completed half of their religion” (Hadithlib, n.d.) and “marriage is my Sunnah” (Islam Quest, 2013b). But while marriage is valued in Islam, it is in no way a compulsory practice. Additionally, based on different interpretations of Islamic guidelines and the political and social circumstances in Muslim majority contexts, a variety of approaches towards marriage have emerged (Sachedina, 1990). Although there is great diversity in the Middle Eastern region in terms of marriage forms and traditions, one commonly shared value is marriage itself, which remains fundamental to the social identity of Muslim people (Tremayne, 2006), especially when it comes to women’s social identity. In Iran, a country with a predominantly Shi’i Muslim population, marriage is a legal and social institution with conditions that have been dramatically influenced by the 1979 Iranian Revolution, after which interpretations of Islamic law were encoded into the country’s legal system. The establishment of the Islamic Republic of Iran led to the foundation of a state that encoded a combination of Shi’i Shari’a and non-religious laws. This means that both religious and political institutions play a role in creating and updating the country’s legal frameworks (Roy, 1999). With the application of Shi’i law in Iran, many previous policies relating to women and family issues saw a return to more classic and ‘purist’ readings of Shi’i rulings and in some realms, such as the age of marriage, the progress that had been made in the years before the 1979 Revolution was reversed (Moghadam, 1999). Prominent scholars of modern Iran agree that women’s rights after the establishment of the Islamic Republic should not be painted with a general pessimistic brush (Afary, 2009; MirHosseini, 2006; Moghadam, 1999).

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246046-6

Harm and Consent in Iran  101 However, some important changes in the realm of women’s rights that were made after the Revolution did have severe consequences for Iranian women in the years to come. One such change was the reduction of the legal age of marriage. After the Revolution, the minimum age of marriage was dropped to the age approved by some Shi’i scholars based on the Shari’a law, which was 9 years old for girls and 15 years old for boys. The law affects girls much more than boys, not only because of the six-year age difference between the legal age of marriage for girls and boys but also because girls are generally more vulnerable to child marriage. After a series of legal reforms in August 2003, and after political efforts by women members of the Iranian parliament, the legal marriage age was raised to 13 for girls; however, a clause was added stating that earlier marriage is allowed if the girl’s legal guardian and an Islamic court approved the girl’s readiness for marriage.2 This clause has made the application of the law regarding the minimum age of marriage somewhat arbitrary (Rahbari, 2019). Recent attempts by Iranian politicians and women’s rights activists in Iran to raise the age of marriage to 16 and ban marriage under the age of 13 have been blocked by the Iranian parliament (Bani Hashemi, 2018), for their supposed incompatibility with prominent ‘Islamic’ perspectives in Iran. This study discusses the case of child marriage in Iran, where Twelver Shi’i Islam3 is the official state religion as well as the reported religion of most of the country’s Muslim population. Child marriage is a marriage where either or both the bride and groom (most often the bride) is/are under the legal age of 18, which is the age limit for protection under the 1989 Convention on the Rights of the Child (Tremayne, 2006). Child marriage is considered a global issue and a widespread harmful practice that affects a great number of girls (Montazeri et al., 2016). The policy Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR) of the United Nations considers child marriage a form of harmful traditional/cultural practice (HTP or HCP). HCP/HTPs are associated with ‘cultural traditions’ of gender inequality, violating women’s right to “health, life, dignity and personal integrity” (OHCHR, 1995). Early marriage is categorized as HCP because of all forms of physical, psychological, and social harm that child marriage inflicts upon girls. To the author’s knowledge, the concept of HCP/ HTP has never been used by academic researchers to study the case of child/early marriage in Iran. When girls marry underage, they are prone to psychological and social stress, health complications (e.g. the risk of operative delivery, low weight and malnutrition, and other issues caused by high fertility rate and poor sexual and reproductive health), and obstacles that prevent the girl from pursuing education and employment opportunities (OHCHR, 1995). The physical and psychosocial harm caused by child marriage has been documented in extensive research across the globe (Jain & Kurz, 2007; Nour, 2006; Santhya et al., 2010). Child marriage is also linked to other contextual social issues and gender inequality, as well as other harmful practices such as forced marriage. There are specific sociopolitical factors that underpin the practices of forced marriage (Anitha & Gill,

102  Ladan Rahbari 2017, p. 167) and child marriage that need to be considered in any given context. Thus, to understand the complexity of the issues around child marriage in Iran, it is necessary to investigate the specificities of the Iranian socio-cultural, religious, and political context as well as the variety of marriage practices that are legalized in the country by Shi’i theological institutions and measures that are taken by the state to facilitate or hinder marriages. Besides investigating the issue of child marriage in the Islamic Republic of Iran, this chapter has a conceptual focus on consent and its relation to age. Consent is an issue that has attracted a great deal of feminist scholarship (Anitha & Gill, 2017; Hasday, 2000; Koshan, 2016; McGrath, 2005). Feminists believe that the current normative paradigms under which existing social institutions operate disqualify female experience and effectively negate the possibility of genuine choice for women (Drakopoulou, 2007, p. 10), but at the same time, consent is developed in more critical ways to establish its ethical criteria (Hill Kennedy & Niederbuhl, 2001; Primoratz, 2001). The connection between age limits of consent has also been explored in feminist studies on religion (Anagol-McGinn, 1992; Reid, 2004), but in the Iranian context, scholarship on consent is rare. Therefore, this study’s contribution is in introducing the contemporary problematics and developments on child marriage in Iran and investigating and interrogating the notion of consent in Shi’i Islamic perspectives on marriage. This study starts from the premise that child marriage is a harmful practice. Still, the question remains whether the HCP/HTP framework with its emphasis on ‘culture’ offers a vigorous framework for analysing the practice in a way that leads to effective policy to eradicate it. HCP has already been criticized for its essentialization of culture and tradition as singular and fixed and its bias towards religions, specifically towards Islam (Le Roux et al., 2017; Rahbari, 2019). Taking these critiques into account, this study offers an analysis of child marriage as a harmful practice that takes place at the intersection of religion, gender, and age. The study locates itself at the crossroad of the sociology of Islam and gender studies. In the next sections, I will first briefly introduce important factors that have a role to play in the practice of child marriage in Iran. The study will then discuss the implications and controversies over the legal age of marriage, its existing critique, and the conceptualizations of age of consent and early marriage in Iran and by Shi’i jurisprudence. By doing this, I will also interrogate the problem of consent in early marriage within the Shi’i legal and juristic perspectives as the dominant sources forming Iranian law. I then provide an in-depth discussion on the role of the contemporary socio-legal discourses and juristic Shi’i perspectives – in their heterogeneity – in conceptualizing consent and in both sanctioning and problematizing early marriage.

Marriage Laws in Iran and Shi’i Perspectives The Iranian Civil Code provides two different types of marriage: permanent and temporary (Bernardi, 1986). A permanent marriage is a legally binding conjugal contract based on a relationship that, from the very start, is assumed to

Harm and Consent in Iran  103 be lifelong. This form of marriage, called permanent marriage, does not have a predefined end date and ends only through the legal process of divorce. The other form of marriage, which is called temporary marriage,4 refers to a marriage that is valid only for a short and predefined period and automatically expires without needing divorce (Sobhani, 2013).5 Since marriage is perceived as an economic contract as well as a social one, Shi’i jurists employ the analogy of rent in the case of temporary marriage, as opposed to the analogy of sale in the case of permanent marriage (Mir-Hosseini, 2003). In practice, temporary marriage often involves a transaction, wherein the woman receives compensation equivalent to the duration of the marriage. Most contemporary Shi’i scholars consider temporary marriage a legitimate form of marriage, and some even encourage young people to practice it to avoid ‘sinful’ intimate premarital relationships. Despite the continuous promotion of temporary marriage by Iranian authorities, it remains a largely unpopular practice among Iranians, and for this, it is often practised in secrecy (Farahani, et al., 2011). Temporary marriage is also documented in other countries with Shi’i populations where it is illegal, such as Iraq (Al-Maghafi, 2019) and Afghanistan (Immigration and Refugee Board of Canada, 2012). However, even though there is relatively little dispute around the legitimacy of temporary marriage, there is a small minority of Islamic jurists who rule out the practice because of its incompatibility with contemporary societies and the common law6 (e.g. see: Saanei, n.d.). What is more, there is no juristic or legal restriction on the number of temporary wives a man can marry simultaneously (Zar Rokh, 2011). Temporary marriage in Iran could lead to a conjugal union between an unmarried woman and an unmarried or married Muslim man,7 because the laws in Iran that allow polygyny as the sole right of men to marry multiple wives after seeking the consent of the first wife and permission of the Islamic court (Schneider, 2016).8 The consent of the first wife can, however, be circumvented. This is because, unlike permanent marriages that must be registered (Rahbari, 2019), temporary marriage can be officially registered, or couples can opt for a private registration that does not enter any database but offers the couple a marriage certificate. Married men can thus opt for a temporary marriage with private registration that allows them to practise polygyny without acquiring the first wife’s consent. This shows an existing loophole in the law as there are not enough legal measures in place to ensure that men do not enter into a temporary marriage without first consulting and gaining the consent of their permanent wife. The practice of temporary marriage is not only connected to the problem of unregistered marriages but also the issue of child marriages in Iran, as young women/girls are one of the most prominent groups negatively affected by the practice of temporary (and sometimes unregistered) marriages (Bahrami, 2018). Even though the legal age of marriage was dropped after the Islamic Revolution, the average age of marriage has increased gradually and steadily from 24 to 27 for men and from 19 to 23 for women from 1976 to 2016. Regardless, as shown by UNICEF’s 2017 report, 3% of children marry by the age of 15, and 17% marry by the age of 18 (Girls Not Brides, 2017). Official reports inside Iran also indicate

104  Ladan Rahbari that more than 29,000 marriages were registered in 2016 that have taken place between girls who were younger than 15 and boys/men of different age groups (Mehrkhane, 2016). This report also showed that girls under 15 years of age mostly married men of the 20–24 age group and totalled over 16,900 marriages (approximately 58% of all marriages). As previously discussed, since the evidence of unregistered (child) temporary marriages exists, these numbers that are based only on registered marriages do not reflect the complete picture. While women in Iran have gained access to education, the connection made between education and delay in the age of marriage is not straightforward. Education does not necessarily represent the ideal solution for early marriage (Tremayne, 2006). Despite some growth in women’s employment and participation in economic activities (Rahbari, 2016b), women are still seen as economic burdens in the lower socio-economic class and in rural settings, and in this context, marrying off young girls might be a strategy to reduce the costs of living for their paternal family (Mardi et al., 2018). In Iran, the most common reasons behind child marriage and forced marriage include poverty in the girl’s family, the social prestige awarded to girls who marry young, lack of child support persons/ institutions, and sub-cultural traditions and tribal customs (Suuntaus Project, 2015). Child marriage is more common in some provinces than others; the highest rates are reported in the provinces of Sistan and Baluchestan, Kurdistan, Khuzestan, and Khorasan (Suuntaus Project, 2015).9 Some of these provinces (e.g. Sistan and Baluchestan, Kurdistan, and Southern and Northern Khorasan) are among the least developed in the country,10 while others (e.g. Khuzestan) are better developed (Karimi Moughari & Barati, 2017). Therefore, the differences can be associated with broader development levels as well as socio-cultural and religious factors. When it comes to the primary sources in Islam, namely the Quran and the Sunnah (teachings and sayings by the Prophet and other prominent Islamic figures), no specific age is mentioned as the proper age of marriage.11 However, in the Quranic verses, there are guidelines on what a good marriage should look like. For instance, the age of marriage is equated to the age of maturity: Then if you find in them maturity of intellect, make over to them their property, and do not consume it extravagantly and hastily against their growing ­ up. (Quran Chapter 4, verse 6) In traditional fiqh – Islamic jurisprudence – there was no minimum age for marriage, but there was a minimum age for the consummation of marriage (Zar Rokh, 2011), meaning that having sex with the spouse has to wait until they reach puberty. The legal and appropriate Islamic age of marriage is thus deduced differently based on interpretation traditions that relied on different fiqhi perspectives. This means that the legal age of marriage is not the same in all countries that legally adhere to Islamic Shari’a. There are, for instance, differences between the

Harm and Consent in Iran  105 Sunni and Shi’i perspectives. According to some contemporary Shi’i jurists, a girl is eligible to marry at about eight years and nine months and a boy at about fourteen years and seven months, when they are supposed to have reached puberty and can reproduce (Tremayne, 2006).12 While the age of nine is considered an appropriate age according to some Shi’i interpretations, it is considered necessary to abstain from having sexual relations before the girl is both physically and mentally mature. But in contradiction to this ruling, some other Shi’i mujtahids oppose the age of marriage and advocate for eliminating child marriage because of the harm it causes to the child’s life (Radio Farda, 2019). In Iran, while jurists have predominantly maintained their position that 9 years is an appropriate age for marriage, the legal age of marriage has been raised to 13. The Islamic age of marriage becomes specifically relevant when the child’s legal guardian wants the child to marry under the legal age of marriage (13). In such cases, the marriage of the girl under 13 is allowed if the girl’s guardian and an Islamic court approve the girl’s maturity, not only physically but also mentally and emotionally. As such, while religious sanctioning of early marriage is not always the reason behind child marriage, it is a significant facilitator that both adjusts the moral tone and affects legal possibilities (Rahbari, 2019). Because of the persisting social value of virginity for permanent marriages (Rahbari, 2016a), women with previous temporary or permanent marriage history are sometimes viewed as ‘damaged goods.’13 In the context of Iran, where marriage is still an important source of social status, the girl/woman’s future social life may be put in peril if they are perceived not to be virgins. Early pregnancies, losing their spouse, and financial support (especially when there is a great age gap between spouses), as well as other legal and social issues attached to unregistered and temporary marriages, are among the many problematic aspects of child marriage. What is specifically concerning in discussions and debates around the age of marriage is that there are no considerations regarding consent or better yet, the impossibility of consent in child marriage. While as a rule, in Shi’i rulings and marriage laws, consent is necessary for any marriage to be considered legitimate and legal (Karimi 2014, p. 86), the incapacity of a child to consent to marriage and the problematic issue of the guardian consenting on behalf of the child are generally not acknowledged. In the next section, I will discuss consent and its variation in Shi’i and Iranian legal discourses.

Consent to Marry and Its Effects on Child Marriage Consent to marry and to have sex is often perceived as a secular and liberal concept that aims at individual fulfilment and relies on the notion of personal sexual autonomy (Elias, 2018). However, this notion that relies on individual rational choice-making is not the only existing definition of consent. By prohibiting sexual violence against women in the form of coerced sex, Islam considers consent an important moral consideration in a sexual relationship (Elias, 2018). Consent to sex is necessary but not sufficient to legitimize a sexual relationship, and the relationship gains legitimacy through an Islamic marriage (Riaz, 2013).

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Harm and Consent in Iran  107 There are, however, different versions of the narrative on how Fatima’s consent was received, two of which have been popularized in Iran. The first narrative states that when the Prophet asked Fatima whether she would accept marrying Ali, she gazed down, smiled, and stayed silent. The Prophet then said, “Her silence is a sign of consent” (Noori, 2009). The second narrative recounts that upon being asked, Fatima responded, “I consent to what God and the Prophet see fit for me” (Dashti, 2017). Fatima’s consent is not verbally received in the first narrative, and her lack of objection is interpreted as consent. In contrast, in the second narrative, Fatima does not give explicit consent but seems to be willingly leaving the decision to her father. Drawing on these narratives as a model of behaviour risks justifying interpretations that consider a lack of coercion by the girl’s family or objection by the girl equivalent to consent. This argument connects to the second problem – consent in child marriage – in which the most starkly present problem is that the consent of the child – even though expressed – should not provide grounds for marriage because a child can simply not consent. Iranian state’s position on the age of majority and its consequences for marriage law has been scrutinized from inside and from outside the country. While the state has signed the Convention on the Rights of the Child15 in 1991, its signature has been conditional, and the country reserves the right not to apply any provisions or articles of the Convention that are incompatible with Islamic Laws (UNICEF, 1989). Additionally, in the case of consent of a child, since marriage is allowed upon receipt of consent from the guardian, the child’s consent is not considered necessary if the court and the child’s guardian agree on the benefits of marriage for the child. In this context, the child is protected even less than an adult since an adult woman cannot be obligated to marry by her guardian, but a child can. The issue of the age of marriage in Iran is entangled with specific Shi’i interpretations that most Shi’i scholars believe, and according to which Fatima’s consent to marriage was received at the age of nine. This age is thus taken as a model for the Shi’i practice of marriage. Although some Shi’i scholars have reported Fatima’s marriage age was between 9 and 14 (Gharvi Nayini, 2008) and other Sunni and Shi’a scholars have reported that it was high as 18 (Islam Quest, 2013a), many contemporary prominent scholars in Shi’i seminaries of Iran and Iraq declare that 9 is the minimum age of majority and thus marriage. Consent to marry also must be discussed in connection to the consent to sex. Classic Shi’i jurisprudence and the laws on marital sexual relationships in Iran both rule that after marriage, the girl/woman has a marital responsibility to have sex with her husband. Thus, while coercion of sex is not allowed, the refusal of a wife to consent to sex could have legal ramifications for her. Article 1108 of the Iranian Civil Code vaguely states: Whenever a woman abstains from performing her marital duties without legitimate obstacles, she does not qualify for receiving mahr. (Khajezade & Hoseini Mighan, 2018)

108  Ladan Rahbari While sex is not mentioned in the article, it is treated in the Iranian courts as one of the ‘marital duties’ that the wife owes to the husband. Abstinence from providing it would disqualify the wife from receiving mahr (money or possessions promised to the girl/woman, especially in case of a divorce, to provide financial security for her) and will give the man the right to file a complaint to the Islamic court, apply for a permit to divorce the wife, or to marry a second wife (Rahmani et al., 2017).16 There is also juristic consensus on sex as a marital duty, meaning that the wife should be sexually available to the husband unless there is legitimate justification.17 Although consent to marry is automatically translated into consent to sex, it is left out of many public, legal, and Shi’i juristic discussions on both marriage and consent in Iran. As demonstrated in this section, the discussions on consent are not only vague but also insufficiently developed. This is partly because Iran’s complex legal system relies not only on semi-democratically18 elected social and political entities but also on the country’s Shi’i seminaries that promote a patriarchal version of Shi’i fiqh.

HCP and the Problem of Consent and Child Marriage The HCP/HTP framework introduced in the introduction section is used by OHCHR to problematize child marriage not only because of all forms of harm that could be inflicted upon girls but also because of the assumed ‘traditional’ and ‘cultural’ roots of the problem of child marriage. While cultural justifications are sometimes offered for child marriage, it cannot be considered a purely cultural or traditional practice in the context of Iran. More specifically, if culture is defined as “a way of life of humans generally and of specific social groups and peoples” (Cobley, 2008), then child marriage is certainly not a ‘cultural’ issue in Iran, since not only is it not a common or general way of life but also a contested practice that is largely problematized in the society. There are multiple problems within the socio-legal and interpretations of ‘Islamic’ perspectives in Iran. Some of these problems are rooted in very specific interpretations of Shi’i Islamic law that is linked more with political institutions than with the popular or cultural readings of Shi’a Islam. While it is possible to discuss the evident harm in the practice of child marriage and the historical role religion has played in facilitating and regulating it, it is also possible to trace the effects of politics in the institutionalized version of Islam and distance oneself from assuming it as a merely ‘cultural’ or ‘religious’ phenomenon. Using culture and tradition as a point of reference risks generalizing cultures and traditions while treating them as static as well as geographically and temporally universal phenomena. In the context of Iran, the diversity of different regions – in aspects of identity such as religion, ethnicity, and language as well as economic, political, and developmental factors – has affected the practice of child marriage (Mardi et al., 2018; Suuntaus Project, 2015). This shows a complex national picture that cannot be simply described as ‘cultural’ or ‘traditional.’ On the other hand, the Iranian state’s patriarchal biopolitical approach to women’s bodies and gender issues, which is not necessarily supported by Iranians (Rahbari, 2019), highlights

Harm and Consent in Iran  109 that the religious and legal systems are not only culturally motivated but also politically and ideologically constituted. The HCP/HTP framework’s inclination to associate harm with cultural beliefs does not offer a framework that adequately politicizes this complex setting. The harm in child marriage is not only in the lack of consent, and the notion of consent itself has theoretical limitations. For example, considering the consent of the girl/woman as the only prerequisite to marriage or sex pays little attention to the many ways in which all women located within a matrix of structural inequalities can face social expectations, pressure, and constraint in matters regarding marriage (Anitha & Gill, 2017). Thus, consent is not a perfect model for adult women. Consent-based and individualized accounts might indeed prevent us from seeing how particular acts are informed and endowed with moral significance by sexist social relations, practices, and institutions (Primoratz, 2001). In contexts where the law’s formal adherence to the concept of consent is considered the decisive criterion of the legality of an act, the pragmatic constraints that harsh reality places upon women’s consensual freedom and exercise of rational choice might get ignored (Drakopoulou, 2007, p. 11). I have, by now, problematized the usage of HCP and its ‘cultural’ approach towards child marriage. I believe that ‘harmful gendered practice’ is a more useful term to refer to child marriage in the Iranian context because (i) the practice of child marriage is disproportionately and largely affecting young women and girls; (ii) it is a combination of gendered biopolitics, and patriarchal socio-cultural dynamics that perpetuate child marriage in Iran, not a pervasive form of cultural practice; (iii) girls/women’s classed position and experience of systematic gendered discrimination have led to their disempowerment. While cultural factors have affected gender dynamics, girls/women’s economic, social, and political deprivation intersect to cause further marginalization; (iv) employing ‘culture’ as an a nalytical category obscures the prominent role of the State, as well as religiopolitical legal frameworks and discourses in the country. The limitations of consent are important to note, but in the context of Iran, where consent to marriage is not an adequately developed legal framework, discussions on consent are urgently needed. Consent is used in vague terms. An individual’s consent to marriage and sex is entangled in discourses on legal and religious obligations, and the legal frameworks do not guarantee that structural forces around the individual are minimalized. Consent should be reformulated to acknowledge that no form of consent can legitimately be given on behalf of another person and reflect the power dynamics that might explicitly or implicitly impact the decision-making process. In the case of consent in the Islamic model, adult women’s consent should be empowered and more explicitly prioritized, and child marriage should be contested for the clear reason that Islam values both maturity and informed consent as requirements for marriage. Neither condition is met when a child is married by her guardian. The Islamic canonical sources have repeatedly advised Muslims to protect children, but the current rulings and laws on the age of marriage are neither guaranteeing the protection of children nor

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are they adjusted to the global and contemporary Iranian society’s stance against child marriage. The harm against children through child marriage requires serious attention and socio-legal change. Changing Iranian laws that allow child marriage is complex and difficult since, as discussed throughout this chapter, the current legal frameworks in Iran allow for forms of temporary and privately registered marriage, which are closely connected to the practice of child marriage. Additionally, any form of reform involves the participation of religious and legal institutions, none of which are completely free from the state’s biased views on women’s rights. As this chapter shows, however, it is not enough to rely on ‘culture’ or ‘religion’ as a point of entry to the debates on child marriage; instead, recognizing the harm in some of the existing political, socio-legal, and religious perspectives that are deeply gendered is the first step towards the much-needed legal reform of marriage laws in Iran.

References Afary, J. (2009). Sexual Politics in Modern Iran. New York: Cambridge University Press. Al-Maghafi, N. (2019, October 6). In Iraq, religious ‘pleasure marriages’ are a front for child prostitution. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/oct/06/ pleasure-marriages-iraq-baghdad-bbc-investigation-child-prostitution. Anagol-McGinn, P. (1992). ‘The Age of Consent Act (1891) Reconsidered: Women’s Perspectives and Participation in the Child-Marriage Controversy in India’. South Asia Research, 12(2), 100–118. Anitha, S., & Gill, A., K. (2011). ‘Reconceptualising Consent and Coercion’. In A. K. Gill & S. Anitha (Eds.), Forced Marriage (pp. 46–66). Zed books. Bahrami, K. (2018, March 16). Children are the most prominent victims of temporary Marriage. Iran Wire. https://iranwire.com/fa/features/25199. Bani Hashemi, P. (2018). Why is the Bill to Ban Child Marriage Rejected? BBC. https:// www.bbc.com/persian/blog-viewpoints-46988381. Bernardi, A. (1986). ‘Iran: Family Law After the Islamic Revolution’. Journal of Family Law, 25(1), 151–154. Cobley, P. (2008). ‘Culture: Definitions and Concepts’. In W. Donsbach (Ed.), The International Encyclopedia of Communication (pp. 1–7). Wiley-Blackwell. Daghagheleh, A. (2018). ‘Ambivalent Voting Behavior: Ideology, Efficacy, and the Socioeconomic Dynamic of Voter Turnout in Iran, 1997–2005’. Sociological Forum, 33(4), 1023–1044. Dashti, M. (2017). Collection of Sayings by Hazrat Fatima Zahra. Amir Kabir Publication [in Farsi]. Drakopoulou, M. (2007). ‘Feminism and Consent: A Genealogical Inquiry’. In R. Hunter & S. Cowan (Eds.). Choice and Consent (pp. 9–38). Routledge-Cavendish. Elias, A. A. (2018, April 24). Sexual Consent, Marriage, and Concubines in Islam. Faith in Allah. https://bit.ly/3h4ffDK. Farahani, F. K. A., Cleland, J., & Mehryar, A. H. (2011). ‘Associations Between Family Factors and Premarital Heterosexual Relationships Among Female College Students in Tehran’. International Perspectives on Sexual and Reproductive Health, 37(1), 30–39.

Harm and Consent in Iran 111 Gharvi Nayini, N. (2008). ‘The Position of Fatima in Sunni Resources’. Women’s Strategic Studies, 11(42), 182–199 [in Farsi]. Girls Not Brides (2017). Iran: Child Marriage Rates. Girls Not Brides. https://www. girlsnotbrides.org/child-marriage/iran/. Hadese24 (2019). Why is Child Marriage a Crime? http://hadese24.ir/news/15200. Hadithlib (n.d.). Hadith: Whoever Marries, Completes Half of Their Religion. Shi’i Hadith Library. http://bit.ly/2Wjwg6pHadithofmarriage. Haeri, S. (2014). Law of Desire: Temporary Marriage in Shi’i Iran. Syracuse University Press. Halimatusa’diyah, I. (2013). ‘Being Shi’ite Women in Indonesia’s Sunni-Populated Community’. South East Asia Research, 21(1), 131–150. Hasday, J. E. (2000). ‘Contest and Consent: A Legal History of Marital Rape’. California Law Review, 88, 1373–1498. Hathout, H. (1997). ‘Islamic Views on Some Reproductive Issues’. In S. Ahmad S. & I. Farag (Eds.), Talaat Genetic Disorders among Arab Populations. Oxford University Press. Hill Kennedy, C., & Niederbuhl, J. (2001). ‘Establishing Criteria for Sexual Consent Capacity’. American Journal on Mental Retardation, 106(6), 503–510. Immigration and Refugee Board of Canada (2012). Afghanistan: Whether seigha (Temporary Marriage) is Practiced in Afghanistan and by Which Groups (Responses to Information Requests AFG104238.E). IRB/CISR https://www.irb-cisr.gc.ca/en/country-information/ rir/Pages/index.aspx?doc=454214. Islam Quest (2013a). What is the Date of Marriage between Hazrat Ali and hazrat Fatima, and How Old Were they When they Married? Islam Quest. https://www.islamquest.net/ fa/archive/question/fa18292. Islam Quest (2013b). What is the Meaning of “Marriage is My Sunnah”. Islam Quest. http://www.islamquest.net/fa/archive/question/fa23334. Jabbari, M. (2007). ‘Extracting the Vagueness in the Law Regarding Marriage of a Muslim Man and a Non-Muslim Woman’. Journal of Law and Political Sciences (Pajouheshnameye Hoghugh va Olume Siyasi), 7, 97–110 [in Farsi]. Jain, S., & Kurz, K. (2007). New Insights on Preventing Child Marriage: A Global Analysis of Factors and Programs. International Center for Research on Women (ICRW). https:// www.icrw.org/publications/new-insights-on-preventing-child-marriage/. Karimi Moughari, Z., & Barati, J. (2017). ‘Determining the Level of Regional Inequality in Provinces of Iran: Analysis of Multidimensional Composite Index’. Quarterly Journal of Economic Growth and Development Research, 7(26), 49–70. Karimi, F. (2014). Non-monogamous Relationships. H&S Media. Khajezade, A., & Hoseini Mighan, S. R. (2018). ‘Wife’s Right to Abstinence and Vaugeness in Legal Processes’. The Judiciary Law Journal, 102(82), 35–54 [in Farsi]. Koshan, J. (2016). ‘Marriage and Advance Consent to Sex: A Feminist Judgment in R v JA’. Oñati Socio-Legal Series, 6(6), 1377–1404. Mansoury, M. N. (2019, August 2). Virgin Girl and the Laws Regarding Her Marriage. Nasehyar [in Farsi]. http://bit.ly/35QuHPc. Mardi, A., Ebadi, A., Moghadam, Z. B., & Shahbazi, S. (2018). ‘Perceptions of Teenage Women About Marriage in Adolescence in an Iranian Setting: A Qualitative Study’. Electronic Physician, 10(2), 62–92. McGrath, A. (2005). ‘Consent, Marriage and Colonialism: Indigenous Australian Women and Colonizer Marriages’. Journal of Colonialism and Colonial History, 6, 1–13. Mehrkhane (2016). A Look at the Conditions of Marriage In 2016 + Tables. Mehkrane. http://bit.ly/2WnP9Fy.

