Society Fish When
the Chips Are Down
by Prakriiti Gupta
Early in the morning, after a
simple breakfast of Kahwa (Kashmiri tea) and bread, scores of
Kashmiri fisherwomen, or 'Gaad'e Waajni', make their way to the
Amirakadal Bridge, the unofficial fish market of Srinagar. A common
thought plays on their minds: to quickly sell off the day's catch.
From their makeshift kiosks, these feisty women freely interact with the
locals, trying to sell their entire catch in a single sale and spare
themselves the agony of having to go door-to-door after the morning
market. However, rarely do they end up doing the rounds of the
neighborhoods. With what could only be termed as a dazzling display of
marketing skills, most of the women succeed to sell their catch in the
market.
These Muslim fisherwomen present a rare example of emancipation within
their community. In a complete economic role reversal, they are
responsible for bringing the money home. While their menfolk stay at
home, they go out into the markets and interact with people.
Over time, they have built quite a reputation for themselves in the
market. Jigari, 70, a mother of two sons, has been a fish monger for as
long as she can remember. She says she began accompanying her mother to
the market as a child. "I have customers who blindly trust the quality
of my fish. I never cheat my customers," assures Jigari.
However, it takes a lot more than just spirit and clever marketing
skills to lead the lives these women do. In the last 21 years, Hamida's
routine has not changed. Every day at twilight, she packs the family's
fishing boat with food supplies and bedrolls. After feeding her three
children and putting them to bed, Hamida, 40, rows the boat from their
temporary shelter on the lakeside to a suitable spot where her husband,
Mohamed Jabber, spreads out the fishing nets. After that, the couple has
a quick bite and squeezes in with the children for the night.
At the crack of dawn, Hamida is up and ready to inspect the overnight
catch with her husband. Jabber removes the nets and puts the catch in
large tubs. Hamida takes the oars and steers the family home.
While this signals the end of the day's work for Jabbar, for Hamida it
is just the beginning. After completing her chores, she rushes off to
the city market to sell the catch. On a lucky day, the sale is over in a
couple of hours. Otherwise, it is the door-to-door grind with heavy tubs
in tow.
Yet, and at the end of a
grueling day, all that Hamida has to show for her labor are a few
hundred rupees. "It's certainly not a life for everyone. Long hours,
hard work and less money are enough to keep most people away. I learnt
the trade from my mother-in-law and sister-in-law. Initially, it was
difficult for me to adjust to the idea of dealing with outsiders (in the
market) but now it's okay," says Hamida, who was married into a fishing
family and hence had to learn the trade from scratch.
Hamida is adamant that her daughter, Salima, 10, does not take up this
life. She has made sure to enroll her in a vocational school that
teaches shawl weaving to young girls of the community.
Many social and economic limitations have prompted Hamida and other
women of the community to discourage their children from learning the
traditional livelihood.
For one, the money is not worth all the trouble. There are 2,000
families that depend on fishing at the Dal Lake for their livelihood. A
majority lives in dismal conditions in colonies like Mir Mohalla, Kani
Kaet and Dhobi along the wasteland in the interiors of lake.
Take the case of Magal. Along with husband Abdul Majida, their son and
his family of five - Magal, 55, has lived half her life on four small
boats that are only 20 feet long and three-and-a-half-feet wide. While
her husband and son take two boats out to fish, her daughter-in-law,
Sider, the grandchildren and she stay on the other two, close to the
shore. Magal's entire day is spent in selling fish. Yet, she still
cannot afford to send her grandchildren to school.
Most fisherwomen can only
scrape together a daily income of around Rs 100 to Rs 200 (US$1=Rs 40).
After paying for the annual fishing license of Rs 500, there's not much
money to spare.
Contributing to the poor income is the fact that the daily catch has
been steadily declining as a result of the high pollution levels in the
waters of the Dal Lake, and the nearby Nigan and Wullar lakes. Sara, who
sells fish door-to-door, elaborates, "Pollution has taken a toll on our
daily catch. Earlier, a day's catch used to be around 10 kilograms. Now
it is reduced to half - that too on a lucky day."
The absence of an official fish market in Kashmir is another obstacle.
"We need a specific place to sell fish in the city. The police and
Srinagar Municipal Corporation occasionally chase us away from
Amirakadal Bridge. They rebuke us, throw our fish on the road and ask us
to leave," complains Jigari.
Adds Sara, "As we are not allowed to sit anywhere, I have to constantly
be on my feet to sell the fish. If there are designated fish markets in
Jammu and Delhi, why can't there be one here?" she asks.
If despotic authorities, poor living conditions and a meager income were
not enough to plague these women, there is also the social stigma. "Even
earlier we were looked down upon socially and the practice continues.
People don't marry into our community. At a gathering people keep away
from us," sighs Jigari.
At least 50 per cent of the youngsters do not want to carry on the
family profession. As Jigari observes, "The younger generation is
looking for other means of livelihood. They don't want people to look
down upon them."
Tariq Bhat, a journalist in Kashmir, has, over the years, observed the
unfortunate lives of the fisherwomen. And he is greatly surprised that
till now no government body or even Non Governmental Organizations (NGO)
have made a move to help them. "Despite the many NGOs and other social
groups working with women in Kashmir, sadly, none have bothered to help
these women to form self-help groups or educate them about issues of
basic health, hygiene and education," he says.
Yet, despite the hardships and social ostracism, the women know that
they play the most pivotal and irreplaceable role in their community. If
it were not for them there would be no money for survival. The men folk
just cannot be persuaded to market the catch - they take the cover of
tradition to not do the job. Admits Jabbar, Hamida's husband, "When
Hamida falls sick, I have to sell the catch to other women for less."
So, be it summer or winter, these women report to work every day with
dedication. Salima, in her mid-30s, says, "Except for Eid or maybe when
there's a death or wedding in the family, we seldom take the day off."
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