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Mir-Hosseini, Z. (2003). Mut’a Marriage in Iran: Law and Social Practice. Paper presented in 2003 at Register Amsterdam, Informal Marriages and Dutch Law. MirHosseini, Z. (2006). ‘Muslim Women’s Quest for Equality: Between Islamic Law and Feminism’. Critical Inquiry, 32(4), 629–645. Moghadam, V. M. (1999). ‘Revolution, Religion, and Gender Politics: Iran and Afghanistan Compared’. Journal of Women’s History, 10(4), 172–195. Moghaddasi, M. B., & Ameri, Z. (2016). ‘Forced Marriage: From Prohibition to Criminalization’. The Teachings of Criminal Law, 12(Fall-Winter), 169–198. Montazeri, S., Gharacheh, M., Mohammadi, N., Rad, J. A., & Ardabili, H. E. (2016). ‘Determinants of Early Marriage from Married Girls’ Perspectives in Iranian Setting: A Qualitative Study’. Journal of Environmental and Public Health, 2016, 285–292. Noori, A. (2009). Behavioral Patterns of Hazrat Zahra in the Family. Nameye Jame’e, 57 (Online) [in Farsi]. Nour, N. M. (2006). ‘Health Consequences of Child Marriage in Africa’. Emerging Infectious Diseases, 12(11), 1644–1649. OHCHR (1995, August). Fact Sheet No. 23, Harmful Traditional Practices Affecting the Health of Women and Children. OHCHR. Primoratz, I. (2001). ‘Sexual Morality: Is Consent Enough’? Ethical Theory and Moral Practice, 4(3), 201–218. Radio Farda (2019, February 10). Grand Ayatollah Speaks Out Against Child Marriage. Radio Farda. https://en.radiofarda.com/a/iran-grand-ayatollah-speaks-put-against-childmarriage/29762095.html. Rahbari, L. (2016a). ‘Women in Higher Education and Academia in Iran’. Sociology and Anthropology, 4(11), 1003–1010. Rahbari, L. (2016b). ‘Sexuality in Iran’. In Constance L. Shehan (Ed.), Encyclopedia of Family Studies (pp. 1769–1772). Wiley Blackwell. Rahbari, L. (2019). ‘Marriage in Iran: Women Caught Between Shi’i and State Law’. Electronic Journal of Islamic and Middle Eastern Law, 7, 37–48. Rahman, M. M., & Kabir, M. (2005). ‘Do Adolescents Support Early Marriage in Bangladesh?  Evidence from Study’. Journal of the Nepal Medical Association, 44(159), 73–78. Rahmani, M., Abhari, H., & Fard, A. A. I. (2017). ‘Legal Study of Implications of Wife’s Noshooz in Her Legal Right to Divorce in Case of Husband’s Second Marriage’. The Quarterly Journal of Women and Family Socio-Cultural Council, 19(76), 81–107 [in Farsi]. Reid, C. Jr. (2004). ‘The Unavoidable Influence of Religion Upon the Law of Marriage’. Quarterly Law Review, 23, 493–528. Riaz, S. (2013). ‘Shariah Perspective on Marriage Contract and Practice in Contemporary Muslim Societies’. International Journal of Social Science and Humanity, 3(3), 263–267. Rooznameh, R. (2013). Family Protection Law. http://www.rooznamehrasmi.ir/Laws/ ShowLaw.aspx?Code=847. Roy, O. (1999). ‘The Crisis of Religious Legitimacy in Iran’. Middle East Journal, 53(2), 201–216. Saanei (n.d.) Rulings and Conditions of Temporary Marriage. Saanei. http://saanei.org/ index.php?view=01,02,09,3295,0. Sachedina, Z. (1990). ‘Islam, Procreation and the Law’. International Family Planning Perspectives, 16(3), 107–111. Safir (2018). What are the conditions of a girl’s marriage without father’s consent. Safir. https://ilsafir.com/Articles/Details/5168/.

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Notes 1 ‘Halal’ is a term used in Islamic moral and legal discourses to refer to all that is permissible. As a default, everything is halal unless otherwise advised in Islamic sources such as the Quran and the Hadith. To have sexual relationships with someone in halal ways, it is necessary to perform an Islamic marriage. 2 If a man marries a child in ways that defy this law, they will be criminally charged with jail time between six months and two years and will receive a monetary fine (Rooznameh Rasmi, 2013); in case of permanent damage to the child’s body or transmitting chronic illnesses to her as a result of marriage, the jail time is raised to two to five years, and in case of the child’s death to five to ten years (Hadese24, 2019). 3 Twelver branch of Shi’a believes in the existence and infallibility of 12 legitimate Imams who are among their 14 key figures: the Prophet, Fatima (Prophet’s daughter) and the 12 Imams (Halimatusa’diyah, 2013). Shi’a Islam has other branches, but Twelvers are the largest Shi’i population. In this chapter, I refer to the Twelver branch wherever I use Shi’a/Shi’i. 4 Called sigheh in Farsi and mut’ah in Arabic. 5 While the practice has long been outlawed in Sunni traditions of Islam, it is still considered legitimate in (most) Shi’i jurisprudence and is practised in Shi’i contexts, including Iran (Haeri, 2014). 6 Orf in Farsi and urf in Arabic. 7 Interfaith marriages are allowed only between Muslim men and non-Muslim women; women cannot marry non-Muslim men (Jabbari, 2007). 8 First Iranian family law was codified in 1928–1935 as part of the Iranian Civil Code and was reformed in 1967 with the enactment of the Family Protection Act (FPA, in Farsi, qanune hemayat az khanevdeh). The FPA abolished the husband’s right to unconditional polygamy and made it conditional on the first wife’s consent and gave the wife the right to divorce in case the husband did not seek her consent (Schneider, 2016). 9 Suuntaus Project, online (2015).

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10 Khorasan has three regions: Southern, Northern, and Razavi. The latter is relatively more developed than the first two. 11 I have used translations from http://corpus.quran.com/ but I have changed the pronouns – where gender is not known – to they/their/them for both singular and plural nouns. 12 According to the Islamic lunar hijri calendar, the age of marriage for girls is 9 years and for boys 15 years. The lunar year is shorter than Gregorian year. 13 The hymen/virginity myth – the idea that the hymen wraps the vagina and breaks and bleeds during first intercourse – is still widely popular in Iran. 14 Depending on the conditions of coercion or non-consent, the court might nullify the marriage or grant a divorce. 15 According to which, 18 is the age of majority. 16 The husband has the right to sex but does not have the right to force the woman to have sex. 17 Legitimate justification according to Iranian law include wife’s or husband’s sexually transmitted infections or diseases, fear of physical harm, or damage to the woman’s integrity. The woman can also abstain from sex temporarily if the act of sex would intervene with religious obligations (e.g. during Ramadan or Haj ritual). 18 While the Iranian political system relies on elections (e.g. for the Iranian parliament, Council of Guardians, and the president), the candidates for any political office are vigorously and undemocratically vetted (Daghagheleh, 2018).

7

Understanding the Nexus of Religion, Secularism, and the Harms of Women’s Mandatory Un/Covering Sarah Fischer

“Harmful cultural practices” (HCP) is a term non-governmental organizations (NGOs) often use to describe certain actions men and sometimes women undertake against women. The most prominent of these practices is female genital mutilation (FGM) (Longman & Bradley, 2015). Although FGM is often performed on women in and from the Global South, HCP are not limited to this – these practices include procedures such as breast augmentation and labiaplasty, both of which are common in the West, and both of which cause physical pain for women in order to conform with patriarchal expectations. The research on HCP emerged in part as a result of political philosopher Susan Moller Okin’s seminal essay “Is Multiculturalism Bad for Women?” (1999). In it, Okin discusses how, in 1999, many liberal democracies and development programmes around the globe had allowed cultural groups to maintain prerogatives and practices that some members of the groups claimed to be essential to their respective cultures. Many of these practices were detrimental to women. Up until Okin’s essay was published, many NGOs and academics had largely considered the development of multiculturalism to be good for minority groups, allowing them to coexist peacefully alongside the majority while continuing to practice significant and long-held traditions. Through advocating multicultural policies, as they were referred to in that period, the West could, it was believed, advocate for change. However, by implementing multicultural policies, states were also able to continue to pursue nationalist claims – and yet avoided being labelled as assimilationist, exclusionary, or disempowering towards minorities (Kymlicka, 2001). From a liberal feminist perspective, Okin’s essay raised uncomfortable questions about who benefitted from this co-existence of cultures and what “culture” was. To many, the answer to the first question was that men from minority groups were allowed to have greater access to rights and freedoms in liberal society – all while dominating women within their own cultures and preventing women from accessing the same rights and freedoms from the majority culture that they found themselves able to access. Okin pointed out that multiculturalism allowed men’s privilege to double, while forcing intersectionalities of dominance onto women, who were additionally denied access to avenues to rectify the wrongs perpetrated against them.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246046-7

116  Sarah Fischer Okin used FGM as her primary example of HCP, but she and others also considered other practices to be harmful, including forced feeding, early marriages, practices that prevent women from accessing birth control, son preferences, female infanticide, encouraging teen pregnancy, dowries, some traditional birth practices, and veiling (Okin, 1999; United Nations, 1979). The last of these, veiling, was assumed by many Westerners to always be harmful to women. As a result, a literature developed, specifically with regard to Islamic veiling, portraying the practice as such (Hirschmann, 1998; Hoodfar, 1992), and views of veiling as being always and only harmful to women intensified after the 9/11 attacks (Kapur, 2002; Riley, 2013). The answer to the second question Okin’s essay highlighted – what exactly is culture? – has been debated extensively in the academic literature, with no clear answer yet being reached. In political science – the discipline in which this chapter is grounded – culture and political culture theory are especially suspect due to the lack of consensus on what the term culture encompasses, what it excludes, and the mechanisms by which culture causes change (Voinea & Neumann, 2019; Welch, 2013). In this chapter, the term culture is used to denote the non-regulated but constant institutions of everyday life present in homes and social relationships; it is a companion to formal political institutions and laws. Cultural practices and political institutions are not autonomous; they have a symbiotic relationship with each other. When compared to some of the other practices mentioned above, veiling stands in a particularly complex position in relation to questions of women’s equality, autonomy and coercion. This can depend on whether a state embraces a specific religious tradition or adheres to a form of secularism. That is to say, when attempting to understand whether or not a specific practice is harmful, context can matter. Longman and Bradley raise the question: If bans on veiling and other forms of dress coverings, or “forced unveiling”, which by contrast have become the norm in a number of countries in Europe, but also Turkey, for example, could be seen as “harmful”. (Longman & Bradley, 2015, p. 54) In her book on veiling in France, Scott (2007) argues that it is not the veil that is harmful to women, but rather components of culture, such as racism, secularism, a desire to control women’s sexuality, and state power, that truly harm women. It is the mixture of these elements within a nation that allows the state to enact laws against women wearing the veil. Similarly, Amer (2014) notes that Muslim women have nuanced views on veiling, and that being progressive and being Muslim does not necessarily signal hostility to veiling. This chapter agrees with the claim that any form of the veil is not inherently negative. Rather, it is the state’s use and endorsement of the veil as a tool to legitimize practices of women’s subordination that is harmful to women. I examine several types of discrimination Muslim women face based on their decisions

Understanding Women’s Mandatory Covering  117 regarding the veil in two countries with distinctly different histories of national policies towards veiling: Turkey and Iran. Turkey is a country with a 99% Muslim, majority Sunni, population where veiling in governmental buildings, including schools, public and private universities, governmental offices, military barracks, and courtrooms, was banned from 1980s until the 2010s. This policy was sustained for this long despite the fact that, even in the 2010s, more than half of Turkish women wore the veil. On the other hand, in Iran, a country which also has a 99% Muslim, majority Shia, population, women have been mandated to wear the veil since shortly after the Iranian Revolution in 1978. Much existing research focuses its examinations of discrimination on Muslim women who veil in the West, including France, the United Kingdom, and Germany. Often, these studies look at the experiences that Muslim women from migrant backgrounds face when they reside in predominantly secular countries that have embraced, at least to some degree, multiculturalism. However, research rarely explores the harmful cultural practices and discrimination Muslim women face perpetrated by other Muslim women. This is especially true in predominantly Muslim societies – like Turkey and Iran – where Westerners often view women en masse as the victims of state policies. Specifically, this chapter examines the difficulties veiled Muslim women face when confronted with discrimination in varying contexts in Muslim counties, noting similarities in the harms endured despite dramatically different state policies towards veiling. Like most countries, Turkey and Iran have complicated histories where states’ attempts to dominate religion have ebbed and flowed. This chapter does not take the position that government and religion are antithetical to each other, but instead comes from an often-overlooked issue: state policies that mandate veiling or not veiling legitimize discrimination against women, sometimes by other women. The women’s statements presented in this chapter show how harm is caused by state veiling policies, and they also illustrate the various forms of discrimination experienced by women as a result of such policies. This is exacerbated when the state is unwilling to step in and mitigate such harms, leaving women to either endure the discrimination or succumb to the pressure to comply with the desires of others. Here, I specify and examine three types of harm that veiled women routinely experience: education-based harm, workplace-based harm, and relationship-based harm. Before discussing these, I first provide a background to the context of veiling in the two countries. This chapter is situated at the intersection of three fields of study: empirical political science, sociology of religion, and gender studies. Empirical political science offers an evidence-based examination of the state through the examination of its laws. From sociology of religion, this chapter takes its emphasis on how religious practices, state policies towards religion, and cultural norms interact. The chapter’s highlighting of women’s voices and women’s lived experiences is a direct outgrowth of gender studies. The research presented stems from years of living in Turkey and a visit to Iran. In both countries, I was fortunate enough to talk with women and listen to their voices, beliefs, and frustrations. In Turkey, at the height of veiling, about 69.4% of Turkish women – between 27 and 30 million – wore the

118  Sarah Fischer veil (KONDA, 2007). In Iran, 100% of women – between 30 and 35 million – are mandated to veil whenever in public (Shirazi, 2018). This research investigates how social status and age intersect with veiling, demonstrating diversity of lived experiences and social practices among this group of 75–86 million veiled women, which is often assumed to be homogenous.

A Brief Contextualization of Veiling Although today the veil is most frequently thought of as part of Islam, the cultural practice of veiling in the land areas now known as Turkey and Iran predated the arrival of Islam or the advent of the nation-state. Today, even within these states, the veil and how it is worn varies not only by state regulation, but also by cultural custom. For example, in Turkey’s Black Sea region, almost all women wear a style of veil that ties under the chin, in large part due to that form of the veil being a cultural custom of working in the fields – and these women and these veils were typically exempted from state regulations that prohibited veiling. Women who practise veiling often do so for a mixture of reasons, including their interpretation of religious edicts, norms of their local communities and families, and state regulations. In this section, I briefly contextualize the history of veiling and state laws regarding veiling, first in Turkey, and then in Iran. In Turkey, during the late Ottoman period, veiling was a luxury that upper-class women practised on the rare occasions when they left their homes. At this time, women’s veils were usually light pieces of muslin fabric (yasmak) that usually covered the top of the head and hair, and wrapped around the chin and nose, leaving the eyes exposed and tying in the back. After World War I and the Turkish War of Independence, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk undertook a series of reforms that were meant to modernize Turkey. As a military officer, Ataturk had travelled to Europe. He wanted both to Westernize Turkey as part of his modernization efforts and to establish peaceful relationships with European nations as part of his foreign policy strategy. Consequently, his reforms included mandating surnames, adopting the Latin alphabet, eliminating the caliphate, enfranchising women, and making changes to the traditional clothing of Turks. In the 1920s, laws were put in place that banned men from wearing the fez and women from wearing the veil in an attempt to modernize Turks’ dress (Yilmaz, 2013). The veiling ban, however, was really only implemented in cities. The new state lacked the resources to implement the ban across the country, and so most women in villages were slow to remove their veils. Gradually, the ban on veiling was also relaxed in cities, particularly after Ataturk’s death in 1938. Nonetheless, the urban/rural duality of the headscarf remained, and, as families began to migrate into the city from villages throughout the 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s, more female migrants to cities wore a style of the veil that is often referred to as the headscarf. Still the most popular style of veiling in Turkey today, the headscarf wraps around the hair and under the chin, but leaves the eyes, nose, and mouth visible. The influx of migrants occurred simultaneously with political movements that opposed the secular elite’s Kemalist1 ideology and advocated for more

Understanding Women’s Mandatory Covering  119 rights being granted to the emerging conservative, religious middle-class (White, 2002). Coup attempts in 1971 and 1980 were quickly followed by restrictions on women’s veiling and, after the successful 1980 coup, women who wore the headscarf were banned from university due to the veil being assumed to represent an anti-state, pro-religion ideology. Prime Minister Turgut Ozal mediated a solution in the late 1980s, whereby a “turban” style of veil was deemed acceptable, but other styles were not (Korteweg & Yurdakul, 2014). It proved to be a short-lived solution, as subsequent governments banned the turban, supposedly to protect state secularism. The ban was extended to other institutions such as courtrooms, offices, and military bases and remained in effect for most of the 1990s, continuing into the 2000s as the conservative middle-class continued to grow and the secular elite struggled to maintain control of Turkey’s politics, government, and social norms. In 2002, the Justice and Development Party took control of the government, and the party’s Islamist roots gave secularists even more cause for concern. However, veiling bans – and protests against the bans – endured until 2011, when the Council on Higher Education, which controlled all public and some parts of private educational institutions, lifted parts of the veiling ban. Gradually, bans were lifted in the public and private sectors, including in parliament. By 2017, the state had removed all of the bans. Recent estimates put the percentage of women who veil in Turkey at around 60% (Ozkok, 2018). The headscarf, often worn with a cap underneath to keep hair from showing and making the scarf easier to secure, is the most common style of veil, which is also the most favoured style among the political elites and businesswomen who veil. Other less-common styles of veiling include the turban and the headscarf with the tails of the scarf extended so that the tails cover the shoulders (sometimes referred to outside of Turkey as al-amira, or, if the scarf is sewn at the chin to fit tightly around the head and chin and extend down to the mid-torso, khimar). Uncommon styles of headscarf include the chador (where a large black piece of cloth, usually extends over the entire body, leaving the eyes and sometimes the nose visible), the niqab (often a headscarf combined with a panel that covers the nose and mouth, leaving only the eyes visible), and the burka (where the entire body is covered by opaque fabric, except for the eyes, which are covered by a form of netting). In Iran, Fatimah Baraghani’s life and death figures prominently with the start of the unveiling debate. Born into a family of prominent Islamic jurists in the early 1800s, she eventually converted to Babism. Baraghani later unveiled herself in front of men, an act that attracted considerable attention. After being accused of plotting to assassinate the monarch, Baraghani was sentenced to death and, before being strangled to death with her veil, she proclaimed women would be emancipated. Throughout the late 1800s and early 1900s, other elite women also protested the veiling customs (Chehabi, 1993; Shirazi, 2019). The state’s official dress code for men was westernized in 1928, and that same year, the government ordered police to allow unveiled women to visit public places after many lobbied for such a change (while the clergy lobbied against the change) (Chehabi, 1993).

120  Sarah Fischer Reza Shah Pahlavi’s government was supported with influence from the West and, following his rise to power in 1925, Western norms held greater influence among Iranian elites than they had previously. However, it was the Shah’s 1936 decree ordering women to unveil that was the government’s first drastic change to veiling practices, prior to which most women wore the chador outside the home. Pahlavi undertook an official state visit to Turkey in 1934, and while there, he observed the effects of Ataturk’s unveiling policies. The Shah’s political savvy also made him keenly aware of the effects of Ataturk’s policies on geopolitical relations: Turkey’s esteem in the West was rising. Although many elite Persian men had adopted Western dress in the late 1800s and early 1900s, the Shah’s 1936 kashf-e hejab regulating attire was meant to parallel Ataturk’s efforts in Turkey towards mandating a change in clothing norms to demonstrate Westernization. However, the Shah implemented his policy more strictly and more violently than Ataturk (Chehabi, 1993). Public opinion was largely against these policies – “women wanted to remain veiled” (Shirazi, 2019, p. 5, emphasis in original). An even larger number of Iranians were against how these policies were implemented, which included police who grabbed and removed women’s chadors in public. Touching women was against social norms, and consequently, the government’s actions had the effect of further reducing support for the policies. Many women felt the impact of the policies in their daily lives. Policies were more likely to be enforced in cities, and so some urban women stopped going out in public. Many stopped attending school. Simultaneously, women who did uncover were called prostitutes; hecklers told them they were dishonouring their families. Shirazi (2018) explains: Women in public without the hijab were castigated, while women in public wearing the hijab were subject to its forceful removal… understood as a form of insult and public shaming. In the veiling battle, many women chose to stay at home, safe from the forms of harassment caused by the pro- and anti-veiling camps. (Shirazi, 2018, p. 98) Although more women gradually went out in public without a veil, mandated unveiling temporarily resulted in women being less educated and able to make fewer choices and thus they were less independent. When Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi took over as leader of the country from his father in 1941 and loosened veiling restrictions, saying that women should choose for themselves whether or not to veil, it was a welcomed change. However, Mohammed Reza Shah’s regime had other problems, including other kinds of forced Westernization, corruption, a growing wealth gap, and an increasingly unresponsive government, all of which complicated the public’s reaction to his veiling policies (Sedghi, 2007). When the 1979 Iranian Revolution began, it was unclear how it would end, and even after Ayatollah Khomeini began implementing his government’s interpretation of Shia Islamic edicts, it was unclear if that would include changes to

Understanding Women’s Mandatory Covering  121 veiling policy. Many middle-class secular women had veiled during the protests against the Shah in solidarity with poor women (most of whom veiled), but most middle-class secular women opposed mandated veiling and resisted its implementation. Ultimately, however, compulsory veiling was re-introduced by Khomeini’s regime. The government implemented laws mandating veiling for all women entering government buildings and public offices in 1980 and for all women in Iran in 1983. The government also established the morality police (gasht-e ­ershaad).2 Today, many of the officers of the gasht-e ershaad are women; some work with male militia members. The officers fine, harass, and arrest women for inappropriately veiling (or not wearing veils at all) or other violations of the dress code, including wearing make-up. The current Iranian regime mandates veiling but deems many styles of veils appropriate. This includes more relaxed forms of veiling, such as the headscarf and hijab styles favoured by Turkish women, sometimes worn very loosely. The khimar and chador are more prevalent in Iran than in Turkey, with the chador being the government’s preferred form of head covering. Some women also choose to wear the niqab, batula (a headscarf combined with a mask that covers part of the face), or burka. However, the morality police have cited women – before veiling laws came into full effect in the 1980s, during the relaxation and tightening of laws during the 1990s and early 2000s, and today – for allowing just a few strands of hair to show (Aman, 2014). In Iran, while veiling is mandatory, veils themselves and how they are worn can vary depending on women’s preferences and the way in which rules are implemented at particular times. For example, where on one’s head the veil sits and how loosely it is worn are often taken as signals of the wearer possessing more or less liberal political and religious beliefs. Additionally, the regime’s restrictions on which veil colours may be worn have changed over time. Originally, the government only permitted women to wear black, brown, and grey head coverings. At certain times, women have been able to wear almost any colour of veil they wish, while at other times, the government closely regulates the style and colour and placement of the veil. And if women choose not to wear a chador, in addition to their veil, they must also wear a manteau (long coat). Although Iran and Turkey have had disparate state policies regarding veiling, there are parallel: male leaders have implemented policies regarding women and veiling, not out of concern for women as individuals, but to control the image that they wanted the country to project – whether that image was one of westernization or conservatism, and how that aligned with each leader’s idea of nationalism. However, it should be noted that some scholars have argued that policies regulating women’s head covering (or lack thereof) are ultimately about men controlling women, limiting women’s choices, and controlling women’s sexuality (Aman, 2014). In both countries, after implementing head covering policies, states had little concern for women’s reactions, whether that included public protests, selfisolation, exile, or suicide. And this lack of concern for the impact of head covering policies on women has meant that there has been limited research (on the part of the state and in academia) that describes the harms these policies create.

122  Sarah Fischer In the next section of this chapter, I present findings from interviews conducted with women in Iran and Turkey between 2008 and 2012 along with secondary data to examine the harms women have experienced due to state head covering policies. The harm is discussed with reference to three areas that are important in the lives of many of the women interviewed: educational institutions, the workplace, and dating. The section ends by drawing parallels between women’s experiences of different policies in different countries, highlighting how they ultimately resulted in harming women in similar ways.

Educational Institutions and Harm According to Gellner (1983), modern, industrialized societies require homogenization in identity. Public education (combined with strictly regulated private education) allows states to push definitions of identity that are favourable to the state elite. Thus, education represents a unique opportunity to disseminate nationalist ideology and beliefs into young citizens, often outside the purview of their parents, who may not be ideologically committed to the nation. In both Turkey and Iran, families generally want their children to receive the best educations possible, because such educations reflect well on the entire family (Harris, 2017; Rutz & Balkan, 2009). In both countries, there are elite public and private elementary, secondary, and tertiary educational institutions, and admittance to the elite institutions far outstrips demand. Education at elite institutions is synonymous with possessing foreign language skills. The combination of an elite education and foreign language skills means heightening one’s ability to connect with high-level businesspeople and participate in conspicuous consumption within the state (Rutz & Balkan, 2009). In turn, this brings opportunities to connect with businesspeople, and participate in conspicuous consumption outside of the state. But to attain these opportunities, one must often adhere to the nationalist ideals espoused at schools and in class in order to be “successful” academically. Consequently, schools act as gatekeepers, and discrimination experienced in school can keep intelligent, hard-working students from joining – or toppling – the existing cadre of elites in a state. In Turkey, the state utilized education to perpetuate gendered roles where men demonstrated the nation’s military power, and women demonstrated its secular status (Altinay, 2004; Fischer, 2013). For decades, the headscarf was banned in elementary, secondary, and tertiary educational institutions, for both teachers and students. However, different institutions implemented the ban to different degrees, and at some elite institutions, headscarf-wearing students were able to attend some classes. However, in 1997, the government strengthened enforcement of the ban, and students were no longer able to access campuses while scarved. This lasted a few years, until the ban as it pertained to students was relaxed, re-implemented, and then the national ban was removed in 2010, although individual institutions continued with their own bans. The ban on faculty wearing veils was lifted a few years later. During the years of the ban, many headscarf-wearing women did not continue their education, or wore wigs

Understanding Women’s Mandatory Covering  123 over their scarves, or they went abroad to pursue education so they could both study and wear the scarf. Most who remained in Turkey and were able to gain entry to university resigned themselves to taking their scarves off at the university gates, despite experiencing emotional trauma in doing so. A 19-year-old student at a university in Ankara explained: Every day, I used to have to take my headscarf off at the gate, and I cried. Now, it is better, but we are still harassed by some professors for our headscarves.  There is nothing we can do. They make comments about us and we are quiet. The interview occurred in 2011, after some universities, including the university the student attended, began allowing headscarf-wearing women to enter the university with their headscarves on. But professors could – and did – continue to harass headscarf-wearing students about their headscarves. University proctors – who were often not university professors – could also exert power over headscarf-wearing students. A 22-year-old student in Ankara described what she experienced: Before the new regulations went into effect, one professor would just not allow us to attend class with headscarves; he would evict us. Now, we still cannot sit exams with our headscarves… because the proctors will not let us. Despite having made it into a prestigious university – which included sitting a national entrance exam for which she had to remove her headscarf – and having the headscarf ban removed by the Council of Higher Education, this student still had to make a choice of whether to take her headscarf off or fail her classes because she could not sit for her exam with her headscarf on. Many students I interviewed in Turkey had experienced similar situations, and some had even complained to university administrations. But none of those who had complained to their university had been successful and the university administration had not intervened on their behalf. This was likely because the university administration did not support its veiled students. A 24-year-old student who attended a prestigious university in Ankara explained: I graduated as the top student in my department at [-] University. Every year, the chair awarded the top student a prize. When I won the prize, first the chair said that it could not be correct, and the next-best student [a woman who did not wear the headscarf] must have really won the award. When two of the other faculty assured her that I was first, the chair initially refused to present the award to me. At the awards ceremony, she presented the award, and sneered at me, “Imagine what you could do without that [meaning the scarf]”.

124  Sarah Fischer Perhaps not surprisingly, the woman pursued her graduate education at a different university. Although in Iran policies mandate the opposite (i.e. that women wear the veil as opposed to attend school unveiled), the effects of the policies also result in discrimination. Girls who attend school must start veiling in elementary school; if they are not veiled, they cannot attend school. Even when attending all-girls institutions, their veils are checked when they leave and enter the building, and walls around the schoolyards must be high enough and opaque so that no one can see girls playing inside the schoolyards without veils. At universities, signs are posted at entrances that display proper veiling. A 26-year-old student reported: I could sit and watch students as they entered the university. Women are often stopped by the guards and forced to adjust their veil to cover more of their hair before being allowed to enter; men never are stopped. This is not because men do not have a dress code to follow in Iran, but it is because the state focuses on regulating women’s bodies. And this is after the codes regulating the enforcement of women’s dress were relaxed; in the early 2000s, the guards had inspected women’s hijab and make-up even more closely. Another student noted her frustration with being forced to wear the hijab in Iran, but also explained to researchers Ghorbani and Tung that “banning the headscarf in France and Turkey was as distasteful as forcing women to wear the hijab in Iran” (Ghorbani & Tung, 2007, p. 383). The parallels concerning lack of choice and state regulations of women’s clothing seem obvious to some Iranians. In Iran, state policies that focus on regulating women’s access to education ensure that the current social hierarchy is not jeopardized. As Rahbari notes, the higher education administration in Iran is overwhelmingly male, and gender discrimination within the academy reinforces a “cultural-historical ideological system of patriarchy” that universities reproduce and legitimate in the fields their graduates enter (Rahbari, 2016, p. 1008). Although Turkey’s higher education system may have more administrators that are female, the system similarly serves to normalize and legitimatize the patriarchal institutions students encounter outside of academia. This includes the state’s practices of focusing on women’s bodies as a signifier of national identities, including westernization, modernization, and/or Islam.

The Workplace and Harm Gendered nationalist identities typically emphasize women as the biological reproducers of the nation, and therefore their participation in the workforce is de-emphasized. However, due to the role of gender in the modernization of Turkish and Iranian state nationalisms, women were also required to fulfil specific roles in the workforce. In Turkey, such roles initially included women enacting their enfranchisement by entering parliament. Women were also needed to fulfil

Understanding Women’s Mandatory Covering  125 the nationalist ideology and maintain a functioning state by working as teachers and nurses. In Iran, too, women were needed as teachers, but as the Iranian state also is largely divided by gender in the healthcare field, women were needed as doctors, dentists, and nurses for other women. Of course, in both countries, women’s interest in working was not limited to the fields in which the state envisioned women labouring – although both countries have a low rate of women participating in the paid work force in general. Cindoglu’s (2011) study of discrimination against headscarf-wearing women in the workplace found that, in the Turkish case, headscarf-wearing women faced discrimination in the labour market in terms of recruitment, wage policies, performance evaluations, and promotions, which differed for women in blue-collar and pink-collar jobs. For many years, public sector professional jobs were difficult for headscarf-wearing women to access, whereas private sector jobs tended to underpay women and often purposefully kept them in positions and roles where they were out of sight. Headscarf-wearing women were in a weakened position not only due to their headscarf but also because they were women. Employers expected that they would make demands for part-time work and maternity leave, and when such requests were made, employers used them as leverage to underpay women in general (see also Cindoglu, 2011). A 25-year-old woman in Istanbul explained: My manager hired me knowing I wore the headscarf. My job duties changed – after a time, I ended up managing the department because people were leaving. I went to ask for the promotion and a raise. My manager said no, because I would not be able to get a job elsewhere due to my scarf. After this occurred, this woman did try to get another job, but despite working in a growing sector, found that her manager was correct. Other employers did seem hesitant to hire her, despite her experience. She attributed this difficulty in finding a new position to her headscarf. Frequently, headscarf-wearing women in Turkey reported that it was just difficult to get hired at all for the positions they sought. A 24-year-old graduate in Ankara said that, although she had a degree in translation and excellent grades, she was unable to secure a job as a translator. Instead, she was forced to take a much lower-paying job as an assistant, performing many of the same duties as a secretary, and spending most of her day editing her supervisor’s reports. She was, she proclaimed, “bored”. And although there were many opportunities for advancement at her job, she was already the highest-ranking female. She did not see promotion as likely. Another woman, a 20-year-old student in Istanbul who was majoring in theology, explained that she had earned entry into more competitive majors but saw no reason to pursue those fields when her headscarf was likely to keep her from getting a job. In her reasoning, it was better to get a degree in theology and plan to give lessons on religion, as she knew she would not face discrimination in the field based on the fact she wore a headscarf. Yet, these women were perhaps better off than their peers because they were at least able to

126  Sarah Fischer be employed in their fields of study. A 20-year-old student in Erzurum explained to me, “I am going to graduate. But where will I work? Will anyone really want me? With a degree in the social sciences and a headscarf? I will probably end up working in a store”. The situation of women in Iran seemed similar. A 25-year-old Iranian woman, working as a tour guide, explained: I studied for this, and I studied English, so this is what I wanted to do. But finding work as a woman is hard. I can’t leave this job; I won’t find another one. And I have to be careful. I take tourists to some of the museums. I wear my headscarf loosely and sometimes I forget to put it all the way over my hair. When that happens, the museum staff let me know. I can’t forget again. I need to be more careful. A 28-year-old woman working in journalism also said, “Even though I had the proper credentials, I was not allowed to conduct interviews with several government officials. The woman told me this was because my scarf was not proper that day”. Her male colleagues did not have this problem, and she felt that made her reporting weak. She was concerned that when it came time to switch jobs, she would have more difficulty. The problems women face in the workplace due to their headscarves make them feel as though they are not valued, and they often feel they are not contributing to their full potential. Their headscarves limit them – not in what they know, or the skills they possess – but rather in what duties they get assigned, and  whether  they  are recognized for high-quality work in terms of pay and promotion.

Social Institutions and Harm Women’s social lives have become influenced by veiling, too, and a part of many women’s social lives is finding a relationship they would want to lead to marriage. Although the meeting and screening of romantic interests is often considered to be outside of the state’s influence, research shows nationalist projects in Iran and Turkey in the 1930s aimed to socially construct women who were modern, but who were not socially liberated (Amin, 2002; Arat, 1989). Such women were not intended to be equal to or independent from their male counterparts. Instead, state nationalism idealized women who deferred to their husbands and were ideal mothers. Turkish society carefully monitors and corrects women who fall outside this ideal. White (2002) discusses how the headscarf was taken by many to be a sign of a woman’s good morals and examines the cases of several veiled women she meets who give up their careers for their husbands or children. In many ways, such women are acting out the nationalist ideal, having been shaped and educated to fulfil roles that support men and family. Grooming women to do this begins early. A 25-year-old woman in Ankara explained:

Understanding Women’s Mandatory Covering  127 I liked a boy, and he liked me. You can see, I wear the headscarf. But his mother said no. She wanted her son to marry a girl who was more conservative and who dressed more conservatively. So, the boy and I are not together. In short, an older woman – her love interest’s mother – intervened to prevent the interviewee from coupling with her son. That the woman in Ankara wore a headscarf was not sufficient; this mother wanted a woman for her son who was more conservative and whose choice to veil – and how to veil – she could control. Among the women I interviewed, this was not the only case of being rejected by a potential suitor’s mother or sisters for not being “conservative enough” when judged on how she veiled. A 25--year-old woman in Tehran explained, “I fell in love. But when I met [the man]’s mother, she commented on my scarf, telling her son that I must not have good morals”. The couple did not get married. Women’s behaviour is not just policed by their families or the families of the men they are interested in. A 20-year-old woman in Ankara described an ongoing situation as follows: I walked out of my flat one day. I live with three other students; we all wear the headscarf. The woman in the flat next to ours lives alone. She wears the chador. I was alone, and the woman started hissing at me and saying that I should dress more conservatively; I was immoral. She followed me until I was out of the building. She continues to do it. She won’t do it when I am with my friends, but if I am alone… It has gotten so bad that I want to move. Unfortunately, my roommates do not. Another young woman living in Ankara related a similar experience – except she was being harassed by a woman who wanted her to take her headscarf off. This shows that families and societies do not only tell women to veil more conservatively but also try to take women’s identity and voice away from them by making them dress less conservatively. For example, a 38-year-old student at a prestigious university in Istanbul explained: I wear the chador – this is what I want to wear, this [gestures to her black chador] is how I feel most powerful. My husband begged me not to wear it – he said, can’t you just wear black headscarves instead? But I told him I really wanted to wear it; I feel the best in it. So, he said it was my decision. And I wear it. But my mother and sisters [who all wear the headscarf] –they make comments. They do not want me to wear it; they say it is too conservative. Sometimes, they make fun of me, calling me an Iranian woman. Although the literature often stereotypes men as enacting harmful cultural practices onto women, these incidences demonstrated that women often harm other women. It is not only bareheaded women who harm veiled women through discrimination; veiled women intentionally harm other veiled women, too.

128  Sarah Fischer They try to take away the power women feel when they choose how to express their beliefs and what they want to wear. The pressures that women feel to conform to an ideal– so that their romantic interest’s parents accept them, or so that their neighbours and families do not harass them – cause them anxiety and stress. Some, like the woman who wore the chador, above, laugh a bit when they tell their stories. But even so, when asked, they often admit that they wish their families, friends, and neighbours would leave what is on their heads out of the conversation and ask them about what they are thinking about in their heads instead. For example, one woman said: Veiling is important to my identity. However, other things are more important  to me than the veil. For instance, education is more important than the veil; we must study. The Koran counsels us that everyone is free and must take their own path. The veil does not mean we all think the same. (Ankara, 21-year-old student) The women I interviewed had few avenues for recourse. In educational institutions, when harmed by bias, it was rare that they felt comfortable challenging the teacher or the administration. Both of these embody state power, and the women had been taught to defer to authority rather than challenge it. A small minority of the students I interviewed in Turkey had ever challenged a rule about the headscarf. Most felt that doing so would be pointless. Many Iranian women felt similarly about challenging the guards at schools who checked their veils. This is logical – in Turkey, complaining to the administration was likely to be met with hostility, while in Iran, complaining about the guards is not likely to have an effect, and if women challenge the morality police, they are likely to face a punishment which can include a fine or jail time. There were also no governmental institutions to address conflicts among family members, between families, or between neighbours regarding differences in opinion on women’s veiling practices. In day-to-day life, women were left to navigate these emotional conflicts on their own. Okin (1999, p. 24) claims women who inflict harms onto other women only do so due to being “co-opted [by men] into re-enforcing gender inequality”, but such perspectives also remove women’s agency. Women who harm other women seem to become more powerful through perpetuating harm, and this is especially true for mothers who reject their son’s romantic interests. Such acts centre women’s power and mean that someday, after the son has married, both son and mother will exert power over the son’s wife (Sirman, 2004). Women are likely not thought of as perpetrators of harm against other women because of a system of binaries. As Scott (2018) explains, men are associated with the secular, public life, modernity, sexual liberation, and the West. As such, men are also associated with power and the perpetration of violence. Women, on the other hand, are associated with religion, private life, tradition, sexual oppression, the existence of a patriarchal hierarchy, and the East. This has two effects: first, women are reduced to being

Understanding Women’s Mandatory Covering  129 victims of practices that are considered harmful, and second, women are rarely considered as potential perpetrators of harm because their victim status shields them from their actions being labelled as harmful. Ignoring that women can both be discriminated against through veiling and discriminate against others based on how they do or do not veil contributes to cultural reductionism, which further subjugates women. As my research here shows, veiled women are also perpetuating harms onto other veiled women. Although it is mostly men that enforce many of the policies in the workplace because men dominate in management positions, women attempt to manage other women’s behaviour in social contexts. By whispering insults at other veiled women in apartment hallways and criticizing how they wear their veils, they attempt to gain power in communal spaces. The other veiled women they target often feel uncomfortable and belittled. Discussions of veiling within families – whether women are trying to influence their sons’ choice of spouse or trying to influence how their sisters and wives wear the veil – can be even more contentious. In reference to conflict resolution, Govier and Verwoerd (2004, p. 375) discuss how, in situations where individuals have long been portrayed as victims or aggressors, but not seen as capable of both roles, a culture of “dialogue, debate, and sensitivity to various forms of dehumanization” is needed to combat the polarization of identities. An atmosphere that encourages discourse without judgement would allow for better understanding of the complexities of women’s relationships with veiling (even if they choose not to veil).

Discussion The similarities between the experiences of women in Iran and Turkey are at first seemingly few: for several decades Turkish women had been prohibited from covering their head, while Iranian women have been forced to do so. Yet, in comparing individual experiences, some commonalities emerge. In both societies, because the state legitimized its ability to control what women wear, women are rewarded with opportunities for presenting themselves in a manner that the institution finds acceptable. For Turkish women attending university meant removing their veils, while for Iranian women, it meant wearing veils. Complying with policies and norms allowed women to avoid being harassed by the administration or arrested by police, but the successful enforcement of state veiling policies also reinforced the power of the state. The importance of complying with state policies reminded women that becoming educated was a critical part of maintaining their position within or moving up the social hierarchy. Whether the women intended to secure their social status through work, marriage, or both, they needed to earn their degree, and to earn their degree they had to endure discrimination on campus. In both societies, women continued to prioritize education. Although the nation-state may have idolized educated women as mothers, most women who attended university planned to seek formal employment for at least some time. But entering the job market was difficult, and many women found that veiling at

130  Sarah Fischer work meant that they had to navigate government regulations, their employers’ ideologies, and discrimination. In Turkey, the state had discriminated for so long against veiled women that that discrimination legitimized private companies refusing to hire veiled women, promote veiled women, and pay veiled women equal to men. As veiled women were barred from working as public sector professionals due to their veils, the state’s discriminatory treatment of veiled women legitimized the private sector’s discriminatory treatment. In Iran, women worried about being veiled “enough” and, if they were not, they risked being unable to attend school or their jobs. In both countries, women who experienced discrimination based on their veils in educational institutions or the workplace could not seek justice from the courts. Finally, women also faced harm when their neighbours, families, and potential spouse’s families judged them for how they veiled. Women who wore the headscarf often found themselves in situations where their neighbours and the mothers of their potential romantic partners discriminated against them for wearing a headscarf instead of a chador. But some women who wear the chador face pressure from their families to veil less conservatively. Thus, women find themselves in the middle of a conflict between others over how they choose to dress. Because the literature on veiling overwhelmingly addresses the question that cultural outsiders and cultural elites focus on – is veiling a harmful cultural practice? – it misses a question that only cultural insiders experience: are those being discriminated against only experiencing discrimination in the direction the outsiders discuss? Or are they also experiencing discrimination from other groups and individuals as well? One important observation that came up during the interviews, particularly regarding social institutions, is that although it remains largely outside of the discussions surrounding veiling, it is not always men who seek to control how women dress. At times, women also inflict harm on other women. Literature on veiling rarely considers the role women have in perpetuating harm, and this question is especially complex when veiled women are both perpetrating and being victimized by the harms. This discussion of women as, in some circumstances, causing harm to other veiled women is part of this research’s examination of the complexities of women’s lives as they are lived. Through contributing to a breakdown of the assumed homogeneity of veiled women, this research also questions the hegemonic labels of “veiled” and “non-veiled” and, in doing so, has begun to examine how some women experience discrimination, how others perpetuate discrimination, and how some do both. In conclusion, this chapter has examined evidence regarding the question: are veiling bans harmful to women? The research demonstrates that laws banning veiling produce harms that are similar to laws that mandate veiling, and both negatively impact women by legitimizing discrimination. When governments ban the veil to protect secularism, their policies cease to recognize diversity in the interpretation of religious texts and practices of religious groups, which some women credit as helping them find power and become leaders (Aune, 2015).

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When governments mandate veiling, their policies fail to recognize women who would choose to not veil as equal citizens. Consequently, governments need to stop regulating veiling. Although that may be unlikely to occur soon, one small step towards reducing the harms that veiling regulations perpetuate is for women to stop discriminating against other women due to different veiling practices.

References Altinay, A. (2004). The Myth of the Military Nation: Militarism, Gender, and Education in Turkey. Palgrave Macmillan. Aman, F. (2014, November 3). Iran’s Headscarf Politics. Middle East Institute. https://www. mei.edu/publications/irans-headscarf-politics. Amer, S. (2014). What is Veiling? University of North Carolina Press. Amin, C. M. (2002). The Making of the Modern Iranian Woman: Gender, State Policy, and Popular Culture, 1865–1946. University Press of Florida. Arat, Y. (1989). The Patriarchal Paradox: Women Politicians in Turkey. Dickinson University Press. Aune, K. (2015, March 20). Is Secularism Bad for Women? openDemocracy. https://www. opendemocracy.net/en/transformation/is-secularism-bad-for-women/. Chehabi, H. (1993). ‘Staging the Emperor’s New Clothes: Dress Codes and NationBuilding under Reza Shah’. Iranian Studies, 26(3/4), 209–229. Cindoglu, D. (2011). Headscarf Ban and Discrimination: Professional Headscarved Women in the Labor Market. TESEV. Fischer, S. (2013). Democracy, Modernization, and the Veil: Women’s Relationship to Secularism in Contemporary Turkey. [Unpublished PhD dissertation, American University]. American University. Gellner, E. (1983). Nations and Nationalism. Cornell University Press. Ghorbani, M., & Tung, R. L. (2007). ‘Behind the Veil: An Exploratory Study of the Myths and Realities of Women in the Iranian Workforce’. Human Resource Management Journal, 17(4), 376–392. Govier, T., & Verwoerd, W. (2004). ‘How not to Polarize “Victims” and “Perpetrators”’. Peace Review, 16(3), 371–377. Harris, K. (2017). A Social Revolution: Politics and the Welfare State in Iran. University of California Press. Hirschmann, N. J. (1998). ‘Western Feminism, Eastern Veiling, and the Question of Free Agency. Constellations, 5(3), 345–368. Hoodfar, H. (1992). ‘The Veil in Their Minds and on Our Heads: The Persistence of Colonial Images of Muslim Women’. Resources for Feminist Research, 22(3/4), 5–18. Kapur, R. (2002). ‘Un-veiling Women’s Rights in the ‘War on Terrorism’’. Duke Journal of Gender Law and Policy, 9, 211–226. KONDA Arastirma ve Danismak (2007). Gundelik yasamda din, laiklik ve turban arastirmasi. KONDA. Korteweg, A., & Yurdakul, G. (2014). The Headscarf Debates: Conflicts of National Belonging. Stanford University Press. Kymlicka, W. (2001). Politics in the Vernacular: Nationalism, Multiculturalism and Citizenship. Oxford University Press. Longman, C., & Bradley, T. (2015). Interrogating Harmful Cultural Practices: Gender, Culture and Coercion. Ashgate.

132 Sarah Fischer Okin, S. (1999). ‘Is Multiculturalism Bad for Women’? In J. Cohen, M. Howard, & M. Nussbaum, (Eds.), A Political and Literary Fourm. Princeton University Press. Ozkok, E. (2018, September 4). Kadinlarin yuzde kaci basini ortuyor, turbanli kadin orani artiyor mu? Hurriyet. https://www.hurriyet.com.tr/yazarlar/ertugrul-ozkok/ kadinlarin-yuzde-kaci-basini-ortuyor-turbanli-kadin-orani-artiyor-mu-40976040. Rahbari, L. (2016). ‘Women in Higher Education and Academia in Iran’. Sociology and Anthropology, 4(11), 1003–1010. Riley, R. (2013). Depicting the Veil: Transnational Sexism and the War on Terror. Zed Books. Rutz, B., & Balkan, E. (2009). Reproducing Class: Education, Neoliberalism, and the Rise of the New Middle Class in Istanbul. Berghahn Books. Scott, J. (2007). The Politics of the Veil. Princeton University Press. Scott, J. (2018). Sex and Secularism. Princeton University Press. Sedghi, H. (2007). Women and Politics in Iran: Veiling, Unveiling, and Reveiling. Cambridge University Press. Shirazi, F. (2018). ‘Iran’s Compulsory Hijab: From Politics and Religious Authority to Fashion Shows’. In A.-M. Almila & Inglis, D. (Eds.), The Routledge International Handbook to Veils and Veiling Practices (pp. 97–115). Routledge. Shirazi, F. (2019). ‘The Veiling Issue in 20th Century Iran in Fashion and Society, Religion, and Government’. Religions, 10(8), 1–31. Sirman, N. (2004). ‘Kinship, Politics, and Love: Honour in Post-Colonial Contexts – The Case of Turkey’. In S. Mojab & N. Abdo (Eds.), Violence in the Name of Honour: Theoretical and Political Challenges (pp. 39–56). Bilgi University Press. United Nations (1979). Fact Sheet No. 23, Harmful Traditional Practices Affecting the Health of Women and Children. OHCHR. https://www.ohchr.org/Documents/Publications/ FactSheet23en.pdf. Voinea, C., & Neumann. M. (2019). ‘Political Culture: A Theory in Search of a Methodology. An Editorial’. Quality & Quantity, 54(2), 335–360. Welch, S. (2013). The Theory of Political Culture. Oxford University Press. White, J. (2002). Islamist Mobilization in Turkey: A Study in Vernacular Politics. University of Washington Press. Yilmaz, H. (2013). Becoming Turkish: Nationalist Reforms and Cultural Negotiations in Early Republican Turkey, 1923–1945. Syracuse University Press.

Notes 1 Kemalism is the ideology of Turkey’s founder, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, and it was used to guide and separate the new country of Turkey from the Ottoman Empire in the 1920 and 1930s. Kemalism remains an influential ideology for some Turks today and contains six key elements: republicanism, populism, reformism, nationalism, stateism, and laicism. 2 The gasht e ershaad began in 2007 and is the latest in a line of morality police that were first established in 1979 and 1980. All the versions of the morality police have policed women’s clothing.

8

Normative Violence, Traditional Healing, and Harm Regarding Same-Sex Relations among Women in Mozambique Maria Judite Chipenembe, Chia Longman, and Gily Coene

Introduction This chapter explores how gender and religious/traditional norms or practices of discrimination intersect with sexual orientation and, in particular, how this intersection negatively affects the lives of “lesbians” and “bisexual women” in matrilineal and patriarchal societies. Female same-sex practices and relations are under-researched in many African countries, and it has been noted that lesbian lives are often affected by “silence, repression and uncertainty” (Currier & Migraine-George, 2017). In Mozambique specifically, research is similarly scarce; existing literature mostly focuses on the subject of sexual and reproductive health and rights (SRHR) and does not address the needs and concerns of all people involved in same-sex relationships, in particular, “lesbians” and “bisexual women” (Nalá et al., 2015). When it comes to gender-based violence (GBV), the rates of intimate partner violence (IPV) and non-partner violence are higher in Mozambique compared to those of other Sub-Saharan countries (Callagham, 2010; Cruz et al., 2014, p. 1589). Early marriage, psychological aggression, sexual stalking, sexual coercion, and physical and sexual abuse are among the types of violence that are known to occur most often in both private and public spheres across the country (Arnaldo, 2004; Walker, 2012; Yildirim, 2017). While the extent these forms of GBV and the harm they cause to women in Mozambique has begun to be identified, little is known about how “lesbians” and “bisexual women” are affected by religious/traditional healing practices that are used to “heal” or “convert” sexual orientation and gender identity. In Mozambique, “traditional healer” is a term used to refer to those who diagnose ailments resulting from social transgressions, spirits, curses, and sorcery (Honwana, 2002). Mozambique is a secular state based on religious and ideological pluralism, which formally establishes a kind of “religious market” (Meneses, 2006; Morier-Genoud, 2000). In this context, religious denominations (Islam, mainline Christian churches, Pentecostal, African independent Christian churches, and others) as well as “traditional healing practices/medicine” are formally recognised by the state (Agadjanian, 2005; Meneses, 2006; República de Moçambique, 2014). As indicated in the 2014–2019 Strategic Plan for the health sector, the Mozambique health system covers 50% of the population (República

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246046-8

134  Maria Judite Chipenembe et al. de Moçambique, 2014), and during the past three decades, Mozambique has also experienced a dramatic proliferation of independent Christian faith-healing churches across the country (Pfeiffer, 2002). This means that healing practices are implemented by health practitioners from the national health system (biomedicine) as well as by religious officials and “traditional healers”. Previous scholars have shown that such “traditional healers” and religious practices or therapy (from Christian denominations and Muslim) have both positive and negative impacts on the lives of men and women in Mozambique (Agadjanian, 2005; Pfeiffer, 2002; Trentini, 2016; Van den Kamp, 2016, 2011). For instance, it is common for women seek healers for many reasons, including for reproductive health problems (Audet, 2012; Pfeiffer, 2002; Van de Kamp, 2016). This study is a part of a recently completed PhD project (2015–2019) by the first author, based on qualitative research among civil society organisation (CSO) activists, stakeholders, supporters, and LGBTQ community members, which explored how global health strategies affect “lesbian”, “bisexual”, and transgender persons’ sexual rights activism in Mozambique (Chipenembe, 2018).1 Although the subject of the broader project was LGBTQ activism, the data analysed generated insights about violence against women in same-sex relationships, including in terms of taboos, violence, and the official African Christian independent churches, Islam, and traditional healing practices. This research is positioned within gender and diversity studies and the methodology we use reflects this; we focus on the subject of violence and harm against women involved in same-sex practices, drawing on the stories collected among 38 individuals in the cities of Maputo and Nampula. Feminist post-colonialism, gender, intersectionality, and queer theories were applied in the analysis of the transcripts of the participants’ stories (Butler, 2007; Collins & Bilge, 2016; De Lauretis, 1991; Mohanty, 2003). Participants were recruited by snowball sampling at the Mozambique LGBTQ Association (Lambda) and the National Association of Traditional Healers (AMETRAMO). The first group of participants was composed of women aged 18–43 who reported being in a same-sex relationship or de facto union/consensual union for more than one year (n = 28). They participated in three Focus Group Discussions  (FGD) (n = 13) and In-Depth Interviews (n = 15). The second group was composed of male and female “traditional healers” and sheikh (traditional Muslim Clergy) aged 44–70, self-identified as heterosexual (n = 8) and transwomen (n = 2) who took part in the second set of in-depth interviews (n = 10). The second group was included as part of this study because they were seen by the first group of participants as potential perpetrators of violence against lesbians. Thus, we invited them to respond to questions related to practices used to heal women in “need” of becoming, or forced to become, “straight” and engage in a heterosexual marriage. “Traditional healers” were interviewed in their association in Maputo and sheikhs interviewed through social networks by participants in Nampula. To select the research sites, we took into account that Mozambique is one of the African countries most affected by gender inequality and where religious and

Normative Violence, Traditional Healing in Mozambique  135 cultural factors (both patriarchy and matrilineal norms of kinship) reproduce gender-based violence against women (Bergh-Collier, 2007; Cruz e Silva et al., 2007; Tvedten, 2012). Nampula, which is located in the North of the country, is recognised as a Muslim and matrilineal society. It differs from Maputo, situated in the south, where gender and sexuality of the native population have been regulated mainly by “patrilineal and patriarchal norms” and various Christian traditions and denominations (Arnfred, 2011; Bonate, 2006). The first survey data of the country available also indicated that the percentage of men who have sex with men (MSM) was lower in Nampula (20%) compared to the city of Maputo (65%) (INS et al., 2013). Although the 2014 penal code decriminalised same-sex relationships and practices in the country, the Lambda Association was the only organisation working on LGBTQ advocacy and SRHR for MSM. Nonetheless, its statutes as an association advocating on sexual minority rights are not legally recognised by the government because of taboo and homophobia (Nalá et al., 2015; Nhacuongue et al., 2017). In the context of a secular state, cultural and religious factors have inhibited the legalisation of Lambda as an LGBT Association (Chipenembe, 2018). Findings from the field show that same-sex violence among women is perpetrated in an invisible context and influenced by both matrilineal and patriarchal norms of kinship. The chapter is organised into four sections, which summarise the key research findings with reference to the following themes: (i) female same-sex relationships, activism, and its challenges; (ii) sexual violence and sex with “the husband of the night”; (iii) faith: the possibility of healing the “disease of shame”; and (iv) reflections on harmful cultural practices (HCPs) and traditions.

Female Same-Sex Relationships, Activism, and Its Challenges During the interviews, “lesbians” and “bisexual women” (n = 28) were asked to share their personal stories on sexual rights violations, discovery, and revelation of sexual orientation during adolescence and adulthood, and why their interest in LGBT activism emerged. In this section, we start by presenting how these women self-identified within the LGBT community and what kind of work they had been doing at their association during the time they had been there (which ranged from a one to five-year period). Although they were from different religious (Christian or Muslim) and cultural backgrounds (matrilineal and patriarchal tradition), and though most of them were not affiliated with the Lambda Association, they all supported the LGBT cause and had participated more than once in events organised by the Lambda Association. These events involved SRHR workshops, parties, and socialising. In this context, “lesbians” and “bisexual” women described their fear of the consequences of revealing their sexual orientation to family members or the public, as well as the challenges they faced in their relationships. The quotations below illustrate the stereotypes and prejudices relating to female same-sex relationships and practices in Mozambique, and also the role of

136  Maria Judite Chipenembe et al. religion within prevailing heteronormative cultural norms. Jessica, a 43-year-old Catholic woman, has been living discreetly in a same-sex de facto union for five years. She has only revealed herself as a lesbian to trustworthy people within the LGBT community. Her point of view, which is presented in the passage below, illustrates the view held among most of the participants regarding why, when compared to MSM, very few “lesbian” or “bisexual” women activists were working at the Lambda Association at both research sites: I see that in Mozambique, there are many stereotypes as well as prejudice against homosexuality, which prevents lesbians from coming “out of the closet” and joining the LGBT activism. Many people think that homosexuals are people who suffer from uncontrolled sexual desires and, as such, they are sick people. […] I became disappointed in the lesbian who had been an inspiration to many of us to “come out of the closet”. After she had revealed her lesbian identity publicly on television, we heard that she was no longer a lesbian and was living with a heterosexual man. People say that a Zion prophet “cured” her and made her become “straight” […] Homosexuality is not a disease and neither is it something which is “curable”. For me, she buckled under the intense pressure placed on her by her religious family. Being a lesbian is not something that you decide to be. (Jessica, IDI, Maputo, December 2016) This quotation represents the perspective of a number of “lesbians” who had been working as activists for over two years for the SRHR project implemented by the Lambda Association. The SRHR project was dedicated to HIV/AIDS prevention among LGBTQ people, particularly MSM. In this context, Jessica pointed out the religious practice of conversion that discouraged these women from enjoying their sexual rights and from joining Lambda Association’s activism. As most of the transcripts throughout the following sections indicate, “traditional healers” and religious specialists are regularly mentioned as perpetrators of violence against women in same-sex relationships. During the fieldwork, it was observed across the two research sites that, of the 28 women involved in same-sex relationships or marriage, only 13 were full members of the LGBT Association. For most of the women like Jessica, existing taboos and prejudices against “homosexuality” and LGBT activism contributed to their invisibility. Consequently, few “lesbians” and “bisexual women” participated in the SRHR session at the Lambda Association and many of them had little knowledge of how to protect themselves against sexually transmitted infections (STIs). As the next excerpts indicate, many of the women were not interested in revealing themselves as activists or members of the Lambda Association, not only because of misconceptions about LGBT activism but also because they feared other social consequences including parental rejection, family members controlling their freedom to choose sexual partners, compulsory (non-consensual) heterosexual early marriage, and losing their professional careers:

Normative Violence, Traditional Healing in Mozambique  137 Sara: […] I have invited them to become members and activists, but they refused. They [Lesbians] see our Association as a space for dating and orgies. […] “If you struggle to find a partner, go to the Lambda Association and you will find someone like you”. Halima: […] Lesbians are afraid of publicly acknowledging their sexual orientation because of the pressure coming from their parents. LGBT people do not “come out of the closet” in a couple of days. It depends greatly on each person’s internal strength or family support, which most of the time does not exist. Jacqueline: Lesbians have a fear of facing their parents and society. The idea of people knowing that I am a lesbian is scary! The person may be quick to participate in the health workshop, but when it is time to become involved  in a civic education campaign on LGBT rights, that person just disappears. Yana: Fear is always there, even among us sitting here: “What if my family discovers that I am like that? What if my friends find out I am like that? Everyone is going to turn their back on me”. As Sara said before, nobody wants to publicly acknowledge they are lesbian. There is not a single exemplary lesbian activist whom we can look up to and see as a role model. In Nampula, you can see a tomboy or butch walking in the streets, but you will not see a lesbian couple walking holding hands. Jackeline: People like Yana are afraid of losing their professional careers, while younger people like me struggle with parents who force us to get married. Some parents threaten to stop paying education tuition fees if their daughter is homosexual. Others take them to Church or the traditional healers in order to become “straight”. That is why I think twice about telling my parents I am a lesbian. (FGD, Nampula, Lambda, April 2016) These quotations display the language of fear used among participants in the FGDs to express the constraints to revealing their sexual identities and becoming LGBT activists in the cities of Nampula and Maputo. The participants in the FGD were aged between 18 and 40 and were either employed or were undergraduate students at public and private universities. The word “fear” was used repeatedly and was cited as one of the reasons why respondents chose to be very private about their intimate relationships and to explicitly avoid attention or advocate publicly for their rights. Despite the differences in the cultural and religious backgrounds of the participants at both research sites, most were much more comfortable speaking about their sexual orientation in the LGBT community than in public spaces. They reported different experiences in discovering their sexual orientation, but the fear of parental rejection and sexual violence was at the core as a common experience of all participants of this group. Their fear of revealing their sexual orientation and becoming activists is the result of being positioned in a context of homophobia.

138  Maria Judite Chipenembe et al.

Sexual Violence and Sex with “the Husband of the Night” To respond to questions regarding the right to choose a partner and enjoy sexual pleasure free from stigma and discrimination, participants reported on events relating to the rituals or practices they had to undergo in a religious sphere to cleanse of their preference to engage same-sex relationships and return to the “normal” – which is, in some people’s view, to become “straight” – or be bound in a non-consensual heterosexual marriage. As the passages below show, the respondents faced different forms of violence, ranging from verbal aggression to sexual abuse: Jackeline: For me, sexual rights should be about freedom of expression. […] it is about the right to protection against violence, which affects many of us [lesbians]. I prefer to talk more about verbal aggression […] when I walk in the city, I hear people asking questions about me: “What is she thinking of? That her current lifestyle will lead her anywhere? What kind of life is that?” They all speak of these issues because of the way I dress […]. I just do not understand why they do that if we do not even know each other. Those bad things they say harm us. Sara: I do not know if I describe it as verbal aggression or even worse. […] we were holding hands in the garden when suddenly, we heard the voices of two men: “What are you doing ladies? Why are you so close? Is there a lack of men for you two?” […] “You two might be crazy. You need real sex. You have never found a man who had good sex with you, right? You two are really traumatised”. […] “Either get out of here or come over here. I will teach you what is good for you”. We felt very frustrated hearing those words that day. In my opinion, they wanted to rape us. Halima: Many lesbians do not publicly reveal themselves as lesbian, because they are afraid of being raped […]. I heard about a couple of women from the LGBT community who were sexually abused at night when they were coming  back from the disco. […] She went to the police station to report the guy, but nothing happened to him because he bribed the police officer. Yana: I am not sure if these women were raped because they are lesbian. I have heard many stories of women victims of rape in Nampula, and most of them were heterosexual. However, there are also those who think that a woman becomes a lesbian because she suffered many deceptions in love and that lesbians are sexually dissatisfied people. In fact, they are completely wrong! Nobody becomes a lesbian. We were born lesbian. Jackeline: I agree with Yana. I also had a lot of pressure from my mother to stop dating girls instead of boys. […] the violation of our rights starts at home; and it is everywhere. For instance, in Mozambique, same-sex marriages are illegal. I live with my partner, and the neighbours think that we are sisters or friends, but we are a couple. The Lambda Association is still illegal! How can the right to same-sex marriages be recognised within this context? If the

Normative Violence, Traditional Healing in Mozambique  139 government refuses to legalise our Association, it means that we are not their citizens, and this is a violation of human rights. (FGD, Lambda Association, Nampula, April 2016) In describing examples of verbal attacks, participants referred to pre-conceived ideas about “lesbians”, which was reported as being connected to sexual violence perpetrated by heterosexual individuals, particularly heterosexual males. In this view, the perpetrators were people who believe that “lesbians” are sexually dissatisfied people who need “real sex” to become “straight” and bind them in a heterosexual relationship. Although the word “rape” was regularly mentioned by the participants during the fieldwork in the city of Nampula, the participants did not describe any specific incidences of what is known in South Africa as “corrective rape”, or homophobic or “curative” rape (see Smith, 2018; UNAIDS, 2015; Brown, 2012). In Maputo, however, one case of this kind, whereby a woman was raped in an attempt to “cure” her of her sexuality, was reported in the context of traditional healing rituals (see below). The fear of this kind of violence (corrective rape/homophobic or curative rape), which constitutes a form of violence perpetrated specifically against “lesbian” or “bisexual” women, was present among the majority of participants at both research sites, many of whom reported that it had happened to people they knew. The term “corrective rape” is used in South Africa where reports of the crime are more prevalent, and it refers to rape perpetrated by straight men against women to “correct” or “cure” their sexual orientation (Brown, 2012; Di Silvio, 2010; Moffett, 2006; Sandfort et al., 2015). In our study, participants were invited to speak about their own experiences, and whether they would consider introducing us to “lesbians” they knew who had been victims of this violence, but they were not comfortable doing so. The intention of this invitation was to explore how cases of sexual violation are related to sexual orientation within the context of lesbian invisibility at the two research sites. Participants generally talked more about how sexual abuse affected other “lesbians” rather than reporting their own experiences, and there was no consensus in either research site regarding how cases of rape were related to sexual orientation. Although verbal aggression was the most reported form of abuse, further conversation revealed that during healing rituals, particularly in Maputo, cases of rape may have happened, which also carries a risk of being exposed to HIV. Generally, women spoke of this happening to people they know, but one participant divulged that she had personally been raped in this context. In Maputo, “lesbians” were more willing to speak about how they had been subjected to “healing” rituals carried out by “traditional healers” and religious officials. Their stories mentioned being forced to receive the spirit of “the husband of the night”, and in one case, being raped by a “traditional healer”. The passage below provides an example of one woman’s experience of healing rituals and sexual intercourse.

140  Maria Judite Chipenembe et al. Anita: […] the problem is when you arrive at the traditional healer’s place. You are given not only herbs that cause diarrhoea, intended to clean your belly, but also a “husband of the night” to sleep with you. Many lesbians have been forced by their parents to seek traditional healers, and by following rituals recommended by them, they start to have sex with a “husband of the night” [evil or bad spirit]. Sexual intercourse happens in their dreams every night. I have heard that similar treatment is used for healing heterosexual women who have difficulties in finding a husband or getting pregnant, because of an evil spirit that lives in their bodies. […]. Each morning she wakes up all wet as if someone had slept with her. But this kind of treatment does not change anything. If you are born lesbian, you will be sleeping around with women instead of men. If you are married just because of societal norms, you will be sleeping with both – a woman you love and the father of your children, with and for whom you feel no sexual pleasure. (FGD, Maputo, February 2017) The participants who offered the excerpts above were from different religious backgrounds and varied in age from 18 to 40 years old. Their experiences indicate that sexual rights violations against “lesbians” and “bisexual women” start within the family when parents take their daughters to healers to transform them into heterosexual women. The “husband of the night” was described as being the spirit of a dead man, given to a lesbian to have sexual intercourse with every night. Similar findings of a “male’s spirit” or a female spirit that lies on men or women in their sleep and has intercourse with them were reported by previous scholars in Mozambique and other African countries such as Nigeria (Mahumane, 2015; Olukoya, 1999; Van de Kamp, 2016). Van de Kamp, for instance, described how the term “husband of the night” was mentioned in the context of heterosexual women seeking healing at the Brazilian Pentecostal churches in Maputo. Although in our study most of the respondents were not willing to discuss their personal experiences relating to such violence, they spoke about other victims of rape within the LGBT community. Thus, participants had different experiences and concerns at both research sites. In Nampula, participants reported fear of being raped by heterosexual men who believe that “lesbians” are sexually dissatisfied people. “Healing rituals” were not mentioned by participants in Nampula because many of them were concerned with initiation rites that led them for compulsory (non-consensual) early marriage and the increasing number of victims of rape in the city (INE, 2017). As mentioned above, Nampula has high rates of early marriage and a high incidence of rape. Kinship and lineage systems shape how participants experience particular forms of gendered violence and abuses. For example, early marriage prevails in the matrilineal context, which is considered to be a consequence of the culture of initiation rites (Arnaldo, 2004; INE, 2017; UNICEF, 2015; Walker, 2012). On the

Normative Violence, Traditional Healing in Mozambique  141 other hand, early pregnancy is more frequent in the South of Mozambique where both patrilineal and patriarchal norms are established, and in this context, women who “fail” their marriage are also considered to be possessed by a male spirit who might sleep with them in their dreams (; Agadjanian, 2005; Mahumane, 2015; Van de Kamp, 2011, 2016). The following narrative describes the experience of a participant who had followed the recommendation of using traditional and religious practices to become heterosexual. It also offers her experience of corrective rape/homophobic rape, which was perpetrated against her during her adolescence by a “traditional healer” in a rural district: Fabiola: To begin with, my mother took me to a Zion prophet because I was getting old and boys were not seeking to marry me, like other girls of my age. […] I could not give her the son-in-law she dreamed of. I could not tell her that I did not want to marry a man because I felt sexually attracted to women. So, that day I told the prophet the truth, and it was a huge mistake. He forced me to attend worship services at the Zion Church every afternoon and also Sunday mornings because they believed that a demon would be expelled from my body. One day he took me to the sea, and after being submerged in the water, followed by many prayers to remove the evil spirit, he instructed me to use the lard on my skin every night after taking a shower and before going to bed. […] Unfortunately, after all of their instructions, and lighting different coloured candles before the sunset, nothing changed in my relationships. […] My mother noticed that the healing processes the Zion prophet had submitted me to have not worked. I was still dating women like me. She got upset and at this time took me to a traditional healer. I was sixteen when we travelled to Zavala District. On that day, the healer said to my mother: “Lady, listen! I can cure your daughter, but my medicine works like this”. I tried to run away from that place when I heard how he was proposing to “heal” me. And again, he said: “Do not worry, I have cured many women with this disease, and you will not feel any pain!” Then, he started to explain about the herbs he put on his penis and some that he put in my vagina. Because, according to him, all the bad spirits interfering with my male sexuality would disappear after having sex with him. I refused to do that, and I started to cry. I even tried to escape from that place, but it was in vain. My mother ordered him and his helpers to do the job: “Get the girl, tie her arms and legs, and please do not stop the treatment”. But the healer lied to me! I felt all the pain that no one wants to feel; pain you would not wish on your enemy. It was the only time I had sex with a man in my entire life, and he did it without even using a condom. But thanks, God, I am still a lesbian and healthy. For me, it is still painful to talk about this subject, but I need you to see how difficult it is to be a lesbian in our society, particularly if you come from a rural area as I did. After that ritual, nothing changed in my sex life, but I did, however, become a very timid person. A few years later, my mother died. She did not even know who I became at the end of this story. However, I believe that

142  Maria Judite Chipenembe et al. even if she were still alive, I would continue to be a lesbian, a survivor and a winner, all at the same time. I am proud to be what I am, and I do not fear anything anymore. What I mean to say is, I do not care what people think about me. The only thing I have learnt in all these years is to be discreet in my workplace and in my neighbourhood. (IDI, Maputo, February 2017) It is notable that not only “traditional healers” but also religious specialists from the Zion Church called “prophets” were consulted to “cure” lesbianism and convert “lesbians” into heterosexuals. This church was founded in 1896 by John Dowie, in the United States, and first introduced in Johannesburg, South Africa, in 1904 (Comaroff, 1985, pp. 77–178). It was then introduced into Southern Mozambique, where many people were converted by migrant mineworkers returning from South Africa (Honwana, 2002, p. 146). Unlike the Catholic and Protestant churches, the African Zion churches promote the cure of diseases and expulsion of evil spirits of disgrace and mix Christianity into local traditional beliefs and religions (Honwana, 2002, pp. 145–148; Schoffeleers, 1989, p. 114). The use of animal blood is combined with prayers to heal “lesbians” from the “disease of shame” and expel bad spirits. The cures practised and promoted by the prophets are very similar to what “traditional healers” believe, particularly concerning diagnostic and healing rituals for diseases and explaining the origin of the evil. We consider the contextual history of this church in Mozambique to be relevant to understanding these practices and their relationship to the veneration of the dead, which was regularly mentioned in the narratives of the respondents. The interview with Fabiola, a 40-year woman living in marital union with a woman, was scheduled after noticing that during the FGDs, many participants felt uncomfortable speaking about their personal stories of being exposed to traditional and religious healing rituals. Participants at both research sites were invited to introduce individuals they knew who might be willing to talk about this subject based on first-hand experience. As a result of this invitation, interviews were conducted with Fabiola and the other two participants. Despite their families coming from small rural areas of the region, they were all born in the city of Maputo. All of them shared a personal experience of being subjected to a religious ritual that aimed to transform them into a heterosexual woman. Martina, another of these three, participants reported being forced to drink the blood of a goat to change their sexual identity. This drink made her vomit and caused bad diarrhoea and fever. Though Fabiola did not drink the blood of a goat, she did not feel comfortable with having to use lard on her skin every night after praying and before going to sleep. Her story above describes how she was subjected to religious rituals under the guidance of a prophet of the Zion Church and was sexually abused by a “traditional healer” with the consent of her mother. Other studies have found that the rituals involving slaughtering of animals used by “traditional healers” are contested and questioned as a cultural tradition in the

Normative Violence, Traditional Healing in Mozambique  143 South of Mozambique and in other countries such as South Africa (see Twala & Hlalele, 2012; Honwana, 2002). After undergoing these rituals, Fabiola said she became sad and traumatised. Although all the practices mentioned, including the “husband of the night”, were intended to expel the evil spirits from their bodies, they did not feel they had been healed from the “homosexual disease” and neither did they become heterosexual: they remained steadfast “lesbians”. However, not all participants were subjected to religious rituals in order to convert their sexual orientation, and some had refused to undergo the rituals. This appeared to be related to the age of the participants. Both Anita and Fabiola were over 40 years old, and the stories of their adolescence were characterised by a lack of information on sexual orientation. They were adults, now, but the harmful practices they described had been experienced during their adolescence at an age when they were unable to protect themselves from violence. The excerpts presented in this section show how, within the context of practices or events that seek to “cure” or “convert” women of their sexual orientation, which is legitimised by heterosexual norms and a belief in conversion, the rights of “lesbians” in Mozambique have been and continue to be abused in various ways, ranging from verbal abuse and threats in public spaces to sexual assault and rape during religious and spiritual “healing” practices.

On Faith: The Possibility of Healing the “Disease of Shame” In this section, we describe the viewpoints held at the two sites by “traditional healers” (n = 5) and sheikhs (n = 5) on “homosexuality as a curable disease” and their experiences of healing “lesbians”. In Nampula, participants reported going to a sheikh (Muslim clergy) for healing purposes, while in Maputo, participants reported visiting “traditional healers”. All the healers at both research sites were interviewed and asked to describe their experiences of healing women of their lesbianism and turning them into heterosexuals. They were also asked to comment on the issue of self-identification in terms of sexual orientation, and on the rituals used in “healing” those lesbian clients who sought out their services to become heterosexuals. The data from this group of participants provide additional details that help us to understand events involving sexual violence, including the subject of “husbands of the night”, which was discussed in the previous section. Some “traditional healers”, although never having dealt with “lesbians” before, referred to homosexuals as “sick people”. In the excerpts below, we present the viewpoints of two respondents who have been in the business of healing people for over a decade. Their view was that no tradition, faith, or even a strong internal will can prevent people from having same-sex relationships. Although healers who practised conversion rituals involving sexual violence were an exception rather than the norm, most still see homosexuality as shameful and wrong. That is, homosexuality can compromise the function of human reproduction, which is crucial in the systems of a lineage that prevail at both research sites. Candida, 54 years of age, born in Gaza province and living in Maputo for 20 years, identified herself as a heterosexual woman possessed by the spirit of a

144  Maria Judite Chipenembe et al. man who guided her work in healing infertile women and women who struggled with being possessed by an evil spirit. Faruk was a 45-year-old Muslim man who self-identified as heterosexual and a sheikh. A sheikh in Arab, or mukhulukano in Makhuwa (language and tradition), is a kind of “traditional healer” who combines Islamic faith with local knowledge. Sheikhs or mukhulukano are individuals who use the Quran together with local organic remedies to heal people from disease (Macagno, 2004). This is particularly the case in Muslim societies in northern Mozambique. The following passages from Candida and Faruk illustrate the perspective of those who believe that “homosexuals” have a psychological disease and, because of that, should be considered shameful people: Candida: In fact, I was taught how to cure women’s menstrual cramps, infertility, and those women who struggled to find a husband. I have never cured women who want to stop having sex with other women. I have heard about these women and also about men who sleep with men. If they came to me asking for help to get pregnant, I would help them […] every woman wants to become a mother, but in a same-sex relationship, it is not possible. For me, they are more likely to have a psychological problem that makes them want to sleep with women. Their blood drives men away, but God created a woman to be with a man. I do not know if I heard your question correctly? But having sex with a man will not influence them to change their desire for sleeping with women. Healers who propose this kind of solution are fake and are probably not members of the National Association of Traditional Healers (AMETRAMO). (IDI, Maputo Heterosexual woman, “traditional healer”, October 2017) Faruk: […] if you look at me, you will notice that I am a man. Why would I sleep with a man like me? I have never cured this kind of client before, but I know them very well. [...]. One of them came here looking for contacts, male healers who are women [transwomen]. They [Lambda activists] were particularly interested in this group to raise awareness in matters relating to HIV/ AIDS prevention. Even though I respect their sexual preference, I see this as the beginning of the end of the World. The situation regarding lesbians is the same as that of gay men. All of them are people who cannot be cured […]. I refer to them as psychopaths […] they suffer from the “disease of shame”. I also call it haram [forbidden]. If someone like me comes here for help, they have to be strong on the inside, to abandon the desire of sleeping with people of the same sex. I believe that with faith, and the will to follow all my instructions of prayer, the person can be set free from this shame. (Heterosexual Man, “traditional healer”, Nampula, September 2017)

Normative Violence, Traditional Healing in Mozambique  145 Neither Candida nor Faruk have ever attended to a lesbian client in their office but see them as people who suffer from a psychological problem. Candida, as a member of the National Association of Traditional Healers (AMETRAMO), was trained by the Ministry of Health to work on HIV prevention, which is important because it situates her work (and that of many other healers) in the government’s struggle against the HIV epidemic across the country. In fact, given their double role as educators and counsellors, the government understands that “traditional healers” have become effective agents of change in the prevention of HIV (Audet et al., 2012; Homsy et al., 2004). This is the case in Mozambique, as well as in Sub-Saharan Africa more generally. In Mozambique, the socialist regime (1975–1990) had forbidden social and cultural values and “traditional practices” (Honwana, 2002, p. 75), but the HIV/AIDS epidemic prompted the government to recognise AMETRAMO in 1992, and to permit its members to become empowered to conduct advocacy relating to matters of sexual health across the country (Audet et al., 2012; Homsy et al., 2004). Consequently, Candida, like many other participants who benefited from HIV/AIDS prevention campaigns, contested the idea of a man having sex with a lesbian patient as a means to make her “straight”. Most of the healers interviewed in this study entered the profession because of what is referred to as “the calling’s disease”, which takes a heavy toll on those who are “called” to become healers (Honwana, 2002, p. 87). It is a disease that is cured through the initiation process that healers’ apprentices must undergo. This was mentioned by participants who reported being possessed by the spirit of an ancestor, which guided their work in healing people. For example, Honwana (2002, p. 53) suggests that in southern Mozambique: “when someone dies and his/ her body is buried, the spirit of this person remains as a manifestation of power, personality, and knowledge”. That is to say, after a person dies, their spirit can continue to exert a powerful influence on a living individual, and for the two to be able to live in harmony the living person must obey and accommodate the will of the spirit. Although his Muslim background differs from Candida, Faruk shared a similar perspective. He agreed to speak about people who were attracted to others of the same sex and the opinion he expressed was shared among the other sheikh participants, all of whom considered “homosexuality” to be a type of psychosis, the disease of shame, a sin, or haram. For that reason, Faruk’s said he never ­received “lesbians” or “bisexual” women in his office. Few of the “traditional healers” spoke of the possibility of healing a woman from her desire to have sex with another woman and/or potentially binding her in a heterosexual marriage. The following excerpts, however, offer two examples of healers who considered this to be possible: Ariana: Well, I have had students of traditional medicine who are queer. One of them came from South Africa and said that she loves a woman. She

146  Maria Judite Chipenembe et al. brought her partner who is a Mozambican, from Maputo. […]. They came here, like many other lesbians, seeking luck in finding a good job, and not to change their sexuality. One of them had a bad spirit that guided her to sleep with women and teach the women she slept with all about this unnatural sex. This case was a joke. They did not want to be normal […]. But once, a woman who had both sex organs [hermaphrodite] appeared here seeking help to become normal. She had a tiny penis, but her body was that of a woman. She told me that when having sex with her male husband, that “little pet” [small penis] became erect and ejaculated. Although she considered herself a woman, she said that she felt sexually satisfied with a woman, and not with a man. She came here because she was confused and afraid of leaving her husband to commit to the extra-marital relationship she was having with a woman. She was suffering a lot because people do not expect a woman to sleep with other women. Even if you do, you have to be discreet to avoid stigma and discrimination. […]. I tried to give her some herbs to tighten her vagina to increase her sexual pleasure with her husband. It did not work. The following year she left her husband and moved to South Africa, where she is living with another woman. In her case, it was not necessary to organise a session to expel a bad spirit, because she was not possessed. She showed me she had both sex organs. […]. For instance, when a man is possessed by the spirit of a female ancestor, it does not mean that a person ceases to be a man and vice-versa. One thing has nothing to do with the other because some of us [traditional healers] have a male spirit. For instance, when my spirit enters my voice, it changes and becomes masculine, but I do not have to sleep with women. I mean to show with this example that when a woman’s or man’s spirit embodies in a person, this person will talk with the spirit’s voice and say whatever the spirit wants. When this happens, we can say that the person is possessed by a spirit. If this ancestral spirit says that the person must marry a person of the same sex, we can say that this is the reason why the person is homosexual. These cases are sporadic, and most of the cases we are talking about having to do with the mind. They do not have both sexual organs, but they are normal people with a lot of curiosity and act in accordance with their psyche […]. For me, all of these cases have to do with their psychological problem and not traditional medicine. If the person is possessed by a spirit, we can expel it. Even a person who is not possessed by a spirit but wants to be treated, and agrees to follow my recommendations, will cease to be a lesbian if she has faith. However, if the woman does not have faith, she will not be healed, and nothing will change. (IDI, Maputo, October 2017) Gerónimo: There is a cure for people who come here and say they want to be rid of the situation. For me, not all homosexual people are possessed by a bad spirit. Many colleagues of mine were born male, but they are women

Normative Violence, Traditional Healing in Mozambique  147 [male to female transgender] […]. I am not ashamed to tell everyone that I am one of them. Some lesbians came here by themselves or with their mothers and to sit with us [healers] to see what is wrong with them. I remember one who came here, and we found that she was possessed by an evil spirit that was moving from person to person in her family [...]. This spirit turned that girl into a man, who only felt attracted to women. She came here with her mother because she wanted to be normal like other girls. So, we took her into the bush, close to the river, to expel the male spirit embodied in her. Now she is married to a man and has four kids. I do not know if she stopped sleeping with other women, but I am sure she is living with her husband. In this case, the mother and daughter recognised the bad spirit in their family and wanted to end the shame. […] We have rituals to expel evil spirits as well as some herbs in powder form, which we give to the women who do not want to live a life of sleeping with women, and who want to start a new relationship with a man. These herbs are used to increase their desire for sexual intercourse with a man. It helps them to feel like real women, like the others. There is no treatment or rituals that force traditional healers to sleep with their patients. Those who do it are fake healers and are the ones that AMETRAMO is trying to combat. (IDI, Maputo, October 2017) Ariana is a 60-year-old heterosexual woman and one of the co-founders of AMETRAMO. She spoke about her experience of welcoming some LGBT members and patients into her office. Gerónimo was a 45-year-old healer who self-identified as a transwoman. The perspectives of Ariana and Geronimo differed from Candida and Faruk, who had no experience of converting and were more tolerant of homosexuality. From the narratives of Ariana and Gerónimo, it is evident that the efficacy of the healing ritual is understood to be dependent on the faith of the clients. In general, all groups of participants agreed with the possibility of changing a person’s same-sex desires through faith. This is a widespread view, stemming from an underlying belief that “lesbians” can become heterosexuals if they have faith and follow all of the healer’s recommendations. These recommendations can be prayers or using remedies to tighten the vagina to give and feel pleasure during sexual intercourse with a man, and/or through rituals to expel a bad spirit if that is believed to be the cause. Another point learned is that they also rejected the idea of sexual intercourse between a male traditional healer and a lesbian being a means to turn the lesbian into a “normal” woman. In general, even though most of the participants in Nampula were unfamiliar with the expression “husband of the night”, they believed that a spirit can live in the body of a person and influence this person to have same-sex or heterosexual relationships. All participants said that the sexual acts that are supposed to turn “lesbians” into heterosexual women are “fake” practices. This response is consistent with the national public health strategies

148  Maria Judite Chipenembe et al. and reports, which have pushed healers to abandon practices that included risks relating to HIV/AIDS infection (CNCS, 2006, p. 28; Passador, 2011). In this regard, “traditional healers” who are members of AMETRAMO were aware of how some purification rituals involving sexual intercourse were now forbidden. However, the act of sexual intercourse being used to heal “lesbians” was mentioned by one participant (see Fabiola’s statements above), which had occurred during her adolescence during the socialist regime. At that time, the risk of the HIV/AIDS pandemic had not yet been identified as a public health problem, and healers were unaware of the risks involved in purification rituals involving sexual intercourse. To summarise, the interviews with Candida and Faruk showed that some healers had no experience at all of working with “lesbians”, but that they considered these women to be sick individuals. Ariana’s and Gerónimo’s stories, on the other hand, revealed the view that faith and/or traditional practices do not necessarily transform “lesbians” into heterosexuals. It was evident, however, that some of the traditional practices that were aimed at doing so were harmful and that they were also ineffective in their aim of preventing same-sex relationships.

On Harmful Cultural Practices and Traditions The findings from the two research sites presented throughout this chapter suggest that the fear of publicly disclosing one’s sexual orientation and the prejudices against same-sex practices discouraged “lesbians” and “bisexual women” from openly becoming activists. The fear of revealing love relationships and of different forms of violence contributed to the silence, or to what Epprecht (2004) calls the “culture of discretion”. The mix of formal religion (i.e. Christianity and Islam) with traditional knowledge and “healing” practices for same-sex relationships and desires causes harm in the lives of these women. These findings are in line with the ongoing discussion within queer African studies (e.g. see: Currier & Migraine-George, 2017; Asanti, 2010; Nkabinde, 2009; Moffett, 2006). This discussion centres around the stories of “lesbians” and “bisexual” women, and it reflects their experiences of silence, uncertainty, fear, and rejection, and the widely held beliefs that they are possessed by spirits, which characterises their struggle for sexual rights recognition in the Southern Africa region (Diesel, 2011; Wieringa & Blackwood, 1999 & 2003). It also discusses human rights abuses and sexual abuse against women in same-sex relationships within the context of violence and HIV/ AIDS (Brown, 2012; Di Silvio, 2010; Sandfort et al., 2015). Notwithstanding the importance of previous approaches, the experiences of violence reported by the majority of respondents – as well as being HCPs perpetrated against women – can be understood as “normative violence”. Normative violence, according to Butler (2007, p. xxv), is a form of violence that stems from the fact that gender norms establish what will and will not be humanly intelligible, and what is considered normal in a particular society. The violence that seems to prevail in both the northern and southern hemispheres (Butler, 2007; Dhawan, 2012; Longman & Bradley, 2016) led to discussions on the cultural and psychological dimensions

Normative Violence, Traditional Healing in Mozambique  149 of the concept of harm. Although the term “HCP” was not mentioned by the participants of this research or in the public policies in Mozambique, we observed how parents, traditional and religious healers, or heterosexual men were identified as perpetrators of ritual practices that are related to acts of violence being committed against “lesbians”. Some participants in Maputo, like Martina, reported having been forced to drink the blood of a goat to become “normal”, and afterwards suffering from diarrhoea and vomiting. Other studies (e.g. see: Honwana, 2002, p. 107) have found that, according to reports by informants, these rituals of drinking the blood of animals sometimes resulted in the death of patients. This is important to note because it illustrates how, because of their gender and their sexual orientation, “lesbians” and “bisexual women” are subjected to acts that are, at least on the surface “traditional” or “cultural” rituals. But these practices cause them harm and, in some cases, death, and they should therefore be understood as a form of violence. Overall, we highlighted two common elements of the participants’ experiences that revealed examples of cultural practices that violate their rights and cause harm to “lesbians: and “bisexual women”. These HCPs are early marriage (including marriages that are forced or coerced) and “healing” practices (ranging from potentially dangerous acts such as drinking animal blood to curative, corrective, or homophobic rape). In Nampula, for instance, the majority of the women focussed more on the experiences of early or non-consensual marriage than on street harassment or rape threats. The UN has categorised early marriage as one of the most prevalent harmful practices and traditions in both the Global North and the Global South (UNAIDS, 2015; United Nations, 2009). Child marriages are the norm in Mozambique, and they exacerbate the discrimination and harm caused to girls and women who are sexually oriented toward women rather than men. In our case study, adult participants identified early marriages as part of the culture and said that they had considered it normal at the time they got married because every girl was expected to marry early and have babies to in order to become a woman. For younger generations, being married at an early age was considered both abnormal and a violation of their sexual rights, which not only prevented them from continuing their studies but also did not allow them to openly reveal their sexual orientation. Respondents between the ages of 18 and 25 reported having used different strategies to delay their parents’ proposals of early and/or non-consensual heterosexual marriage. These younger women hide their relationships with same-sex individuals and introduced fake boyfriends (often a gay man) to the family to mask their sexual preferences. Participants aged 40 and older reported being unaware of the harmful effects of early marriage at the time they got married, given that it was considered a normal practice. These findings are consistent with earlier research, which identified early marriage as a harmful practice that still prevails throughout Africa, and in Mozambique, in particular (Arnaldo, 2004; UNAIDS, 2015; UNICEF, 2005, p. 31; Walker, 2012; ). For instance, Walker (2012) has shown that early marriage has a profoundly harmful effect on the health, education, and economic wellbeing of the women who are subjected to it.

150  Maria Judite Chipenembe et al. Overall, non-consensual and/or early marriage, rejection by parents, controlling/conversion of sexual orientation, and particular “traditional” treatments for the “disease” of homosexuality (the result of which can include vomiting, weakness, and diarrhoea) all meet the criteria of harmful practice. Religious beliefs and rituals play a direct role in such practices and can contribute to significant harm ranging from mental or psychological trauma to infliction of bodily harm, rape, and, in extreme cases, death (see Honwana, 2002). A significant number of scholars in Mozambique have described the discourse surrounding heterosexual women, individuals possessed by spirits, and spiritual spouses (Honwana, 2002; Igreja et al., 2008; Mahumane, 2015; Van de Kamp, 2011, 2016). They explored the relationship between “standard religions” and local knowledge, and how the beliefs or stories of spiritual spouses persist in the southern region of Mozambique. As helpful as this literature is, they mention almost nothing about the same phenomenon with regard to LGBT groups. Evidence from South Africa indicates that some women revealed they were lesbians while in a trance, or while under the influence of and/or while possessed by an ancestral spirit (Morgan & Reid, 2003, p. 375; Nkabinde, 2009). In this study, some participating healers reasserted this claim, while some “lesbian” respondents did not agree and instead reported being accused of being possessed by an evil spirit because they were lesbian. A few participants, like Martina, said they had received a male spirit from a healer to sleep with her every night to stop her from being a lesbian. However, this healing ritual did not work, and she continued to be a lesbian. In the participants’ narratives, the lack of information regarding homosexuality and prejudices relating to female same-sex relationships influenced parents to “force” their daughters not only into early marriage but also to undergo rituals involving sex with the “husband of the night”. Conversely, the existence of a “bad spirit” living in the body of some lesbians was indicated as being the force that guides them to have, or causes them to desire, same-sex partners. That is to say, spirits (be they “good” or “evil”) were implicated as a cause of homosexuality and also seen as a potential “cure”. Participants reported that the healing practices occurred within the context of social norms around procreation. This perception was responsible, at both research sites, for legitimising existing systems of kinship, whether they are patrilineal or matrilineal. Regardless of age, religion, education, lineage, and differences in the cultural context, all of the respondents described being rejected by their parents and early and/or non-consensual marriage as potential negative outcomes that would result from disclosing their sexual orientation before concluding their studies or securing a job. As well as being a prerequisite to being able to disclose one’s sexuality, financial independence was also seen as a necessary condition for divorce among those who were in non-consensual marriage. Some participants reported they were forced to marry before finishing college and, as a result, were left with no opportunity to conclude their studies. Others did not consider early marriage to have been a constraint because, when they had married, it was regarded as reasonable and normal for parents to find a husband for their daughters. Among the participants, there was a variety of experiences regarding

Normative Violence, Traditional Healing in Mozambique  151 marriage, but there were similarities in the experiences that broadly depended on the age of the respondent. For example, the older women generally saw early marriage as a part of their adolescence, and they had typically assumed their lesbian identity after divorcing at around the age of 30. The younger respondents, however, had more information about their sexual rights, largely because of the Lambda Association and what they had seen on television, and they struggled more with their compulsory marriage. These findings fit with the observations made by Spronk (2017) in Kenya and Ghana, which were that “gendered and sexual wellbeing” are a constant struggle for women, and that they can take different directions at various points in their life cycles and do not necessarily follow a linear path. Among “lesbians”, the fear of being raped by heterosexual males and the experience of sexual violence to turn them into heterosexual women was reported by some participants, but only one woman, Fabiola, spoke about a specific experience of this kind, which had occurred during her adolescent years. Although the interviews with some healers showed that this is considered a “fake” practice to cure lesbians, they nonetheless confirmed and voiced the prejudices and stereotypes regarding homosexuality as a shameful “disease”, the cure for which depended on faith. Studies have shown how women who are victims of the so-called corrective rape are exposed to HIV/AIDS infection in southern Africa (Brown, 2012; Di Silvio, 2010; Moffett, 2006; Sandfort et al., 2015). As indicated by some scholars, this type of violence results from the pressure to conform to heterosexual norms and it exposes young homosexual women to unsafe sex and violence (Epprecht, 2009; Reid & Walker, 2005). Fabiola’s story illustrates how “lesbians” and “bisexual” women can also be particularly vulnerable to contracting HIV/AIDS, yet the taboo around discussing rape in general, and “corrective rape” in particular, tends to make this risk invisible in society. More research is needed to assess the risk of HIV/AIDS among women because, at both research sites, unwillingness to discuss the issue of rape may leave women more vulnerable to sexual violence and to STIs. In Mozambique, many women are forced into early marriage, and many have been victims of rape in both matrilineal and patriarchal societies (Mejia et al., 2004; Underwood et al., 2011; Walker, 2012). However, these abuses often go unreported, and Mejia, Osorio, and Arthur suggest that there is a need to break the silence and to encourage victims to report violence against women. In the reports on gendered violence in Mozambique, which typically group all women into the same category, the specific experiences of “lesbians” and “bisexual women” remain invisible. How, therefore, can these groups of women be protected from rape or compulsory early heterosexual marriage if they remain invisible? How can they escape the heteronormative culture that reduces their bodies to the function of reproduction and the source of men’s pleasure? Martina was forced to drink a goat’s blood during a ritual that was organised to “heal” her of her sexual orientation. Fabiola was subjected to sexual violence, perpetrated by a “traditional healer”, which was done with her mother’s full consent. Both of these participants’ stories illustrate that the social obligation of marriage and reproduction

152  Maria Judite Chipenembe et al. were the reasons behind these healing rituals and were, therefore, the driving factor behind these abuses. These practices constitute sources of “normative violence” or “hegemonic norms of recognition”, which determine what can be read, heard, and understood as legible in a society (Butler, 2007; Dhawan, 2012). If “lesbians” and “bisexual women” as a group are invisible, their needs and concerns cannot be met appropriately by public policies. This view has been expressed in literature relating to women’s silence, experiences of coercion, and women’s agency and the “culture of discretion” found among people involved in same-sex relationships (Dhawan, 2012; Epprecht, 2004; Parpart, 2010; Spivak, 1988; Tamale, 2005, 2011). The assumption that silence correlates with disempowerment, and that speaking out correlates to empowerment, has been challenged in this literature because it dismisses and nullifies many of the potential strategies employed by women in the southern hemisphere to improve their own lives (Parpart, 2010). While Parpart suggests that the assumption of a voice being equal to empowerment needs to be re-thought, Tamale (2005) goes even further, affirming that contrary to the dominant Western assumption, in many African cultures, silence is considered powerful and can be just as empowering as speech. Tamale’s view is based on the experience of Baganda heterosexual women within the context of the Ssenga’s socio-cultural institution in Uganda. This study shows multiple sources and categories of oppression that influence the life cycles of “lesbians” and “bisexual women”. Their experiences of oppression varied according to their age bracket, which also determined their access to information on sexual rights. Kabeer (2010) has suggested that the definition of silence is controversial, particularly when the distinction between choice and silence is not clear. She distinguishes inconsequent choices from the choices that bring implications to people’s lives and relationships. This distinction shows that silence can be seen as being “born out of failure to recognise the injustice” or alternatively being “born out of the calculation, often based on fear, of what the cost of protest might be” (Kabeer, 2010, p. 18). Along the same lines, Dhawan questions whether silence is a measure of power and violence, whether discursive violence is inevitable or not, and, for instance, why preference is not given to silence over discourse and why one should not remain silent (Dhawan, 2012). In this study, we noticed the unwillingness of the majority of “lesbians” and “bisexual” women to speak about their personal experiences of being victims of early or compulsory marriage and “corrective rape” as an act of violence. In this context, different intersecting factors such as age, lineage, education, and financial dependence/independence played an essential role in the presence or absence of empowerment as a response to various forms of violence reported by the majority of participants.

Conclusion The views of participants who did agree to speak about their experiences of sexual rights and identity illustrated how different intersecting factors of a person’s

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identity, such as gender and religion, contributed to both who and what “lesbians” and “bisexual” women have become: people living in a “culture of discretion” and who were afraid of becoming sexual minority rights activists. In this regard, religious and traditional practices relating to the conversion or “curing” of sexual orientation were not opposed to each other, and they were performed in both matrilineal and patriarchal cultures, which privilege heteronormativity and emphasise the social norms of procreation. The respondents reported various forms of violence, ranging from compulsory heterosexual marriage (which could include early and/or forced marriages) to verbal aggression and sexual violence. All of these acts were reported to be (unsuccessful) attempts to turn “lesbians” into heterosexual women. The invisibility of “lesbians” and “bisexual” women in the Mozambique public health and social protection policies was evident. One can safely say that these women were, in fact, vulnerable to violence and diseases, including HIV/ AIDS and other STIs, because of their sexuality. The participants’ statements showed that they had suffered the consequences of “normative violence”, both from within their homes and from society more broadly, as a result of African religious beliefs and cultural practices that privilege heterosexuality and at times treat homosexuality as a “disease” to be “cured”. In our view, these practices, although intended to keep heteronormative societies cohesive and functional, contain harmful elements that perpetuate the violation of minority group rights of “lesbians” and “bisexual” women. It would be difficult to state, however, that these harmful elements are cultural, as such, because, on the one hand, all participants of the study referred to the lack of information about sexual orientation and gender identity and the taboo status of speaking about sex in the country. On the other hand, however, the idea of correcting the sexual behaviour of women to make them “normal” was present at both the matrilineal and patriarchal research sites. This suggests that the various types of violence, such as early and/or forced marriage or sexual abuse being used to transform a “lesbian” into a heterosexual woman, do originate from the cultural domain in which heterosexuality is privileged. Nonetheless, the context of “traditional healers” that work in a pluri-normative environment indicates that there was no consensus about homosexuality as a curable “disease”.

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Note 1 This research project was approved by the National Committee on Bioethics in health, Faculty of Medicine from the Eduardo Mondlane university/Central Hospital of Maputo (Ref.CIBSFM & HCM17.2016).

9

The Contradictory Role of the Protestant Church in Changing Female Genital Cutting among the Maasai An Ethnographic Exploration Hannelore Van Bavel

Introduction Every Saturday is market day in Olmesutie, a small village in the Loita Hills in the South of Kenya, only a few kilometres from the Tanzanian border and inhabited mainly by Maasai people. Traders from surrounding villages arrive early in the morning to display their merchandise on the rickety wooden constructions in the village square: vegetables, oranges, second-hand clothes, tennis shoes, pots and pans, and of course the colourful shuka1 and beads so characteristic of Maasai dress and adornment. The buzz of the market drowns out the bleating of sheep and goats that, together with a few cows and bulls, are being traded just outside the village centre. I am doing my weekly grocery shopping when a car arrives, blasting gospel music from its speakers. Before long, people have gathered around the car and are listening to a man with a bible in his hand screaming through a low-quality microphone. The sound system distorts his voice so badly that I have difficulties understanding what he is screaming about. Then I notice that the atmosphere changes; some women have a deep frown in their foreheads, others are clicking their tongues in annoyance, and the woman standing in front of me spits on the ground before marching off. A friend has come to me to explain what is happening, “The pastor told us to give up our retrogressive cultural practices, like the circumcision of girls, and not everyone is happy with that message”. Where a few minutes ago people had been singing and dancing together to the music, the crowd now looked divided. While some were clapping and nodding, others were walking away shaking their heads. I am surprised to see Naserian and Nashipai among the women walking away with disapproving faces. Less than a week earlier, we had attended a (male) circumcision ceremony together. At the ceremony, Naserian had told me that her daughters were still young but that, when their time would come, she would prefer not to cut them, “Perhaps we can just pretend to cut her, but not really because I don’t want her to bleed much or have difficulties when giving birth”. Nashipai had agreed. The two women had told me that SAFE Maa, a Maasai-led non-governmental organisation (NGO) raising awareness on HIV and female genital cutting2 (FGC) in the Loita Hills, had done much to convince Loitai3 to give up the practice (see also Van Bavel,

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246046-9

Contradictory Role of Protestant Church  159 2020a). They had seemed sincere in their wish to see female circumcision end, and I was therefore surprised to see them disapprove with the pastor’s message. I did not get the chance to ask them about it, but upon seeing me, Naserian – her eyes fiery – exclaimed: Forget what I said last week, I will circumcise my daughters. This is our culture! My grandmother was circumcised, my mother was, I am, and so will my daughters. No one can take this away from us! That evening, I met with a project manager of SAFE Maa. He was upset at what happened at the market. He explained that, because both SAFE Maa and the Church talk about female circumcision, people might think that they have the same agenda. They could easily ruin everything. Do you know how hard we worked to gain the trust of the community? We worked so hard to convince them that we are part of them, and not against them. That we don’t want to take away their culture because it is our culture too and we love it. If people think we agree with the Church, it will undermine all progress we have made. It is this last sentence of his explanation that intrigued me. During the weeks before the event at the market, I had gone around the village asking questions about the changes people see in FGC. The vast majority of respondents had identified the Church, SAFE Maa, the law, and schools as the key drivers of changes in FGC. How then, I wondered, could being associated with the Church undermine the credibility of an organisation sharing the goal of ending FGC in the community? In this chapter, based on ethnographic anthropological research among the Maasai of the Loita Hills in Kenya, I describe the contradictory role of the Protestant Church in both encouraging abandonment and causing resistance to abandonment of FGC. In doing so, the chapter contributes to our understanding of the complex associations between religion and FGC, and how these associations intersect with educational attainment, a history of socio-political marginalisation, present-day development practice, and a community-wide fear of cultural erosion and loss of Maasai identity. While this chapter focuses on the role of the Protestant Church in ending FGC in the Loita Hills, my findings also contribute to our understanding of how different approaches to ending FGC can have different effects and demonstrate the importance of looking at the broader context in which such efforts take place.

Female Genital Mutilation/Cutting and Religion The World Health Organization (WHO) defines female genital mutilation (FGM) as a “harmful practice that involves the partial or total removal of external female genitalia or other injury to the female genital organs for non-medical reasons” (WHO, 2018). The UN frames FGM as a health concern, an extreme form of

160  Hannelore Van Bavel ­

In other contexts, however, people have abandoned FGC, which had previously been practised in their families and communities, because of their (new) religious beliefs. Moreover, various anti-cutting campaigners have used religious scriptures to convince communities that FGC is not a requirement under any of the monotheistic religions (Johansen et al., 2013). They have often done so by referring to research evidence that suggests that FGC predates the emergence of monotheistic religions (e.g. see: Mackie, 1996) and that, throughout history, it has been practised by Muslims, Christians, and animists and is therefore not linked to a specific religion (Gruenbaum, 2001). Others have stressed that religious scriptures do not demand women to be circumcised, and Islamic leaders who oppose FGC have pointed out that the Quran makes no mention of female circumcision and have questioned the authenticity of the hadith on which other religious leaders base their opinion that female circumcision is sunnah (‘the way of the Prophet’). In the hadith that is cited, the Prophet is said to warn a circumciser in Medina to “not cut too severely as that is better for a woman and more desirable for a husband” (Muslim Women’s League, 1999). Several influential Muslim leaders have made public statements claiming that FGC is unnecessary under Islam; some of them doing so in fatwas (Stop FGM Middle East, 2014). Whereas religious leaders have been able to convince people to give up FGC in certain contexts (Diop & Askew, 2009; Saleema, n.d.), the inclusion of religious leaders in development programmes has had unintended consequences in other contexts. Research by Østebø and Østebø (2014, p. 93), for example, showed that local communities were sceptical of the real motivations of religious leaders who were cooperating with development workers and accused them of “being bought by the government” and “being engaged only for personal enrichment”. Furthermore, the belief that female circumcision is required by religion has often persisted despite “evidence” that it is not found in religious scriptures. Claudia Cappa explains that: because religious beliefs often exist alongside other social norms surrounding [female genital mutilation/cutting], the lack of clear scriptural dictates does not automatically cause religious motivation for the practice to diminish. (UNICEF, 2013, p. 70)

Contradictory Role of Protestant Church  161 For example, among the Mandingas in Guinea-Bisau, FGC is culturally considered a marker of Islamic identity and a requirement for ritual purity before prayer (Johnson, 2000). The prevalence of FGC in Kenya was estimated at 21% in 2014 (DHS, 2014, p. 333), which represents a significant reduction from 32% in 2003 (Kenya, 2011) Though not all ethnic groups in Kenya practice FGC, among those that do, prevalence rates ranged between 11% (Kamba) and 94 (Somali)%. Since 2011, all forms of FGC (which is referred to in the law as “mutilation” or FGM/C), regardless of age and consent, as well as failing to report instances of FGC, are criminalised under the Prohibition of Female Genital Mutilation Act (Kenya, 2011). In Kenya, the association between religion and FGC is different for Muslims and Christians. As is the case in other countries, many Muslim communities that practise FGC do so because they believe it to be a requirement of Islam (DHS, 2014, p. 340), and anti-cutting campaigners working among these Kenyan communities have relied on religious leaders to support their message against the cut. In Garissa County, for example, various Sheikhs have publicly declared that Islam does not require circumcision of women and that, in fact, FGC runs counter to the values of peace and good health that Islam stands for.4 Non-Muslim communities in Kenya that practice FGC were often predominantly animist before the arrival of Christian missionaries in the nineteenth century. In these communities, the increasing presence of Christian churches has influenced change in cutting practices. Recent research in Kenya has shown that the prevalence of FGC is significantly lower among Catholic and Protestant converts than among animists (Matanda et al., 2018). Among members of practising communities, those who identify as Catholic or Protestant more often oppose FGC than those who uphold “indigenous” religions. At the national Anti-FGM Conference in Nairobi on 6 February 2018, a pastor invited to a panel discussion on “FGM and religious leaders” said, “religious leaders are not given enough recognition for the important work they have been doing to end FGM”.5 Christian opposition to FGC in Kenya dates back to the early 1900s when Protestant missionaries started education against “female circumcision” in mission churches and schools in central Kenya, mainly inhabited by Kikuyu and Meru people (Njambi, 2007; Thomas, 2003). Over the years, some central Kenyan converts – especially mission-educated youth – came to share missionaries’ perspectives on FGC and rejected it. However, many central Kenyans fiercely opposed missionary efforts to ban the practice. The “female circumcision controversy” in Kikuyu, which began in the winter of 1929 and continued until 1931, resulted in mission churches and schools being left empty. Dance-songs that ridiculed the uncircumcised women at the missions were performed by Kikuyu (Anderson, 2018; Pedersen, 1991; Thomas, 2003). Church opposition to FGC in areas where Maasai lived started much later. Christian missions in the region were not well-established in the area, and in the early 1900s, the Africa Inland Mission in the region of Narok only had a handful of regular attendees. Richard Waller (1999) explains how the Mission only succeeded in attracting people whose Maasai identity was uncertain which, in turn,

162  Hannelore Van Bavel affected the reputation of the Church as being no good place for decent Maasai. When, in the 1930s, the Africa Inland Mission told its stations to have church members sign a public declaration against female circumcision, the head of the mission at Siyabei in Maasailand was reluctant to comply because he feared that his very small congregation would collapse. In his view “it was wrong to punish people for defending a custom which the mission had hitherto accepted, however reluctantly, and which they did not see as ‘un-Christian’” (Waller, 1999, p. 103). From the 1940s onwards, Catholic missionaries would arrive in Maasai areas of Kenya. However, the Catholic Church did not try to eradicate FGC because it did not think that “the initiation process had any effect on one’s ability to be a good Catholic” (Boulanger, 2008, p. 65). By the time of my fieldwork in Loita in 2018, various Churches had extended their presence throughout the Loita Hills. Christian Loitai could now choose between the Catholic Church and various Protestant churches, including the Full Gospel Church, Maranatha Church, African Gospel Church, African-Initiated Church, and the Kenya Assembly of God Church. The difference between Catholic and Protestant attitudes towards FGC remained the same as they had been in the early twentieth century, with the former largely condoning and the latter fiercely opposing the practice, as well as most other Maasai cultural practices. While Christianity is on the rise among Maasai, the majority of Maasai continue to adhere to Maasai indigenous religious practices. Central to Maasai religion is a deity called Eng’ai who manifests herself through nature and its elements (Hodgson, 2005, p. 25). Maasai use natural substances in their religious practices, and they attribute meaning to aspects of nature like grass (welcome, peace, blessing), milk (fertility), and blood (strength, vitality). The mood and will of Eng’ai is read from changes in the wind or rain, and the cycle of draughts (Hodgson, 2005, pp. 26–31). Natural substances like milk, honey, and blood are often used in ceremonies, including FGC ceremonies where they are used symbolise the associations between Eng’ai, adulthood, and fertility. These indigenous religious elements remain important today, even among many Christian Maasai, and they are so intertwined with Maasai socio-cultural organisation that the boundaries between “culture” and “religion” are often blurred. In conversations with Loitai, many used the word “religion” to refer to Christianity, and “culture” to refer to elements that have also been described as Maasai indigenous “religion” (Hodgson, 2005). There is some discussion, particularly in anthropological literature, regarding whether “religion” as a term can properly be applied to cultures and/or belief systems outside of Western/Abrahamic contexts because in them, religions take on a very specific structure, and the term does not have a direct equivalent in many other languages. As such, both the term and the notion of a culture/religion boundary are Western constructs that describe (albeit imperfectly) a Western context (e.g. see: Dubuisson, 2007) While acknowledging the colonial origins of this constructed divide between religion and culture, I follow these emic categories in my writing to reflect the ways that Loitai perceive and discuss these issues.

Contradictory Role of Protestant Church  163 The above overview of different ways religion influences FGC in different contexts shows that the relationship between the practice and religion is complex and that it is difficult to make general claims. It is more fruitful, I suggest, to think of religion as one of the elements in an intersection of variables that together influence (changes in) FGC (see also Van Bavel, 2020a). This ethnographic account looks at how Protestant preaching against FGC and other Maasai cultural elements intersects with national anti-FGC legislation and anti-FGC development practice, and with the historical marginalisation of Maasai, which has resulted in the widespread fear of cultural erosion and loss of Maasai identity. It shows that, within this specific context, the behaviour of the Protestant Church and Protestant congregants can encourage attitudes and behaviour against FGC, but at the same time Protestant attempts to discourage people from performing the practice can also result in it becoming more entrenched in Maasai identity and culture. The chapter contributes to our understanding of the complex association between religion and FGC, and of the role of religious leaders and institutions in change processes related to the practice.

Methodology This study used an ethnographic approach that combined participant observation and semi-structured in-depth interviews. Data collection took place in Narok in March 2018 and in the Loita Hills between July and August 2018. Ten months of previous ethnographic research among Tanzanian Maasai made me familiar with Maasai culture and, as it turned out, with some Kenyan Loitai who I had met some years earlier at the market on the Tanzanian side of the border. My previous experience and relationships allowed me to intensively immerse myself in events and conversations right from the beginning. It is this intensity of excursions into people’s lives, rather than the length of the researcher’s physical presence in a certain space, that allows for good ethnography (Pink & Morgan, 2013, p. 352). I conducted in-depth interviews and informal conversations with girls, boys, women, and men; elders of the community; church leaders; cultural leaders; government officials; health care professionals; teachers and a school principal; and international and local NGO staff. Thirty-five were formal in-depth interviews, which I recorded and transcribed. I conducted these interviews in English with Maa interpretation provided by a trained female research assistant. Informal conversations were conducted in a mixture of basic Maa and Swahili. Research findings were discussed with key informants and the feedback they gave is included in this chapter. Participant observation in the Loita Hills included living in the village of Olmesutie and sharing in the daily activities of the community such as shopping at the market, attending ceremonies, participating in the Ol-ngesher cultural 6 ceremony, ­ joining the women for laundry at the river, trekking through the forest with il-murran,7 drinking chai with the elders, and playing with the children. My previous experience of living in Maasai communities and my knowledge of Swahili

164  Hannelore Van Bavel and basic Maa facilitated building trust and friendship. Information obtained through participant observation and informal conversations was recorded in daily field notes, which were analysed together with the interview transcripts.

Setting the Scene: Changes in FGC Among the Loita Maasai In 2014, the Maasai were the ethnic group with the fourth highest prevalence of FGC in Kenya at 78% (Somali 94%, Samburu 86%, Kisii 84%) (DHS, 2014). The prevalence of FGC in Loita was estimated at 62% in 2018 (Orchid Project, 2019). The 2014 DHS does not have data on the type of cut that is performed on Maasai women, but respondents mentioned two types: Maasai/kimila8/olkuak9 (or “traditional”) and kisasa10 (or “modern”). Key informants, including circumcisers, described the traditional form as removing the clitoris and the labia minora (which would be classified as type II FGM by the WHO). Kisasa refers to cutting the prepuce, the whole external clitoris, or “only the tip” (a part of the prepuce, and part of the clitoris), “but without going deep” (a practice classified by the WHO as type I FGM) Among Maasai, FGC is not perceived as a religious requirement. Circumcision of boys and girls functions as a rite of passage from childhood to adulthood (Spencer, 1988; Talle, 1988), and thus takes place at the onset of puberty (DHS, 2014, p. 201). Social responsibilities and expectations change after circumcision, which traditionally meant boys would become il-murran (or warriors), and girls would be ready for marriage and childbearing (Talle, 2007). An uncircumcised man or woman, regardless of their age, would be considered a child, without access to marriage and other privileges that come with adulthood. Furthermore, some Maasai (particularly those who were more elderly) believed that an uncircumcised mother will die on the day of her son’s circumcision, or that a baby whose head touches the mother’s clitoris during birth will be mentally or physically disabled (Van Bavel et al., 2017). As access to schools increased in Loita, more boys and girls began to continue formal education after being cut instead of becoming il-murran or getting married. None of the research participants still believed that remaining uncircumcised poses a risk to the child’s or mother’s life or health. Nor did they believe that circumcision is necessary for the physical growth or for giving birth. Inspired by the work of Gerrie Mackie (1996), UNICEF suggests that FGC continues today because the practice functions as a social norm linked to marriageability, and deviations from the norm can be punished with ostracism and exclusion. Others have suggested that this social norm perspective overlooks the important role FGC continues to play in communities like that of the Maasai: it is part of a long initiation process that raises the status of the initiate and her extended family (Hughes, 2018). Kenya’s Prohibition of Female Genital Mutilation Act of 2011 prohibits all forms of FGC, regardless of age and consent, but prosecutions are rare in Loita, likely due to Loita’s relative remoteness from urban centres. Research participants mentioned schools, the NGO SAFE Maa, and the Protestant Church as the most

Contradictory Role of Protestant Church  165 visible actors challenging FGC in their local environment. Formal education is believed to have an important influence on whether people support or practise FGC. Evidence of various communities that continue the practice suggests that parents with formal education are less likely to cut their daughters (e.g. see: Asekun-Olarinmoye & Amusan, 2008; Alo & Gbadebo, 2011). Among the countries for which MICS or DHS data on FGC are available, 28 out of 30 show that the likelihood of a girl being cut decreases with an increase in the educational level of the mother (UNICEF, 2016). Kenya was among those countries where this correlation was present: support for FGC decreases when levels of education, both among women and men, increase (DHS, 2014, p. 343). Quantitative data on the correlation between education and support for FGC in Loita are lacking, but my findings suggest that the same trends apply: Loitai with secondary or higher education appear to be more likely to reject FGC than those who did not receive formal education (Van Bavel, 2020a). I have discussed the role of the NGO SAFE Maa and its successes and challenges in detail elsewhere (see Van Bavel, 2020a). SAFE Maa uses song and dance performances to initiate discussions on HIV and FGC, and in doing so the organisation has succeeded in making a previously taboo topic publicly discussable. On 6 February 2019 – the International Day of Zero Tolerance to FGM – Loitai came together to publicly declare the end of FGC in Loita. This public declaration was, of course, no magic bullet to stop everyone from practising. However, its symbolic importance should not be underestimated: the involvement of the Maasai leadership of Kenya and Tanzania, ex-circumcisers, schools, and a few 1,000 Loitai reflected the community’s willingness to question and negotiate FGC. Research participants said that they trusted and respected SAFE Maa because all staff are Maasai and are from Loita, and because they had always been respectful of Maasai culture. As I have argued elsewhere, SAFE Maa successfully addressed two central concerns Loitai had with giving up FGC (Van Bavel, 2020b). First, FGC is considered a prerequisite for women to be married and, as such, parents feared that their uncut daughters would not find a husband. Second, among a people who feel the constant threat of political and social marginalisation, giving up FGC fuelled fears of cultural erosion and the imminent “end of the Maasai”. SAFE Maa addressed the first fear by involving young warriors – the future husbands of the girls – in rejecting FGC. With regard to the second fear, SAFE Maa reframed its narrative for abandonment of FGC away from health or human rights concerns, towards protecting Maasai from cultural erosion. Perhaps paradoxical at first sight, SAFE Maa reasoned that Maasai culture is already being eroded now that people cut secretly to avoid prosecution under the law and, as a result, give up on the other cultural elements of initiation ceremonies. SAFE Maa proposed an alternative ritual, called the Loita Rite of Passage, that gives up on the cut in order to protect the many other cultural elements of the ceremony. This narrative on cultural erosion, rather than (or in addition to) human rights or health impacts, resonated with many Loitai. Despite the milestone of the community declaring the end of FGC in Loita, SAFE Maa realises that change happens slowly, and understands that setbacks

166  Hannelore Van Bavel are  part of the process. In this regard, Loitai also mentioned the Protestant Church as a key player in the change that is happening in Loita around the practice of FGC. The Church’s approach is quite the opposite to that of SAFE Maa: where SAFE Maa wants to protect Maasai culture from further erosion, the Protestant Church wants to see all traditional Maasai customs disappear because it considers them “impure”. Various Protestant Church leaders actively discouraged congregants from performing the Loita Rite of Passage because, although the Church and SAFE Maa shared the goal of ending cutting, the latter only want to see the cut disappear, whereas the former also wants the surrounding “heathen” ceremonial practices to be eradicated. In what follows, I discuss the complex and contradictory relationship between the Protestant Church and the abandonment of FGC in Loita.

Catholic and Protestant Churches in Loita In the eyes of Loitai, the biggest difference between the Catholic and Protestant Churches is that the latter condemn all Maasai cultural practices, which can include anything from attending ceremonies to wearing particular Maasai garments. Catholic church leaders, on the other hand, allow Maasai and Christian  elements to exist side to side. Both Catholic and Protestant Church leaders said that FGC is not mentioned in the Bible and is therefore not accepted 11 by Christianity, ­ though male circumcision is mentioned and is, therefore, accepted. Yet, while Protestants actively oppose FGC and threaten to ban those who cut their daughters, the Catholic Church takes a more condoning stance. All research participants were confident that the Protestant Church opposes the practice, but divergent opinions on the stance of the Catholic Church existed. Some said that the Catholic Church also condemns the practice, but that it is less vocal about the matter and more willing to turn a blind eye to congregants practising the cut. A handful of respondents thought that the Catholic Church does not oppose FGC or any other Maasai cultural practices. The exception was, according to one participant, cattle raiding “because stealing is a sin”. Nemburis, a Catholic woman in her thirties who attended mass every Sunday, said that she had never heard the pastor mention FGC in church. However, she had seen the pastor in attendance at a community gathering, which had been organised by an NGO to discuss the practice. There, the pastor had confirmed that the Bible does not mention FGC and that the Catholic Church does not support the practice. The Catholic Church in Loita, while not supporting the practice, does seem to condone the practice to some extent and only speaks out against it when asked to do so by anti-FGC activists and organisations. In an informal conversation with me, a Catholic priest said: We don’t think female circumcision is good, but we don’t exclude people from the church for it. We want them to learn more and more about the word of God. They can then decide themselves to stop that practice. But we don’t exclude.

Contradictory Role of Protestant Church  167 The condoning stance of the Catholic Church leaves space for Catholic Loitai to follow the direction of their own choosing when it comes to the cut. Some Catholic Loitai openly supported cutting. Others said that they did not or would not cut their daughters, either because of their religious beliefs, because of fear of prosecution under the law, or because of awareness of potential health effects. The Protestant Church, on the other hand, is much more vocal about its condemnation of the practice. Protestant churchgoers told me that their priests occasionally refer explicitly to FGC, stating that it is in violation of church laws. One woman in her twenties added: Maybe they don’t mention FGM this week, but he will tell us that Maasai traditions are impure and not good because they are not in the Bible and are not accepted by God. So, you automatically know that FGM is one of those traditions that we need to leave. While their efforts against FGC are mostly limited to preaching about it to the congregants, one participant explained that “in those times when FGM became a fashionable topic, they were also talking about it outside the church”. She went on to say that, when an NGO had come to Loita to talk about FGC, Protestant Church leaders and elders had joined them to talk about the stance of the Protestant Church. That same week, a Protestant Church leader had referred to the workshop in his preaching and had repeated the Church’s stance on the matter.

Some Protestant Loitai Abandon, Some Continue Secretly All Protestant research participants said that their Church does not allow FGC or any other Maasai cultural practices. However, the institution’s opposition to the practice did not translate into all congregants leaving the practice. Some thought of the practice as bad and said they would not cut their daughters; some were against it but found themselves pressured by societal expectations to cut their daughters; and others simply disagreed with the Church and supported the continuation of FGC. As is the case with national laws and policies, the implementation of a church “law” is a process of friction and potential resistance. National legislation against FGC is known to have the potential drive the practice underground when it is not accompanied by community-level awareness raising and/or when it is not supported by practising communities (Johansen et al., 2013; Shell-Duncan et al., 2013; Van Bavel et al., 2017). So, while laws can grant legitimacy to the work of anti-cutting campaigners, they can also cause resistance among those who refuse to give up cutting. Laws often change people’s behaviour rather than their attitudes, and in such cases people who want FGC to continue find ways to secretly perform the practice while avoiding prosecution under the law. Church “laws” differ from national laws in two important ways. First, whereas national laws apply to all citizens regardless of the citizens’ agreement, church

168  Hannelore Van Bavel laws only apply to people who choose to become members of the church. Second, national laws are legally enforceable, and deviation from the law can be punished with fines and prosecution. Church laws, however, are not legally enforceable. Instead, they gain their power, from the fact that those who deviate from the law might be ostracised by the Church and other congregants. For congregants who join the Church because they subscribe to its ideas and aspire to be a “good Protestant”, these ideas become part of their self-proclaimed Protestant identity and start influencing their behaviour. Most Protestant congregants I interviewed said that FGC is not a good practice and that the Church is right for opposing it. Besides religious reasons, some said that they also rejected FGC because of its illegality under Kenyan law and because of its associated health risks. And yet, despite their opposition to the practice, Protestant Maasai remain part of two communities with opposing demands. As Maasai, they are expected to uphold the social norm of FGC in order for their daughters to be eligible for marriage, and deviation from the norm can lead to ostracism and social exclusion. But as Protestants, they are expected to condemn FGC, and if they do not, they are at risk of being considered impure and being excluded from the Church. How, then, do Protestant Maasai negotiate these competing demands? For some Protestant Maasai, the community expectation to circumcise holds less weight. This is generally the case for church leaders and those with secondary or higher education. At the community level, different expectations apply to formally educated Loitai: among the formally educated, FGC is not a prerequisite for a woman to be married. For those Protestant Maasai who are also formally educated, it is easier to deviate from the community norm that prescribes FGC because this is in line with their identities as Protestants and as formally educated and, as such, the decision will not affect the marriage chances of their daughters. For Protestant Maasai with no or little formal education, the pressure of the community to cut girls has more weight. In a context where people depend on each other for survival, ostracism, and exclusion from the community because of not adhering to the cutting norm, there is a more significant threat than exclusion from the Church. Many people thus choose to continue the practice of FGC, even if this is in contradiction with what religious prescriptions prescribe and, sometimes, with what they themselves believe to be right. Parents might opt for a low-profile ceremony with only relatives and close friends involved and hide the fact that they circumcised their daughter from other Protestants. In a conversation with two midwives – one of whom was Protestant – I was told that some Protestants lie to other Protestants about the cutting status of their daughters. Both midwives had also performed circumcisions in the past. One of them had stopped now because she had converted to Protestantism. The Protestant midwife explained: I know people from church who continue cutting their daughters, even after they have been saved. They won’t tell me. They will lie and say that they have given up female circumcision because it is impure. But then I talk with

Contradictory Role of Protestant Church  169 my friend here and she tells me that she was the one who circumcised the daughter of that family a few weeks ago. A social worker and Protestant woman in her late twenties shared a similar experience. She told me: Because they know I am Protestant, they tell me that they don’t support female genital cutting. They think I will judge them if they say: “Yes, we like it and we continue doing it.” […] They say they don’t, but I know they do. If I ask the young girls, they cannot lie. They will tell me truthfully: “Yes, I was cut.” A Protestant man in his late thirties explained the dilemma to me. He had converted to Protestantism only a few years earlier and was the only one to do so in his family. He was confident that, with time, he would convince his wives and relatives to join him at the Church, but he understood that the process would take time. For now, I cannot change their mind and on my own I cannot stop them from doing it. What I did, I travelled to town when the ceremony happened because, me, as a Christian, I cannot take part in it. I want nothing to do with it. Not all Protestants agreed with the Church on the matter of FGC. Subscription to Protestant ideology is not the only and/or complete reason for people to join the Church, and becoming member of a Church does not mean that one agrees with all that is preached (see also Hodgson, 2005). Buluu, a woman in her 70s, said: I started going to church because my daughter wanted me to. She is very active in the Church. At first, I didn’t like it because they said bad things about Maasai culture. But I returned for my daughter, and also because of the songs and because I meet my friends there. They still say those things about Maasai culture, and I still don’t like it, but I just don’t listen. Her daughter, who had been present when her mother shared this with me, said that there are more women of her mother’s generation who perhaps don’t accept everything the Church says, “but we keep inviting them anyway because they might learn a thing or two and change a little bit”. Buluu openly said to my research assistant and me that she wants FGC to continue and that she wants her granddaughters to be “circumcised”. Rather than being a homogenous group, Protestant Loitai have different opinions on FGC as well as different opportunities to give up the practice without being sanctioned for it. These opportunities are largely linked to the different

170  Hannelore Van Bavel expectations to which some Loitai are held, which depends primarily on level of education.

Unintended Consequences: Fuelling Fear of Cultural Erosion and Reinforcing FGC as an Identity Marker The Protestant Church influences its congregants in different ways: some Protestants say they have given up FGC, but others continue mixing the parts of Christianity and Maasai religion that they like. More notable perhaps is that the stance of the Protestant Church also affects people who are not members of the Church – those called “heathen” by the Church. The Church’s harsh instance on complete abandonment of all Maasai cultural practices – not just FGC, but also graduation ceremonies, “meat camps”,12, and even Maasai dress and adornment – inspires defensiveness and resistance among those who hold Maasai culture dearly. Some non-Protestant Maasai said that they feel looked down upon and that their culture is disrespected. A woman in her 60s said, “They call us ‘impure.’ Some of them don’t even want to come into our houses. They think we live like animals. If you offer them tea, they refuse. […] They think they are better than us”. Repeatedly, I heard people say that the Protestant Church is trying to get rid of Maasai religion and culture all together. A 37-year-old father to four girls and a boy said, “They want to do away with everything that makes us Maasai: our clothes, our houses, our songs, our dances. It will mean the end of the Maasai”. This fear of cultural erosion at the hand of outsiders and the approaching end of the Maasai is not new. Lotte Hughes (2005) places present-day fears of loss of culture and identity in a long history of betrayal, loss of land, and marginalisation. She adds that the fear of extinction is “not borne out by subsequent population growth”, but that “the notion is attractive to a community that believe itself to be besieged” (Hughes, 2005, p. 14). The fear of loss of Maasai culture and identity has also been shared by Western authors writing about them. Jan Voshaar (1998) – a Dutch former Catholic missionary stationed in the Loita Hills who, after many years, left the Catholic Church and became a fierce defender of Maasai culture – lamented the “de-culturalisation” of the Loita Maasai under colonial rule and at the hand of missionaries. Earlier, in 1901, Sidney and Hildegarde Hinde (1901) titled their book The Last of the Maasai, a title which is now found on the famous coffee table photo album sold in virtually every Kenyan souvenir shop (Amin et al., 2004). Such views reflect, but also reinforce, the fear among Maasai that their culture and existence are under constant threat. Whether Maasai culture is endangered or not, the fear of cultural erosion is clearly present among those Maasai who value their cultural practices and want them to continue. FGC seems to be central to preserving Maasai culture because of its role in initiation rituals and the formation of age-sets.13 A participant said that the age-set system of the Maasai is key to the society’s survival: “If the age-sets go, that will be the end of the Maasai”. The Protestant Church, with its rhetoric around the impurity and backwardness of Maasai practices, is therefore not in good standing with those community

Contradictory Role of Protestant Church  171 members who value Maasai culture and fear its erosion. One participant – a 50-year-old father – when asked about what the Church thinks of FGC, said. “They try to force us to stop. They tell us we are stupid for doing it. But we will continue. Let them come to my house with that message and I will take my daughter to be cut right now!” Tensions between cultural conservationists and the Protestant Church usually rise around the time of cultural events. In August 2018, for example, an Ol-ngesher cultural event took place that would initiate the Ilkinyiaku14 age-set from junior elders to elders. One of my research assistants refused to join me to the emanyata,15 explaining that “this is not a good place for me” because “we, Protestants, believe that those rituals are impure”. A year later, when the warriors graduated from warriorhood to junior eldership through an Eunoto16 ceremony in August 2019, various Protestant Churches threatened churchgoers with a six month ban if they would attend the emanyata. Most of SAFE Maa staff attended the emanyata. One staff member, Protestant herself, was indeed banned from the Church for six months. In this regard, little has changed since the early twentieth century when missionaries tried to eradicate FGC through banning those who practised cutting from mission churches and schools (Thomas, 2003). SAFE Maa feared that the increasing interference of the Church with Maasai traditions would only further fuel Loitai fear of cultural erosion. For over a decade, SAFE Maa had patiently worked with the community to gain their trust and to develop a narrative on ending FGC that takes into account the value the community invests in the practice in the context of female initiation as well other fears related to giving up the cut. When Protestant Church leaders threatened to ban churchgoers who attended the cultural events from the Church for six months, SAFE Maa feared that the precarious new equilibrium around FGC in the community would become unstable. SAFE Maa has carefully tried to untangle the physical cut from other Maasai practices. Giving up the cut, they argued, would allow Loitai to avoid harassment by law enforcers while continuing the rest of their cultural practices (minus the cut) and, as such, preventing further cultural erosion. Protestant Church leaders, however, said that the whole initiation ceremony should be abandoned along with other “heathen” Maasai cultural practices. They actively preached against the alternative rite of passage because not just the physical cut but the whole ceremony was “impure”. SAFE Maa organised workshops and invited churchgoers to share their opinions and discuss the matter together, during which one man said, “culture has no meaning for those in church”. He also believed SAFE Maa’s alternative rite of passage had failed and stated, “People use the Loita Rite of Passage to disguise that they are secretly continuing to cut their girls”. This conviction was shared by others attending the gathering, among them a Protestant Pastor. According to him, the solution to “the problem of FGM” should lie in bringing more people to the Church who would then come to reject all Maasai cultural practices, including cutting. Winterbottom et al. (2009) have described how coercive attempts to end FGC can inspire resistance and reinforce the practice as a central marker of group membership among Maasai in northern Tanzania. As I described in the introduction

172  Hannelore Van Bavel to this chapter, I witnessed how the views of Naserian and Nashipai  rapidly shifted from considering giving up FGC to fiercely defending it when a church leader preached against “heathen Maasai traditions” at the Saturday market in Olmesutie. In a context where people fear the loss of their culture and the extinction of “the Maasai”, the Protestant Church’s harsh opposition to FGC and its portrayal of the practice and the people who practice it as “impure” and “backwards” risks reinforcing the perceived importance of FGC as identity marker. Supporting FGC, then, becomes part of a struggle to protect one’s culture, identity, and very survival from those attempting to “erode” Maasai culture.

Discussion This chapter has explored the contradictory relations between the Protestant Church and the abandonment of FGC among the Maasai inhabiting the Loita Hills of southern Kenya. My findings showed that, while many Protestant congregants subscribe to the Church’s message that FGC should end, only those with formal education have the opportunity to abandon the practice without being severely sanctioned for it. This group mainly comprises Loitai with formal education. Most notably, however, is that my findings suggest that the activities of the Protestant Church also affect non-Protestant Loitai, but in a way that is both unintended and runs counter to their aim of eradicating FGC. The Church’s construction of Maasai culture as “impure” and retrogressive and its insistence on abandonment of all “heathen” Maasai cultural practices instils feelings of defensiveness and resistance in those Loitai who hold Maasai culture dearly. In a context in which many people fear cultural erosion and the end of Maasai altogether, harsh opposition to FGC has the potential of reinforcing the practice as a marker of Maasai identity. Thus, while the Church and SAFE Maa share the goal of ending the cut in Loita, SAFE Maa fears that the Church opposition to all Maasai customs will undermine their message of giving up the physical cut in order to protect the other cultural elements of the ceremony. It is impossible to predict whether this fear will become reality. At the time of this study, the reach of the Protestant Church in the region was still relatively small. Though an increasing number of Loitai have been drawn to Christianity (SAFE Maa estimates 30% Loitai now self-identify as Christian), the group of dedicated congregants who were committed to spreading Protestant values and holding others accountable was rather small. This group consisted mainly of Loitai with secondary education who aspired to a “modern” identity and lifestyle which is positioned in contrast to the lifestyle of “backward”, “heathen” Maasai. The chapter also raises the question of what is considered as harm and which practices are harmful. The UN and wider international development sector define FGM as a harmful practice because it harms women’s physical integrity and violates their human rights, but a large group of Loitai experience the pressure to abandon FGC as potentially harmful to the survival of Maasai culture and identity. At the same time, SAFE Maa considers the Church’s aggressive “anti-culture”

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stance as harmful to the progress the NGO had made in encouraging the community to give up the cut while continuing surrounding cultural practices. Beyond what will happen in Loita, I believe the value of my findings lies in emphasising the importance of culturally sensitive approaches to negotiating FGC, the nature of change (which is inherently slow and prone to setbacks), and the undermining potential of harsh and judgemental approaches. Furthermore, my findings show that the association between religion and FGC cannot be understood without taking into account how they intersect with other variables, in this case, formal education and development practices, as well as historical marginalisation, which can result in suspicion of interference and fear of cultural erosion. Rather than making general claims about how religion affects FGC, the specificities of contexts in which religion and FGC come together need to be examined. As this chapter illustrates, ethnographic research is critically important when seeking to better understand the complex and potentially contradictory associations between religion and FGC practices. Instead of understanding culture as a tool of oppression, a culturally sensitive approach acknowledges that cultures are dynamic and can thus be a source for positive change. Such an approach starts from a deep understanding of the different values, fears, and aspirations that co-exist within a community and has the capacity to dynamically adapt to new and unexpected developments along the way. It does not merely pay lip service to “participation” and “community-led” change, but really takes the time to listen to and learn from the concerns, perspectives, and suggestions of different groups and individuals in the community. It encourages and supports local leadership and recognises that true community-wide change requires patience and time. Importantly, such an approach recognises that addressing sexism alone will not be enough: true empowerment requires an intersectional struggle against the patriarchal, colonial, socio-economic, and other powers that affect Maasai women’s lives.

References Ahmadu, F. (2017). ‘Equality, Not Special Protection: Multiculturalism, Feminism, and Female Circumcision in Western Liberal Democracies’. In J. L. Cassaniti & U. Menon (Eds.), Universalism Without Uniformity (pp. 214–236). The University of Chicago Press. Alo, O. A., & Gbadebo, B. (2011). ‘Intergenerational Attitude Changes Regarding Female Genital Cutting in Nigeria’. Journal of Women’s Health, 20(11), 1655–1661. Amin, M., Willetts, D., & Eames, J. (2004). The Last of the Maasai. Camerapix Publishers International. Anderson, D. M. (2018). ‘Women Missionaries and Colonial Silences in Kenya’s Female “Circumcision” Controversy, 1906–1930’. The English Historical Review, 133(565), 1512–1545. Asekun-Olarinmoye, E. O., & Amusan, O. A. (2008). ‘The Impact of Health Education on Attitudes Towards Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) in a Rural Nigerian Community’. The European Journal of Contraception & Reproductive Health Care, 13(3), 289–297. Boulanger, S. (2008). ‘A Puppet on a String: The Manipulation and Nationalization of the Female Body in the “Female Circumcision Crisis” of Colonial Kenya’. Wagadu, 6, 61–74.

174 Hannelore Van Bavel Chuo Kikuu cha Dar es Salaam (Ed.) (2014). TUKI, kamusi ya Kiswahili-Kiingereza =: Swahili-English Dictionary. Institute of Kiswahili Research, University of Dar es Salaam. DHS (2014). Kenya Demographic and Health Survey. USAID. Diop, N. J., & Askew, I. (2009). ‘The Effectiveness of a Community-Based Education Program on Abandoning Female Genital Mutilation/Cutting in Senegal’. Studies in Family Planning, 40(4), 307–318. Dubuisson, D. (2007). The Western Construction of Religion: Myths, Knowledge, and Ideology. Johns Hopkins University Press. Gruenbaum, E. (2001). The Female Circumcision Controversy: An Anthropological Perspective. University of Pennsylvania Press. Hinde, S. L., & Hinde, H. B. (1901). The Last of the Masai. William Heinemann. Hodgson, D. L. (2005). The Church of Women: Gendered Encounters Between Maasai and Missionaries. Indiana University Press. Hughes, L. (2005). ‘Malice in Maasailand: The Historical Roots of Current Political Struggles’. African Affairs, 104(415), 207–224. Hughes, L. (2018). ‘Alternative Rites of Passage: Faith, Rights, and Performance in FGM/C Abandonment Campaigns in Kenya’. African Studies, 77(2), 274–292. Johansen, R. E. B. (2013). What Works and What Does Not: A Discussion of Popular Approaches for the Abandonment of Female Genital Mutilation. Obstetrics and Gynecology International, 2013. Johnson, M. C. (2000). ‘Becoming a Muslim, Becoming a Person: Female “Circumcision,” Religious Identity, and Personhood in Guinea-Bissau’. In B. Shell-Duncan & Y. Hernlund, (Eds.), Female ‘Circumcision’ in Africa. Culture, Controversy, and Change (pp. 215–234). Lynne Rienner Publishers. Kenya (2011). Prohibition of Female Genital Mutilation Act No. 32 of 2011. National Council for Law Reporting. http://kenyalaw.org/kl/fileadmin/pdfdownloads/Acts/Prohibition ofFemaleGenitalMutilationAct_No32of2011.pdf. Mackie, G. (1996). ‘Ending Footbinding and Infibulation: A Convention Account’. American Sociological Review, 61(6), 999–1017. Matanda, D. et al. (2018). Tracing Change in Female Genital Mutilation/Cutting: Shifting Norms and Practices Among Communities in Narok and Kisii Counties, Kenya. New York: Population Council. Mol, F. (1978). Maa: A Dictionary of the Maasai Language and Folklore: English-Maasai. Marketing & Publishing. Muslim Women’s League (1999). Female Genital Mutilation. Muslim Women’s League. https://www.mwlusa.org/topics/violence&harrassment/fgm.html. Njambi, W. N. (2007). ‘Irua Ria Atumia and Anti-Colonial Struggles Among the Gı˜ku˜yu˜ of Kenya: A Counter Narrative on “Female Genital Mutilation”’. Critical Sociology, 33, 689–708. Nnaemeka, O. (Ed.) (2005). Female Circumcision and the Politics of Knowledge: African Women in Imperialist Discourses. Praeger. Orchid Project (2019). Female genital Cutting in Kenya: A Baseline Survey of Attitudes and Behaviours in Kuria, Narok and Loita Hills, Feb–March 2018. Orchid Project. Østebø, M., & Østebø, T. (2014). ‘Are Religious Leaders a Magic Bullet for Social/Societal Change?: A Critical Look at Anti-FGM Interventions in Ethiopia’. Africa Today, 60(3), 82–101. Pedersen, S. (1991). ‘National Bodies, Unspeakable Acts: The Sexual Politics of Colonial Policy-Making’. Journal of Modern History, 63(4), 647–680.

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Pink, S., & Morgan, J. (2013). ‘Short-Term Ethnography: Intense Routes to Knowing’. Symbolic Interaction, 36(3), 351–361. Saleema - Initiative to stop FGM/C in Sudan (n.d.). What is Saleema? Saleema. http:// saleema.net/what_is_saleema.php. Shell-Duncan, B., Wander, K., Hernlund, Y., & Moreau, A. (2013). ‘Legislating Change? Responses to Criminalizing Female Genital Cutting in Senegal’. Law & Society Review, 47(4), 803–835. Spencer, P. (1988) The Maasai of Matapato: A Study of Rituals of Rebellion. Routledge. Stop FGM Middle East (2014). Fatwas against FGM. Stop FGM Middle East. http://www. stopfgmmideast.org/fatwas-against-fgm/ Talle, A. (1988). Women at a Loss: Changes in Maasai Pastoralism and their Effects on Gender Relations (Doctoral Thesis, University of Stockholm). University of Stockholm Studies in Social Anthropology, 19. Talle, A. (2007). ‘Female Circumcision in Africa and Beyond. The Anthropology of a Difficult Issue’. In Y. Hernlund & B. Shell-Duncan (Eds.), Transcultural Bodies: Female Genital Cutting in Global Context (pp. 91–106). Rutgers University Press. Thomas, L. M. (2003). Politics of the Womb: Women, Reproduction, and the State in Kenya. University of California Press. UN General Assembly (2012). Intensifying Global Efforts for the Elimination of Female Genital Mutilations. UN General Assembly. UNICEF (2013). Female Genital Mutilation/Cutting. A Statistical Overview and Exploration of the Dynamics of Change. UNICEF. UNICEF (2016). Female Genital Mutilation/Cutting country profiles. UNICEF DATA. https://data.unicef.org/resources/female-genital-mutilation-cutting-country-profiles/. Van Bavel, H. (2020a). ‘At the Intersection of Place, Gender, and Ethnicity: Changes in Female Circumcision Among Kenyan Maasai’. Gender, Place & Culture, 27(8), 1071–1092. Van Bavel, H. (2020b). Tracing the Roots and Routes of FGM Discourses: A Nodal Ethnography of the Global Anti-FGM Domain. SOAS, University of London. Van Bavel, H., Coene, G., & Leye, E. (2017). ‘Changing Practices and Shifting Meanings of Female Genital Cutting Among the Maasai of Arusha and Manyara Regions of Tanzania’. Culture, Health & Sexuality, 19(12), 1344–1359. Voshaar, J. (1998). Maasai: Between the Oreteti-Tree and the Tree of the Cross. Kok. Waller, R. (1999). ‘They Do the Dictating & We Must Submit. The Africa Inland Mission in Maasailand’. In T. Spear & I. N. Kimambo (Eds.), East African Expressions of Christianity (pp. 83–126). James Currey. WHO (2018). Female Genital Mutilation Fact Sheet. World Health Organization. http:// www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/female-genital-mutilation. Winterbottom, A., Koomen, J., & Burford, G. (2009). ‘Female Genital Cutting: Cultural Rights and Rites of Defiance in Northern Tanzania’. African Studies Review, 52(1), 47–71.

Notes 1 Swahili for ‘bed sheet, loin cloth’ (Chuo Kikuu cha Dar es Salaam, 2014, p. 437). Often used to refer to the striped and chequered fabrics used by Maasai to wrap around their bodies. Shuka are often red with blue, but also exist in purple, orange, and green. 2 Different terms are used to refer to female genital surgeries. Some anti-cutting activists believe that female circumcision wrongly implies similarities with male circumcision

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and use female genital mutilation which, according to them, more accurately describes the severity of the practice. Others have responded that mutilation is too judgmental and can offend practicing communities and have therefore opted for the term female genital cutting, which is thought to be more neutral. I use the latter, except when discussing UN definitions, anti-FGM legislation, and the work of anti-cutting actors who use female genital mutilation or FGM in their communications. Loitai is the colloquial version of il-oitai, a member of the Loita Maasai. Fieldnotes of participant observation among Kenyan anti-FGM activists in Nairobi and Narok and Samburu counties. Fieldnotes of participant observation among Kenyan anti-FGM activists in Nairobi and Narok and Samburu counties. Ol-ngesher is the ceremonial graduation of junior elders. It takes places in an e-manyata or temporary settlement (Mol, 1978, pp. 246–248). Il-murran (singular: Ormurrani) are young, unmarried men who form the warriors of the Maasai. Kiswahili adjective, meaning ‘traditional.’ Maa noun, meaning ‘tradition.’ Kiswahili adjective, meaning ‘modern.’ Those reading the Bible in Maa might, however, not agree that female circumcision is not mentioned. Richard Waller (1999) writes that, in the Maa translation of the Bible, the Virgin Mary is referred to as esiangiki, which implies that she has been circumcised. However, I did not hear this argument in Loita. Aud Talle (2007, p. 357) describes a ‘meat camp’ (olpul, sg.) as a period during which warriors withdraw in the bush to ‘invigorate themselves on slaughtered meat in large quantities.’ They remain in their temporary camp until the entire animal is devoured. Age-sets (olaji, pl. ilajikin) refer to groups of male peers who underwent circumcision during the same period. Each age-set has its own distinct name. Age-sets transition together from warriors to junior elders and, later, elders. Women do not have age-sets; they follow a more individual trajectory in which circumcision, marriage, becoming a mother, and having one’s children circumcised are important milestones. Ilkinyiaku is the name of this specific age-set, which is the age-set just above the current warriors’ age-set. The name is specific to the Loitai; Kisongo Maasai, for example, call this age-set Korianga. The age-sets alive at the moment, from oldest to youngest: Inyankusi – Iseuri – Irkiseyia (Irantai right, irkitoip left) – Irkishili right, irbuluka left – Irompoi (Ilkinyaku left, Oolmeshuki right) – Ilmelita. The Ilmelita are the current warriors; the right-hand side had its Eunoto (transition from warriors to junior elders) ceremony in August 2019; the left-hand side is not yet being initiated. Temporary settlement or encampment, usually for ceremonies. Ritual that marks the transition from ilmurran (warriors) to junior elders.

10 So Is It All Just About Sex? Religion and Recognising Harmful Practices in the Need to Control Female Sexuality Elisabet Le Roux Introduction The term “harmful traditional practices” first emerged in the 1950s and referred to practices that are harmful, but undergirded by values and beliefs held by a community, often for generations (United Nations, 1995). The twenty-first century saw the term replaced with “harmful cultural practices” (HCP), but it nevertheless continues to be used almost exclusively in relation to harmful practices happening within non-Western1 contexts and communities (Bartelink  & Le Roux, 2017; Longman & Bradley, 2015). In this regard, it exemplifies the tendency to position Western states as devoid of norms, beliefs and practices that discriminate against and are violent towards women and girls: The contrast being drawn here between the “modern” and the “traditional” implies that violence against women would or should disappear once nation states were to introduce “modern” arrangements in relation to women. But this is hardly likely to be the case, given that violence against women is still endemic in the “modern” nation states of the West. (Winter et al., 2002, p. 77) As a South African scholar doing research primarily within non-Western settings and for and with the international development sector on the issue of violence against women and/or girls and religion, I draw in this chapter on empirical qualitative research conducted in 2018, combined with literature review specifically for the purpose of this chapter, with the aim of countering this tendency to frame harmful practices as non-Western phenomena. I identify the religious need to control female sexuality as a key driver in a number of harmful practices  – including in Western settings. When engaging with “religion”, this chapter intentionally approaches it as a general concept, and in doing so highlights how anxiety about women’s sexuality, and various practices of controlling this sexuality, is present in different religious settings in different countries. The aim is not to vilify all forms of religion. Rather, the aim is to identify the relative universality of this anxiety about

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246046-10

178  Elisabet Le Roux women’s sexuality, irrespective of religion or country, thus allowing the harmful practices that are present in Western settings to be recognised. By drawing on the parallels between child marriage in (Christian, Muslim, and Hindu) non-Western settings and the (Christian) abstinence movement in the United States, the chapter unpacks how fear of female sexuality and the need to control it underlies both practices. Both of these practices continue despite extensive evidence of the harm they do to girls and women, and both are often state-sanctioned. Child marriage and the abstinence movement are two harmful practices that illustrate the complex entanglement of religion and culture, as well as how they are often linked to state politics. Drawing attention to the nature and presence of harmful practices in Western settings is a much-needed step towards challenging the unhealthy power dynamics  between Western and non-Western funders and practitioners, for assisting in the identification of practices that are harmful to women and girls, but also for the development of more appropriate, effective intervention strategies. Aiming to contribute to all three of these aims, this chapter draws on empirical qualitative research on child marriage that included various (non-Western) countries, as well as a review of the existing literature on the abstinence movement in the United States. I argue that recognising religious fears of female sexuality, accompanied by the need to control female sexuality, allows us to develop a more nuanced lens for studying and addressing harmful practices.

Refocusing on Gendered Harms The original term “harmful traditional practices”, as well as the one currently more commonly used – “harmful cultural practices” – are problematic. First, these supposedly general terms are used to focus almost exclusively on only two harmful practices, namely female genital mutilation/cutting (FGM/C) and child marriage. This focus reflects the bias in international development and academia towards recognising and engaging with non-Western harmful practices. Second, these terms hide the gendered nature of the violence and practices most often recognised as harmful, such as FGM/C, child marriage, honour-related violence, and widow cleansing: “Instead of emphasising the problems of male privilege and women’s oppression within patriarchy, and how this is violently impacting women and girls, ‘tradition’ or ‘culture’ is used as a scapegoat” (Le Roux & Bartelink, 2020, p. 210). That these practices happen because of a range of intersecting factors, including religion, patriarchy, socio-economic circumstances, and politics, is ignored and the problem is relegated to the private sphere. This allows the systemic and structural nature of patriarchy, and the role of the state in sustaining and legitimising patriarchy, to be ignored as well (Wilson, 2018). This chapter aims to overcome these issues in three ways. First, simply through the terminology being used. The term “harmful practices” will be used throughout, to emphasise that these practices are not caused only by tradition or culture. Second, by having the chapter focus on a particular issue – namely the fear of female sexuality and the need to control it – it strives to put front and centre

So Is It All Just About Sex?  179 the gendered nature of harmful practices, and at the same time, it illustrates how  these  practices are present in both Western and non-Western settings. Third, while it unpacks the role of religion in engendering this fear of female sexuality and the need to control it, it also discusses how state and politics are also complicit. This is done in order to emphasise the need to avoid simplistic religion-blaming responses and to instead roll out multi-sector responses. The observation that women are being forced to repress their sexuality is not a novel idea. Second-wave feminists viewed a woman’s ability to control her own body as a fundamental right (Silver, 2002, p. 69), and a crucial element of much of the radical feminist movement during second-wave feminism was the conviction that the repression of female desire was central to women’s oppression (Echols, 1989, p. 174). These radical feminists believed that women’s liberation would inevitably end women’s sexual repression. With the development of feminist thought since then, the notion that the control of female sexuality is a key buttress and indicator of patriarchal control has become less popular, or at least less discussed. However, it remains a very useful notion for the identification and exploration of harmful practices and the harms caused by these practices. This is illustrated below in the discussion of the two harmful practices that are the focus of this chapter, namely child marriage and the abstinence movement.

Child Marriage in Non-Western Communities As defined in Article 1 of the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child, a child is a person – boy or girl – under the age of 18 years (Centre for Human Rights, 2018, p. 15). Child marriage is therefore where one (or both) of the parties involved in the union is (or was) a child when the marriage occurs. While both boys and girls can be involved in a child marriage, the overwhelming majority of child marriages involve a girl child marrying an (often much older) adult man (Centre for Human Rights, 2018, p. 25). The adverse consequences of child marriage include poorer health outcomes, lower levels of education, higher risk of experiencing violence and abuse, and persistent poverty. With the expectation that girls must fall pregnant immediately or soon after getting married, girls who marry young are also at a very high risk of negative sexual and reproductive health outcomes – including death (Svanemyr et al., 2013, p. 9). In 2018, a colleague and I conducted a study on the role of resistant religious leaders in efforts to end child marriage (Le Roux & Palm, 2018). My research drew on an extensive literature review, as well as interviews with 15 expert practitioners who have conducted interventions and/or research on child marriage with Christian, Muslim, and Hindu religious leaders from different communities and denominations (ranging between progressive and more traditional) and in various world regions. Amongst other things, the report identified seven key roots of religious resistance to ending child marriage. One of these roots was the fear of premarital sex and pregnancy, which will be discussed in more detail in this section.

180  Elisabet Le Roux Within all three religions engaged with, I found that where religious leaders resisted efforts to end child marriage, this resistance was shaped (at least in part) by a religiously fuelled fear and condemnation of premarital sex, contraception, and pregnancy outside of marriage. Such resistant religious leaders understood their religious codes, morality, and sacred texts as prioritising female virginity and purity and decreeing strict rules for female reproduction. Within such an understanding, premarital sex and pregnancy is shameful and stigmatised, which, in turn, promotes recourse to child marriage, as it is seen as a solution to these sinful acts (Le Roux & Palm, 2018, p. 8). When religious beliefs condemn premarital sex and pregnancy, there are religious leaders that endorse or allow child marriage as the “solution” to the situation, especially in the case of girls. If sin is sexualised and female purity glorified, child marriage becomes a way to prevent sin (Taylor et al., 2015). In different religions and communities, different religious motivations are offered: it can be to ensure the salvation of the girl, or to save her dignity or the dignity of her family. An interviewee from Malaysia explained it as follows: Within the Muslim society we have very, very low tolerance of what do you call it, sex before marriage. You know the approach is that, if you know of two people that are engaged in sexual relations you know this has got to be rectified by marrying them off in a way, I think the understanding is that you know to minimise whatever sins have already been done. (Rozana, Malaysia, 20 April 2018 cited in Le Roux & Palm 2018, p. 8) Religious beliefs, codes, and norms that prioritise virginity and purity while vilifying premarital sex and pregnancy are, in many religious communities, normalised to the extent that it is seen as unchallengeable. It is also often very difficult for those who want to address child marriage to even engage on the topic. Many religious leaders avoid discussing sex and sexuality, seeing it as inappropriate for religious spaces (Steinhaus et al., 2016); research has shown that in many religious spaces and religious communities, sexuality tends to be viewed as a contentious topic that is often inadequately addressed (Yip et al., 2011, p. 12). There is therefore no room, and sometimes not even terminology, to discuss child marriage and its harmful consequences. Furthermore, religious leaders’ reactions to premarital sex and pregnancy can put an inordinate amount of pressure on families to decide in favour of child marriage. Parents may personally not want their child to get married, but when a religious leader explains that their or their child’s salvation is at risk, parents tend to agree to it: Actually, I didn’t want to marry my girl [off], but I felt fear about my religious leader’s reaction and my community’s religious reaction and then I understand it [is] better for my girl to take this marriage. (Viviana, Brazil, 3 May 2018, cited in Le Roux & Palm, 2018, p. 8)

So Is It All Just About Sex?  181 While some religious leaders, as well as parents, do recognise the negative consequences of child marriage, these consequences are justified and seen as worthwhile because it counters the greater evil of premarital sex and pregnancy (Le Roux & Palm, 2018, p. 8). While many understand, for example, how important girl child education is and that child marriage impedes it, their religious worldview and priorities lead to the belief that nothing is worse than the shame, stigma, and eternal damnation that will result from sexual activity or pregnancy outside of marriage. Therefore, irrespective of the costs, the virginity and purity of the girl child (or at least appearances of it) must be preserved. This emphasis on sexual purity and control of female sexuality is not limited to religious communities and private family spaces. Religious control of female sexuality is often enshrined in national legislature and/or special provisions condoned by the government. In Bangladesh, for example, the 1929 Child Marriage (Restraint) Act determines that girls must be at least 18 years of age before they can get married. But while the law makes the solemnising of child marriages illegal (and those performing such marriages are recognised as acting illegally), it does not outlaw child marriage. In fact, such marriages remain legal. Scholars explain this curious evasion as a result of the supremacy of Muslim Sharia law in family law matters in Bangladesh. In creating the Child Marriage Act, lawmakers did not want to contradict Muslim Personal Law, which allows for child marriage. As Bangladesh law recognises that in all matters relating to marriage Muslim Personal Law (Shariat) is dominant, the Child Marriage Act was written so as to not oppose it (Huda, 2017, p. 66). Bangladesh has one of the highest rates of child marriage in the world, but despite considerable national and international pressure, it has not revised the law in any significant way. With the 2017 revision of the Child Marriage Act, the law still allows for girls younger than 18 years to get married (Huda, 2017, p. 67), a move that has been seen as a result of Islamic figures and organisations lobbying for the continued legality of child marriage (Huda, 2018). This section’s reflection on the role of religious control of female sexuality in child marriage is not meant to suggest that religion is the only reason for child marriage. Child marriage must be understood within its context, reflecting on the social determinants at the local level. These are diverse and may include education, class or economic status, urbanisation, and reactions to coloniality (Gemignano & Wodon, 2015). This section’s focus on child marriage in relation to religion was intended to explore this particular aspect of religion – namely the need to control female sexuality – and how it plays a role in a practice that is harmful to women. This control of female sexuality is present not only in child marriage, but in a number of harmful practices. For example, FGM/C is explained and justified in many communities as a way of controlling a woman’s sexuality and ensuring her chastity and fidelity (Van Rossem & Gage, 2009); while through widow cleansing and inheritance, a widow’s family controls her sexual behaviour in service of the family’s goals (Perry et al., 2014).

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The Abstinence Movement in the United States Child marriage, FGM/C, and widow cleansing and inheritance are harmful practices almost exclusively associated with non-Western settings. The fact remains that, at the global level, harmful practices are predominantly discussed as problems of non-Western countries and communities (Longman & Bradley, 2015; Winter et al., 2002) and, as such, there remains a persistent blindness to harmful practices within Western settings. This does not mean, however, that such practices do not exist. I argue here that focusing on attempts to control female sexuality is potentially an effective way to identifying harmful practices within Western settings, countering the dominant narrative that they are a problem of only non-Western settings. I take the abstinence movement in the United States as an example to explore and illustrate this. This selection is intentional: the parallels between child marriage and the abstinence movement make for interesting comparisons and they serve to highlight the usefulness of focusing on control of female sexuality as a way to identify harmful practices. Moreover, with religious voices having become increasingly dominant within the American political space, and with increasing legal challenges to women’s sexual and reproductive health and rights in the United States, engaging with the abstinence movement in this country is particularly salient to this chapter’s exploration of harmful practices and control of female sexuality. In my exploration of the abstinence movement in the United States, I rely exclusively on literature review. The abstinence movement in the United States has its roots in the Christian Right, a social movement of mostly socially conservative and politically active white, Evangelical Christian organisations and individuals, although some define the group as not only consisting of Evangelicals, but any theologically orthodox Christians (Calterone Williams, 2011; Shields, 2007). Sex education has been a part of the Christian Right’s political agenda for a number of decades, and abstinence advocacy is their response to American society being, in their view, obsessed and saturated with sex (Calterone Williams, 2011). Several organisations were founded with the express purpose of promoting abstinence. Arguably its most attention-grabbing embodiments are virginity pledge movements such as True Love Waits, a Southern Baptist initiative with the express aim of promoting sexual purity until marriage (Calterone Williams, 2011). Virginity pledges involve different ways of pledging commitment. For example, True Love Waits asks for a written promise, while The Silver Ring Thing encourages adolescents to wear a silver ring. Both the written promise and the ring is seen as a sign of the adolescents’ commitment to abstaining from sex until they enter a heterosexual marriage. Some forms of virginity pledges also include fathers. With father-daughter purity balls, both daughter and father pledge that the daughter will remain abstinent until marriage. What the different variants within the virginity pledge movement have in common is an overarching message about the importance of abstinence until heterosexual marriage, and that not doing so is sinful and will have an everlasting negative impact on the adolescent’s life.

So Is It All Just About Sex?  183 At the surface level, the abstinence movement is about protecting the morality and sexual purity of both boys and girls. However, looking more closely at the teachings, practices, and literature, the overwhelming emphasis is on the importance of the girl child’s sexual purity. Packaged within the apparent gender-neutrality is highly gendered content that promotes limiting gender roles; for example, girls must be meek and modest, while boys must be strong. The attainability of abstinence is also different for girls and boys (Ehrlich, 2006, p. 177). For example, as it is assumed that girls have considerably less natural sexual desire than boys, and boys have little control over their sexual desires, girls carry the responsibility of  controlling boys’ sexual behaviour to ensure both girls and boys remain abstinent: These stereotypes are presented as irrefutable gender truths and students are not encouraged to question their validity or the assumptions upon which they are based. Thus, despite the single sexual standard that these curricula endorse, the underlying message is that, given their more sensual nature, it is far more difficult for boys, than it is for girls, to lead a pure life. This brings us back to where we started well over a century ago – that women are responsible for controlling male sexual behaviour. (Ehrlich, 2006, p. 177) Seeing that girls are assigned the power and responsibility for controlling their and others’ sexuality, it is somewhat paradoxical that the abstinence movement at the same time constructs the girl child’s body and sexuality as not being hers. Through the way it constructs and positions girls in relation to men, girls will never attain control over their bodies and sexuality. With men strong and assertive, and women feminine and passive, the movement positions the girl’s body and sexuality as first belonging to her father, then to her husband: until she is married, the role of a father is to monitor and control his daughter’s life – sexual, romantic, and spiritual. This role is normalised within the modern-day practice of courting, where girls do not date but are courted through their fathers. Once a girl gets married, her husband assumes control of her sexual, romantic, and spiritual life (Gish, 2016, p. 8). That girls are not allowed control of their bodies or sexuality is especially apparent in father–daughter purity balls. During these balls, fathers are positioned as autonomous, powerful moral actors that have rightful authority over both their wives and their children (Gish, 2016, p. 7). In the pledges read at these balls, fathers assert their authority and power of their daughters as keepers of their virginity. See, for example, this pledge from Generations of Light Ministry: I choose before God to cover my daughter as her authority and protection in the area of purity. I will be pure in my own life as a man, husband and father. I will be a man of integrity and accountability as I lead, guide and pray over

184  Elisabet Le Roux my daughter and my family as the high priest in my home. This covering will be used by God to influence generations to come. (Generations of Light, n.d.) Several authors have highlighted how the abstinence movement is not only about ensuring sexual purity, but about enforcing the patriarchal system. By promoting highly gendered notions of what men and women should be, and who controls a girl and woman’s sexuality, the authority of men as encapsulated in patriarchy is ensured. Gish (2016) argues that this is at least partly why father–daughter purity balls are popular amongst the Christian Right. The abstinence movement’s ideology affirms and ensures men’s authority and value at a time when – in light of feminist rhetoric and action, as well as economic and political insecurity – many men feel increasingly threatened and insecure (Gish, 2016, p. 9). It is important to note that the abstinence movement is not only the domain of a religiously conservative fringe group. The Christian Right plays a central role in the Republican Party (Hedges, 2006; Williams, 2010) and has considerable influence within the United States more broadly, to the extent that it has been able to ensure federal government funding for abstinence-only programming. A number of laws have ensured that schools can only qualify for government-funded sex education if they only teach abstinence. While federal funding for abstinence programming had been around for decades, from 2001 to 2007, this funding increased dramatically. Though funding decreased under the (Democratic) Obama administration, which funded more comprehensive sex education programming, the (Republican) Trump administration increased funding for abstinence-only programming (Heels, 2019, p. 4). The US federal government has supported abstinence-only sex education for several decades,2 including through several laws, such as the Adolescent Family Life Act, the Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act, and the Social Security Act (Heels, 2019, p. 4). With abstinence-only funding, the only programmes that receive funding must have as their “exclusive purpose” the teaching of the “social, psychological, and health gains to be realized by abstaining from sexual activity” (Ehrlich, 2006, p. 174). Over time, the regulations on how abstinence must be taught became more stringent in order to ensure that schools teach only abstinence. For example, states had to provide “assurances” that their curricula and materials do not promote contraception or condom use (Calterone Williams, 2011). This adherence to abstinence-only programming in schools violates basic human rights and raises serious ethical concerns. Access to complete and accurate information on sexually transmitted infections (STIs), HIV&AIDS, and sexual and reproductive health information is a recognised basic human right. It is also a critically important part of attaining the highest standards of health – another human right. Where programming is not providing this, it is refusing youth the information they need to make informed decisions around sex and sexuality (Santelli et al., 2006, 2017). Aside from the ethical and human rights concerns relating abstinence-only sex  education, it is also important to question whether it works. While the

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Some leading proponents of the abstinence movement acknowledge that it is not effective in ensuring abstinence or delaying sexual activity. Nevertheless, they see no harm in continuing to promote the practice, seeing it as a religious duty and priority. For example, Pamela Stenzel, one of the leading figures in the purity movement, publicly declared that the abstinence movement does not have to work: Does it work? You know what? Doesn’t matter. Cause guess what? My job is not to keep teenagers from having sex. The public schools’ job is not to keep teens from having sex!... Our job should be to tell kids the truth! People of God can I beg you to commit yourself to truth, not what works! To truth! I don’t care if it works, because at the end of the day, I’m not answering to you, I’m answering to God. (Gish, 2016, p. 2)

Conclusion With several purposes in mind, this chapter discussed two case studies relating to the control of female sexuality: child marriage in the non-Western context and the abstinence movement in the United States. First, I sought to illustrate how the need to control female sexuality undergirds certain practices and how recognising this intention can be a way to also identify practices that are harmful. Second, I intended to show that this type of control happens in both non-Western

186  Elisabet Le Roux and Western settings. And third, I highlighted the role of that religion in motivating and facilitating this fear of female sexuality and the need to control it, as well as the different harmful practices that result from this fear. Regarding this final point, I also noted how, both in the non-Western and Western settings, religion is often intimately intertwined with state and politics. As such, isolating religion and treating it as the sole driver of the need to control female sexuality, and thus of these harmful practices, would be disingenuous. The state often has a vested interest in sustaining and legitimising patriarchy and will support practices that do so. The parallels between the two case studies help us to recognise the abstinence movement as a harmful practice. In both child marriage and the abstinence movement, we see how a religiously fuelled fear of female sexuality and the need to control it is a driver of these practices. In both cases, this is especially focused on the girl child, with her sexuality being managed and controlled by first her father, then her husband. With both child marriage and the abstinence movement, this need to control her sexuality puts her at increased risk of sex-related harms, and although this may be understood by parents, the risk is nevertheless seen as worthwhile. With both child marriage and the abstinence movement, we can also see how intertwined the religious agenda and state agenda can be, even if the state is supposedly positioned as secular. The latter point deserves further reflection. The examples from the United States and Bangladesh, both of whom are constitutionally secular states, illustrated how state policy, funding, and practice can support what is supposedly only a religious belief and practice. This again serves to highlight how the religious and the secular are “interdependent and necessarily linked in their mutual transformation and historical emergence” (Mahmood, 2009, p. 836). While the religious drivers and motivations for harmful practices are often identified, vilified, and responded to, the secular drivers and motivations are often hidden or less recognised. This brings us to the purpose of this chapter, which was to argue against the tendency to identify and equate harmful practices as something that only happens in non-Western spaces, by exploring religious resistance to ending child marriage in non-Western settings, as well as the abstinence movement in the United States. In summary, three overarching conclusions that are relevant to future intervention programming can be drawn from this chapter. First, acknowledging that the fear of and need to control female sexuality is a key manifestation of patriarchy helps us to recognise that harmful practices are not only non-Western phenomena: the West has harmful practices too. Identifying attempts to control female sexuality can be a useful starting point for recognising these practices and the ways in which they do harm. Focusing only on specific practices (e.g. child marriage or FGM/C) allows the West to “other” harmful practices as something perpetrated by the non-West. For a considerable time, there have been calls for this imperialist, colonialist approach to harmful practices to end (Bradley & Longman, 2015; Jeffreys, 2015; Longman & Bradley, 2015; Le Roux & Bartelink, 2020; Winter et al., 2002). Focusing on

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the fear of and need to control female sexuality can provide a practical avenue for guiding reflection that allows Western harmful practices to be recognised as such. Second, recognising the fear of and need to control female sexuality as a key manifestation of patriarchy shows us that we cannot continue to avoid talking about sex and sexuality. With so many interventions targeting a number of different harmful practices, we tip-toe around sex and sexuality, careful of the sensitivities of talking about these taboo topics. This is especially the case in work with religious communities. Recognising that sex and sexuality lies at the heart of why these practices exist highlights that any attempt to end these practices will require engaging with sex and sexuality. Some organisations are doing this. For example, the Global Peace Foundation in Nigeria intentionally engages with religious leaders on sex and sexuality and works to increase religious leaders’ capacity and ability to talk about these issues with families and congregants. This often includes the simple step of giving religious leaders accurate sexual and reproductive health information and the correct biological terms, instead of vague euphemisms and warnings (Le Roux & Palm, 2018). Third, in both Western and non-Western settings, the “religious” and the “secular” are often intertwined in driving and facilitating harmful practices. It is easy to blame religion and demand transformation of religious beliefs and practice, and such transformation is, of course, often a crucial component of addressing a harmful practice. However, in ignoring the state and political support (direct or indirect) for a harmful practice, we fail to recognise these supposedly neutral entities’ vested interest in upholding patriarchal beliefs and practices that control women and girls. Responding to harmful practices will rarely be as simple as only transforming religious beliefs and codes.

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for the Guide to Community Preventive Services’. American Journal of Preventive Medicine, 42(3), 272–294. Echols, A. (1989). ‘Daring to be Bad’: Radical Feminism in America, 1967–1975. University of Minnesota Press. Ehrlich, J. S. (2006). ‘From Age of Consent Laws to the ‘Silver Ring Thing’: The Regulation  of Adolescent Female Sexuality’. Health Matrix: The Journal of LawMedicine, 16(1), 151–181. Gemignani, R., & Wodon, Q. (2015). ‘Female Genital Mutilation and the Law: A Qualitative Case Study’. In M. White (Ed.), Law and Social Economics: Essays for Theory, Practice, and Policy (pp. 99–122). Palgrave MacMillan. Generations of Light (n.d.). The Pledge. Generations of Light. http://www.generations oflight.com/the-pledge.html. Gish, E. (2016). ‘Producing High Priests and Princesses: The Father-Daughter Relationship in the Christian Sexual Purity Movement’. Religions, 7(33), 1–22. Hedges, C. (2006). American Fascists: The Christian Right and the War on America. Free Press. Heels, S. W. (2019). ‘The Impact of Abstinence-Only Sex Education Programs in the United States on Adolescent Sexual Outcomes’. Perspectives, 11(1), 1–18. Huda, T. (2017). ‘Child marriages in Islam and Bangladesh: Harmonising God’s Law with State Law in the Quest for Reform’. SOAS Law Journal, 4(1), 59–72. Huda, T. (2018, January 29). Banning child marriages in the light of religion. The Daily  Star. https://www.thedailystar.net/opinion/society/banning-child-marriage-lightreligion-1526377. Jeffreys, S. (2015). Beauty and Misogyny: Harmful Cultural Practices in the West (2nd Ed.). Routledge. Kirby, D. (2007). Emerging Answers 2007: Research Findings on Programs to Reduce Teen Pregnancy and Sexually Transmitted Diseases. National Campaign to Prevent Teen and Unplanned Pregnancy. Kirby, D. (2008). ‘The Impact of Abstinence and Comprehensive Sex and STD/HIV Education Programs on Adolescent Sexual Behaviour’. Sexuality Research & Social Policy, 5(3), 18–27. Le Roux, E., & Bartelink, B. E. (2020). ‘What’s in a Name? Identifying the Harm in ‘Harmful Traditional Practices’’. In O. Wilkinson, & K. Kraft (Eds.), International Development Actors and Local Faith Communities: Ideological and Cultural Encounters (pp. 207–220). Routledge Le Roux, E., & Palm, S. (2018). What Lies Beneath? Tackling the Roots of Religious Resistance to Ending Child Marriage. Girls Not Brides. Longman, C., & Bradley, T. (2015). Interrogating Harmful Cultural Practices: Gender, Culture and Coercion. Ashgate. Mahmood, S. (2009). ‘Religious Reason and Secular Affect: An Incommensurable Divide’? Critical Inquiry, 35(4), 836–862. Paik, A., Sanchagrin, K. J., & Heimer, K. (2016). ‘Broken Promises: Abstinence Pledging and Sexual and Reproductive Health’. Journal of Marriage and Family, 78(2), 546–561. Perry, B., Oluoch, L., Agot, K., Taylor, J., Onyango, J., Ouma, L., Otieno, C., Wong, C., & Corneli, A. (2014). ‘Widow Cleansing and Inheritance Among the Luo in Kenya: The Need for Additional Women-Centred HIV Prevention Options’. Journal of the International AIDS Society, 17(1), 19010. Rosenbaum, J. E. (2009). ‘Patient Teenagers? A Comparison of the Sexual Behavior of Virginity Pledgers and Matched Nonpledgers’. Pediatrics, 123(1), e110–e120.

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Santelli, J., Ott, M. A., Lyon, M., Rogers, J., Summers, D., & Schleifer, R. (2006). ‘Abstinence and Abstinence-Only Education: A Review of U.S. Policies and Programs’. Journal of Adolescent Health, 38(1), 72–81. Santelli, J. S., Kantor, L. M., Grilo, S. A., Speizer, I. S., Lindberg, L. D., Heitel, J., Schalet, A. T., Lyon, M. E., Mason-Jones, A. J., McGovern, T., & Heck, C. J. (2017). ‘Abstinen ce-Only-Until-Marriage: An Updated Review of US Policies and Programs and Their Impact’. Journal of Adolescent Health, 61(3), 273–280. Shields, J. A. (2007). ‘Between Passion and Deliberation: The Christian Right and Democratic Ideals’. Political Science Quarterly, 122(1), 89–113. Silver, A. K. (2002). ‘The Cyborg Mistique: ‘The Stepford Wives’ and Second Wave Feminism’. Women’s Studies Quarterly, 30(1/2), 60–76. Steinhaus, M., Gregowski, A., Stevanovic Fenn, N., & Petroni. S. (2016). “She Cannot Just Sit Around Waiting to Turn Twenty”: Understanding Why Child Marriage Persists in Kenya and Zambia. International Center for Research on Women. Svanemyr, J., Scolaro, E., Blondeel, K., Chandra-Mouli, V., & Temmerman, M. (2013). The Contribution of Laws to Change the Practice of Child Marriage in Africa. InterParliamentarian Union. https://www.girlsnotbrides.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/ IPU-WHO-Child-marriage_study-October-2013.pdf. Taylor, A. Y., Lauro, G., Segundo, M., & Greene, M. W. (2015). ‘She Goes With Me in My Boat’: Child and Adolescent Marriage in Brazil. Results from Mixed-Methods Research. Instituto Promundo & Promundo-US. Trenholm, C., Devaney, B., Fortson, K., Quay, L., Wheeler, J., & Clark, M. (2007). Impacts of Four Title V, Section 510 Abstinence Education Programs: Final Report. Mathematica Policy Research, Inc. Underhill, K., Operario, D., & Montgomery, P. (2007). ‘Abstinence-Only Programs for HIV Infection Prevention in High-Income Countries’. Cochrane Database of Systematic Reviews, 4, CD005421. United Nations (1995). Harmful Traditional Practices Affecting the Health of Women and Children (Fact Sheet No. 23). OHCHR. Van Rossem, R., & Gage, A. J. (2009). ‘The Effects of Female Genital Mutilation on the Onset of Sexual Activity and Marriage in Guinea’. Archives of Sexual Behavior, 38(2), 178–185. Williams, D.K. (2010). God’s Own Party: The Making of the Christian Right. Oxford University Press. Wilson, S. (2018, May 28). The State, Culture and Oppression. ShamillahWilson. https:// shamillahwilson.com/2018/05/28/the-state-culture-and-oppression/. Winter, B., Thompson, D., & Jeffreys, S. (2002). ‘The UN Approach to Harmful Traditional Practices’. International Feminist Journal of Politics, 4(1), 72–94. Yip, A. K. T., Keenan, M., & Page, S. (2011). Religion, Youth and Sexuality: Selected Key Findings from a Multi-faith Exploration. University of Nottingham.

Notes 1 In this chapter, the terms ‘Western’ and ‘non-Western’ are used, rather than ‘Global North’ and ‘Global South’. This is to recognise that Western nations and cultures are also present within the Global South, and non-Western nations and cultures within the Global North. 2 For an overview of the history of abstinence-only sex education funding in the United States, see Santelli et al. (2017).

11 ‘Faith-full’ Reflections from a Civically Minded, Radically Inclusive, Other Azza Karam

We don’t do religion: we do gender, governance, peace and security, human rights. But not religion. – UNDP, June 2004 Working on religion is the antithesis to women’s rights and an atrocious form of cultural relativism… Honestly, this work on religion is an absolute waste of time and valuable resources. – UNFPA, July 2007 The above quotations were some of the first things I heard, spoken directly to me, from international development practitioners inside two UN system ‘operational agencies’. Operational means that these are UN entities with national country presence, working with governments and civil society (the former more than the latter), on development, human rights, and peace and security – the three pillars of the UN. As a scholar of religion and international development, and as someone who comes from the larger part of the world that experiences religion as part of its social, cultural, and political backbone, both assertions were shocking. My first reaction was to ask: ‘wait, what? How can you do governance, development, and peace and security, human rights, and women’s rights, but not “do” religion?’ What about the fact that religion undergirds so much of what we even understand as gender norms, gender-based violence, gender identity, and gender discrimination? What gender do we ‘do’ if we completely ignore religion? The answer is to be found in the second quotation, articulated by an Australian  feminist development practitioner, who went on to co-ordinate UNFPA efforts to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the International Conference on Population and Development (ICPD). The ICPD emerged with a Programme of Action (PoA) in 1994 and was signed onto by just over 70 countries, which I believe was the original framework of the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) that came into being 21 years later in 2015, with 193 governments as signatories. The ICPD PoA is credited, rightly, with reversing the entire global

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246046-11

‘Faith-full’ Reflections  191 discourse (in terms of both words and actions) and policies on population, which went from counting populations, to making populations count. And in making populations count, the international development discourse had to position women’s rights front and centre as human rights. Following from this particular discourse revolution in 1994, the Beijing PoA of 1995 was a testament to a w ­ orldwide policy-level commitment to ensuring that women’s rights and gender equality were not only ‘nice to do’, but rather were necessary and that governments had to take action. Interestingly, however, none of these landmarks of international development (SDGs included) saw religion or culture, as anything other than a source of harm. In all these international conferences, and in each and every yearly UN ­Commission on the Status of Women, conservative religious groups presented themselves as defenders of women and even human rights (as they interpreted them), and at the same time as increasingly bitter opponents of anything ‘gender’, which they would see as a façade for all that is against God’s teachings on sex and sexuality, including abortion-, contraception-, and LGBTIQ-related realities. The increasing prominence of certain religious actors in the years since 1994 – from Evangelicals in Africa and Latin America to Buddhist- and Hindu-inspired violence in parts of South Asia, Islamist extremists in the Middle East up to and including September 2001, and ‘home-grown Islamic terrorism’ fears among security actors in Europe and North America – only served to exacerbate the concerns of many women’s rights advocates in international development. The message, sometimes implied and other times loudly articulated, was that religion is where harm comes from. And where religion informs culture (whether explicitly on ­insidiously), then culture, too, is where harm comes from. The chapters in this volume, well-documented, meticulously researched, ­eloquently presented, and widely derived from various corners of the world, ­effectively illustrate how this harm is done, again and again, to women, to men, to those who identify as LGBTIQ, and to society. In some countries, it is even linked to legislative dynamics. In recent years, Covid-19 inspired restrictions on movement and economic issues, activism notwithstanding, have, according to several authors, exacerbated and rendered even more pressing the harm being done.

Have Religious Literacy, Religious Engagement, and Increased Partnerships Helped? Though this harm is society wide, it is done disproportionately to women, to people who identify as LGBTIQ, to people living with disabilities, and to diverse minorities. Sometimes it is done directly, sometimes insidiously, and it is perpetuated through diverse cultural or religious tropes. Moreover, it has, at times, been compounded by work done by and through some religious non-governmental ­organisations (NGOs) or faith-based organisations (FBOs). The past three decades have witnessed an ever-increasing collaboration ­between different UN entities, secular NGOs, some Western donor governments, and several religious development and humanitarian organisations. An uptake of

192  Azza Karam these ‘partnerships’, ‘the need for religious literacy’, and ‘the moral imperative’ to work on and with religion is a new normal. The largest FBOs each serve hundreds of thousands, if not millions of people, supporting their livelihoods and needs through the oldest, widest reaching, and most deeply rooted social networks. Despite the multitude and diversity of these organisations, they tend to share a nobility of purpose informed by belief systems, and a significant wide, deep, and trusted presence. I have long argued for the value of FBO work, and indeed for the need to acknowledge and to partner with these entities as they are some of the most representative of ‘community-based organisations’ (CBOs) delivering services that are morally, economically, and in some cases, even politically effective. Today there is a growing body of literature on the value-added, impact, and ‘unique’ contributions that such FBOs provide to peace, development, and human rights work. Indeed, to read this literature and to review the field of international development and peace-making today is to read a litany of narratives presenting the evidence of an affirmative track record of nothing but ‘goodness’ done by FBOs. So why am I maintaining that there is harm being done to human rights, and particularly to gender? Because, after 35 years of participant observation, diligent study, and work in what has become the business of religion, foreign policy, and development, I can say unequivocally that there are at least two clear trends in research and practice on the often-toxic nexus between religion and gender.

Commercialisation and Its Collateral Damage The first trend is where the uptake on the value-added of religion has resulted in ‘religious engagement’ – on anything from agriculture to peace-making to building toilets – which is now a fashionable trend among some governments and intergovernmental organisations (including the United Nations [UN], the European Union [EU], the African Union [AU]). Where there is fashion, there is money. Where there is money, there is a commercialisation of interest that takes place, such that those with the most money ultimately dictate the terms of the engagement. This means determining which issues are prioritised, which issues remain on the margins, and which issues get buried altogether. The issues that are neglected, and the people this affects, are the collateral damage. It is my contention that the FBO ‘heavyweights’ benefit from recognition and acknowledgement by governments and intergovernmental organisations alike, and because of this are becoming more visible and impactful (i.e. they are being listened to in some policymaking circles) in development and in foreign policy settings. They are often the largest and wealthiest, religious institutions and NGOs, which allows them to weigh in and have the most influence when it comes to matters of gender. They are also often the most conservative FBOs. In fact, we can see an inverse relationship between partnerships with religious actors and gender equality efforts. In other words, as larger partnerships are being brokered between political and FBO actors, gender-related issues are marginalised or side-lined. Gender-related dynamics become victims of the commercialisation

‘Faith-full’ Reflections  193 of religious engagement. After all, why bring into a win–win partnership on ­combatting poverty, environmental stewardship, protecting vulnerable children, brokering peace in war torn societies, enhancing public health services, improving education, or creating employment (the list of ‘common good’ is large) the issues where there is bound to be open disagreement? It is ironic – deeply so, I think – that this is taking place at precisely the same moment where larger numbers of women are coming into leadership positions within diverse FBOs. Some of these women will maintain, as I do, that this is a sign of changes taking place among religious leaders and inside religious institutions themselves, which are a positive, necessary, and long-awaited feature of social transformation. Nevertheless, very few of these women in emergent leadership within religious and multi-religious institutions, are able – or willing – to openly champion gender-related issues and rights. At best, the talk and the action will be around women’s rights and responsibilities. Yet gender – understood as the state of being male or female in relation to the social and cultural roles that are considered appropriate for men and women – is a great deal more than women’s rights. Gender is the foundation of language, relationships, and the construct upon which all human systems and institutions are built. To see gender as irrelevant, the pathway to hell, or at best a matter of some women’s rights, is to wilfully insist on seeing the world through part of one damaged eye. And yet this is how some of us working in and with religious spaces, are forced to see. And if we refuse to see and implement our work through that prism, our ‘deviousness’, or ‘hidden agendas’, or management capacities, or general intellect – all matters that relate to whether we are fit for leadership roles – and even our integrity as people of faith are fair game. The idea that this is being done by male religious leaders, or men in general, only is a misapprehension that must be corrected. This is also the preferred weapon of women – including women of faith – whose power is also vested in the traditional architecture of religious dogma and the practice of upholding patriarchy.

The Supremacy of the One Religion The second trend is related to the above, wherein the largest and wealthiest religious actors (whether religious institutions or NGOs or FBOs), which are influencing the terms and practices of partnerships with governmental and ­intergovernmental entities, despite ostensibly being in the favour of interfaith and multi-faith work, maintain resources and power bases that are firmly rooted in one religion only. These are often Christian (the largest being Catholic, and then diverse Evangelical), but some are also Islamic (the largest being Sunni). While Buddhist, Hindu, Jewish, and other Christian religious organisations (e.g. the Mormons, the Adventists, and the Orthodox) also play a big role in the partnerships with governments and intergovernmental actors, they are overshadowed. The religious heavyweights are rarely the most collaborative with organisations from other faiths – and few will pool their precious resources to serve alongside

194  Azza Karam one another. Certainly, there are more partnerships between diverse religious NGOs/FBOs today than just five to ten years ago, especially in humanitarian work, but the COVID-19 response over the course of 2020 and 2021 has revealed that when the going gets tough, each religious FBO (even umbrella Ecumenical entities) gets going – alone as Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, or whichever. Joint initiatives are pathetically few and far between considering the avalanche of human needs and demands. Instead, the religious heavyweights prefer to fund the UN, rather than other FBO initiatives. Well, so what? At least the humanitarian services are being delivered, lives are being saved, and FBOs are filling in the gaps, serving critical human and planetary needs, my fellow practitioners argue. That is 100% true. However, my question – which I shall not answer directly – is: what happens when certain religious organisations, thanks to great need and selective service delivery thereto (while ignoring or even demonises gender related dynamics), become bigger, stronger, and more impactful partners of political and economic regimes and interests? When religions work together, to serve together as civic agents, and to serve all barring none, that is when the arc of history bends towards justice – including gender justice committed to the total elimination of any violence. Until that happens, we are merely looking at different regimes – including religious ones – that seek to be forceful in their respective missions (and seek uphold select beliefs). In so doing, these regimes legitimise various forms of gender-based violence: those exercised through word(s), the tyranny of silence, psycho-social and mental abuse, and bodily harm. While the pendulum of judgement about religion has moved from extreme harm to extreme good, neither is entirely accurate. I believe that the utter negation of the role of religion is, or was, a blind spot fed by an enlightenment narrative inherent to the fabric of Western thought, which has proven largely irrelevant to the realities of the rest of the majority world, even where it was adopted by some secular feminists. At the same time, the overemphasis on religion as the solution to all ills, or the mantra that it is the missing link in the narrative of social justice – which is where we seem to be today – is a counter-narrative rooted in the vacuum of ideology left by the collapsed metanarratives of Liberalism, Socialism, Communism, and the ilk. The past – ancient and recent – teaches us that counter-narratives that mirror the arrogance of absolutism of truth rarely move us further in the arc of history.

Index

Note: Page numbers followed by “n” denote endnotes. abstinence movement: CM 178, 179; in United States 182–185 abstinence-only sex education 184–185 Abu-Lughod, L. 48 abuse 3 academic theory and research 1 activism 135–137 African Child Policy Forum 36 African culture 11 Ali, S. S. 76 Amer, S. 116 Anitha, S. 91 Ansari, H. 68 anthropology 1, 14, 15 anti-extremism strategies 77 Appadurai, Arjun 38 arranged marriage 83 Asad, Talal 12 Asim, Qari 76–77 Asylum Centres 64n2 Aune, K. 10 Bagguley, P. 69 Bangladeshi, Indian, and Pakistani (BIP) communities 18 Baraghani, Fatimah 119 Bartelink, Brenda 1 Bauman, Z. 45 beauty 31 beliefs 3 Bilge, S. 16 bisexual women 19, 133, 135, 140, 149, 151–152 Black and Minority Ethnic (BAME) groups 85 Bonjour, S. 47 Borm, J. A. 50

Bradley, Tamsin 1, 14, 17, 18, 37, 38, 116 Bräuchler, B. 76 bride-price 90–91 Brown, K. 67–68 Butler, J. 88 Buzan, B. 68 Cappa, Claudia 160 Casier, M. 56 Chantler, K. 88 child/early marriages (CEM) 2, 5 child labour 35 child marriage (CM) 1, 5, 26; abstinence movement 178, 179; before COVID-19 28–29; consent to marry 102, 105–108; during Ebola epidemic 31; economic dimension 30–31; HCP/HTP 101, 108– 110; in Iran 100–110; marriageability 30; marriage laws 102–105; Muslim majority contexts 100; non-western communities 179–181; OHCHR 101; poverty 34–35; religion and culture 27; resurgence of 32, 39; root causes 29–30; sexual purity 30; violence 34–35 Child Marriage (Restraint) Act 181 Chipenembe, Maria 19, 20 Church laws 167–168 Cindoglu, D. 125 Cislaghi, B. 16 civilized societies 5 Civil Society Organisations (CSOs) 36 Coalition on Violence against Women (COVAW) 36 Coene, Gily 19, 20 Collins, P. H. 16 colonialism 2, 11 colonization process 10

196 Index colonized societies 11 commercialisation 192–193 community-based organisations (CBOs) 192 Community Genetics Department 49 concealed transcripts, political and media debates 48–49; disabled children 50–51; forced marriage 54–56 Convention on the Rights of the Child 107 Coontz, S. 47 corrective rape 139, 141, 152 cousin marriage, Netherlands 44; Act Combatting Forced Marriage 45; cultural discourse 45; debates 45, 48–49; disabled children 50–54; forced marriage 54–59; harmful practice 45, 60, 61; and love 47–48; moral community 45; and religion 46–47; religious/ ideological community 45 COVID-19 2, 17, 26–27, 194; CM 28–40; FGM 28–40 cultural diversity 8 cultural erosion 170–172 cultural identities 18; in UK 83–97 cultural relativism 2–3, 214 cultural values 1 culture 3, 4, 19, 20; and religion 13 culture of discretion 148, 153 decolonial critiques act 2–3 decolonial post-secular feminist perspective 9–10 de-culturalisation 170 De Hart, B. 47 De Koning, M. 45, 60 Department of Medical Humanities 49 diaspora communities 86 disabled children, cousin marriage: public and concealed transcripts, political and media debates 50–51; public and hidden transcripts, respondents 51–52 discrimination 6, 7, 10, 18, 19, 109, 116–117, 122, 124, 125, 127, 129–130, 133, 138, 146, 149, 160, 190 disease of shame 143–148 diversity 4, 8, 37, 100, 108, 118, 130, 134, 192 domestic violence 2 Dowie, John 142 dowry 1, 90–91 early marriage 2, 3, 5, 14, 18, 19, 31, 32, 35, 37, 38, 101, 102, 104, 105, 116, 133, 140, 149–151

Ebola epidemic 31 educational institutions and harm 122–124 Eldering, L. 50 empirical heterogeneity 12 empowerment 31, 152, 173 Epprecht, M. 148 ethico-political positionings 13–15 ethnographic research 163, 173 ethnography 14, 163 everyday religion/ religion in daily life 27, 37, 48, 116 exclusion 7, 77, 86, 95–96, 164, 168 Ezekiel, J. 92 Fadil, N. 13 faith-based organisations (FBOs) 5, 191–192 ‘faith-full’ reflections 190–194 Feldman, S. 87 female circumcision 5, 19, 159–162, 166, 168–169 female genital cutting (FGC) 1, 5, 9, 178; cultural erosion 170–172; female circumcision 161; Maasai people 158–173; non-Muslim communities 161; prevalence 161, 164; and religion 159–163 female genital mutilation (FGM) 1, 3–5, 9, 13, 15–18, 26, 66, 115, 178; beauty and hygiene 31; before COVID-19 28–29; COVID cases 32; economic dimension 30–31; marriageability 30; Mosques securitisation 68–69; poverty 34; prevalence 28; religion and culture 27, 37, 159–163; resurgence of 39; root causes 29–30; school closures 36; sexual purity 30; stakeholders 34; violence 34 Female Genital Mutilation Act 164 female same-sex relationships 135–137 female sexuality control 177–187 feminism 2, 7–11, 13, 179; human rights activism 8–9; movement 8; vs. multiculturalism 8; and religion 2, 7–11, 13 femonationalism 8 fertility 3 Fischer, Sarah 18 Focus Group Discussions (FGD) 134, 137 forced feeding 3 forced marriage (FM) 1, 18, 60, 66, 104; arranged marriage 85; BAME 85; Bangladeshi heritage communities 87; bride-price 90–91; clothing 91–93; control 91–93; cultural expectations

Index  197 94–95; diaspora communities 86; dowry 90–91; FHSSEC 84; harmful practice 87; izzat 83–97; male decisionmaking 89–90; and medical risk 44–61; Mosques securitisation 68–69; power 91–93; prevalence data 86; public and concealed transcripts, political debates 54–56; public and hidden transcripts, respondents 56–57; religion 91–93; religious/cultural identities 88–89; religious scriptures 94–95; semiethnographic methodological approach 84; social isolation 96; Tahirih Justice Centre 86–87; in UK 83–97; VAWG 85; vulnerability 84, 88 Forced Marriage Act 60 Forced Marriage Unit (FMU) 70 Gangoli, G. 87 Gellner, E. 122 gender 2, 6, 133; and religion 7; scholarship 10 Gender and Adolescence: Global Evidence (GAGE) 35 gender-based violence (GBV) 2, 5, 7, 19, 35, 133 gendered harms 178–179 gender equality 1–2, 8; promotion 33; religion 5; sexual purity 12; women’s rights 10 gender inequality 3, 4 gender-related dynamics 192–193 gender studies 1, 7, 102, 117 gender theory 13 Ghorbani, M. 124 Giddens, A. 45 Gilliat-Ray, S. 74, 75 girls 1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 14, 17, 18, 20, 26–40, 66–69, 71, 87–91, 101, 103, 104, 106–109, 124, 185 Gish, E. 184 global dynamics 11 Goffman, E. 48, 65n6 Govier, T. 129 group rights 9 Hamilton, S. K. 18 harm: and educational institutions 122–124; gendered, refocusing 178–179; same-sex relations, Mozambique women 133–153; and social institutions 126–129; and workplace 124–126 harmful cultural practice (HCP) 1, 3–6, 26, 27, 37, 39, 109, 115; CM 101, 108–110; FM 83; prevalence 29;

scholarship 1; and traditions 148–152; in UK 66–79; violence 7 harmful power structures 11–12 harmful practices (HP) 2, 3, 186, 187; female sexuality control 177–187; and religion 177–187; relation to religion 3–7 harmful traditional practices (HCP) 3–7, 177 Hayward, A. 68 Heise, L. 16 hetero-normative culture 19 hidden transcripts, respondents 48; disabled children 51–52; forced marriage 56–57 Hindu majoritarianism 11 homonationalism 8 homosexual disease 143 honour based 4, 8, 9, 84–96, 178 honour crimes 1, 6 honour-related violence 4 Honwana, A. M. 145 Hughes, L. 170 human rights 1–4, 8, 14, 20, 55, 56, 71, 101, 139, 148, 160, 165, 172, 179, 184, 190–192 Human Rights and Development agenda 1–2 humanitarian services 194 Hussain, Y. 69 Hutchinson, G. 26, 33 International Conference on Population and Development (ICPD) 190–191 international development 4, 7, 172, 177, 178, 190–192 international human rights laws 3 International Non-governmental Organisation (INGO) 28, 29 Internet Imams 76–78 intimate partner violence (IPV) 29, 91, 133 Inusa, B. P. 76 Iranian Civil Code 102, 107 Iranian Revolution 120 Islam culture 11, 50 Islamic masculinities 68–69 ‘Islamic’ practices 5 Jahan, F. 91–92 Johansson, A. 48 Kabeer, N. 152, 91–92 Karam, Azza 20 Kemalist ideology 118–119

198 Index Kirmani, N. 78 Kuper, A. 46, 50

Muslim marginalization 11 Muslim self-formation 13

Le Roux, E. 19, 20 lesbians 19, 133–136, 139–140, 143, 147, 149, 151–152 LGBT activism 135, 136, 137 LGBT community 135, 136 LGBTQ 134–136 local dynamics 11 Loita Maasai 164–166; Catholic and Protestant Churches 166–167 Longman, Chia 1, 19, 20, 116 Lugones, M. 12

Namahram 47 nationalist cultures 11 nation state/ policy/ governance 4, 8, 11, 12, 19, 118, 129, 177 non-consensual/early marriage 150 non-governmental organisation (NGO) 115, 158, 191–192 non-partner violence 133 normative violence 133–153 North/Americo-Eurocentrism 3

Maasai traditions: heathen 172 Mackie, G. 15, 16, 164 Mahmood, Saba 12 Mahram 46–47 Makruf, J. 77 Malala Fund 35 Malmvig, H. 68 marriageability 30 marriage laws 102–105 Masaai cultural identity 19 masculinity 68, 69 Maussen, M. 68 McCarthy, N. 70 Medica Mondiale 33 Meme, Jane Rita 17 mental health issues 2 migration 44–46, 48–49, 54, 56, 57 modern societies 5 morality 3 Moreau, A. 16 Mosques securitisation 66; anti-Muslim men discourse 69; in Birmingham 69–78; FGM and FM 71, 72; FMU 70; HCPs 68; Imams, young Muslim men 73–76; Internet Imams 76–78; Islamic masculinities 68–69; Pakistani and Somali communities 69, 71; radicalisation 72, 73; security risk 68; socialisation 67 Mubaiwa, Ottis 18 multiculturalism 115, 117 multicultural policies 9 multicultural toleration 8 multi-religious leadership 20 Muslim Council of Britain 74 Muslim majority contexts 100

Okin, S. M. 8, 10, 115, 128 Ol-ngesher cultural ceremony 163 online harassment 2 operational agencies 190 oppression 6, 7 Ozal, Turgut 119 Pahlavi, Reza Shah 120 pain 4, 14, 36, 96, 100, 115, 141 Patel, P. 78 patriarchal Western practices 4 perinatal mortality 50 policy 3, 4, 6, 7, 17, 33, 48, 54, 70, 102, 117, 118, 120, 121, 192 political culture theory 116 polygamy 1 postcolonial critiques 27 postcolonial discourses 1 poverty 2, 34–35 Programme of Action (PoA) 190–191 Prohibition of Female Genital Mutilation Act 161 Protestant Church, role of 158–173 Protestant Loitai Abandon 167–170 psychological harassment 29 public education 122 public transcripts, political and media debates: disabled children 50–51; forced marriage 54–56 public transcripts, respondents: disabled children 51–52; forced marriage 56–57 racism 8 Rafaeli, T. 26, 33 Rahbari, L. 18, 124 Rasul, G. 31 religion: and cousin marriage, Netherlands 46–47; and culture 13; and feminism 2,

Index  199 7–11, 13; FM 91–93; gender equality 5, 7; politics 4, 13, 20, 108 religionization 8 religious beliefs 180 religious discourse 9 religious engagement 191–192 religious feminism 11 religious identities, in UK 83–97 religious leaders 5, 9, 10, 19, 26, 28, 39, 66, 71, 72, 74–77, 160, 161, 163, 179–181, 187, 193 religious literacy 191–192 religious market 133 religious NGOs 194 religious scriptures 94–95 religious studies 15 retrogressive cultural practices 158 Rutten, S. W. E. 55–56, 61 SAFE Maa 158, 159, 164–165, 171, 172 Schulpen, T. W. 50 Scott, J. W. 10, 48, 116, 128 secular formations 12–13 secularism 2, 4, 10, 12, 13, 45, 116, 119, 130 secularity see secularism secular practices 4 securitization policies 18 semi-ethnographic methodological approach 84 sexual and reproductive health and rights (SRHR) 133, 135, 136 sexuality gender based violence 88 sexual orientation 19 sexual purity 181, 183, 185 sexual violence and sex 138–143 Shell Duncan, B. 16 Shirazi, F. 120 Siddiqui, H. 78, 87, 89 Smits van Waesberghe, E. 55 social anthropology 1 social convention theories 15–16, 29–30 social grouping 3 social inequalities 16 social institutions and harm 126–129 social justice 194 social networks 16 social norm theories 3, 15–17, 29–30, 38 societal secularization 7 Spronk, Rachel 151 state 2, 4, 10, 18, 88, 101, 107–109, 116–122, 126–130, 133, 135, 142 Storms, Oka 17

structure/agency 4, 6, 9, 11–13, 68, 78, 79, 84, 106, 128, 152, 162, 163 Sunni Muslim 11 Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) 190–191 Tahirih Justice Centre 86–87 Tamale, S. 152 Teeuw, M. 51, 54 temporary marriage 103 Ten Kate, L. P. 51 Tillion, G. 46 time poverty 2 Toni-Uebari, T. K. 76 tradition 3, 4, 19, 20; vs. modernity 4 traditional cultures 3, 11 traditional healing 133–153 traditional societies 11 transformative masculine attitudes: FGM 68–69; FM 68–69; Mosques securitisation, Birmingham 67–78 transwomen women 19 Tung, R. L. 124 Turkish and Moroccan Dutch see cousin marriage, Netherlands United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child 179 United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA) 29, 31–33 United states Agency for International Development (USAID) 29 unregistered marriages 103 values 3 Van Bavel, Hannelore 19 Van de Kamp, L. 140 Van der Veer, P. 11 veiling 130; Iranian Revolution 120; Kemalist ideology 118–119; westernization/conservatism 121 Verwoerd, W. 129 Vinthagen, S. 48 violence 6–7, 18, 34–35 violence against women and girls (VAWG) 2, 4, 6, 85 virginity 105, 180–183 Voshaar, J. 170 Wæver, O. 68 Walker, J. A. 149 Waller, R. 161–162

200 Index Western/Abrahamic contexts 162 Western modernity 10 White, J. 126 Winterbottom, A. 171 Winters, J. 37 women 1–10, 12–14, 17–20, 26–33, 36–39, 49, 67–70, 84–97, 100–110, 115–131, 133–153

women’s rights 10, 33, 67, 75, 87, 100, 101, 110, 190, 191, 193 women-targeted violence 3 workplace and harm 124–126 Wyatt, C. 77 Zaytoun, K. 92