Sabarimala is not just any temple. It is a pilgrimage site to which between three and four million people travel every year. Located in the Ghats mountain range in southern India, it has a special status as the place where the god Ayyappa came to meditate. On the temple’s website, I read that it is open to non-Hindus and that pilgrims ‘irrespective of caste, creed or religion’ are equal before Ayyappa. Women between puberty and menopause, however, are not welcome.
Nikita Azad’s comment became the beginning of #HappyToBleed, a social media campaign with the aim of doing away with menstrual shame and the ideas that prevent women in India from, among other things, visiting temples when they are on their periods. Japleen Pasricha, founder of the social movement Feminism in India, was among those who put her name to #HappyToBleed: ‘This isn’t about if I want to go to a temple or mosque or church or if I’m religious or not, this is about my right to walk into any building, institution, [or] temple regardless of if my vagina is bleeding or not.’
The notion that a person who menstruates should avoid visiting the temple is not unique to Sabarimala, but in most Hindu temples an informative sign is sufficient. The one who menstruates is expected to assume responsibility – without ‘period detectors’ or a general ban on women.
The Sabarimala debate became a political issue first, then a legal one that eventually ended up in the Supreme Court of India. The local government in Kerala had previously offered its opinion: that religious institutions have the right to decide themselves who to exclude.
When the proceedings were initiated during the spring of 2016, it turned out that the judges of the Supreme Court were not so well disposed to the temple representatives. ‘Anyone can worship a god or goddess,’ said one of the judges who requested evidence of how the ban on women visiting the temple tallies with the Constitution of India – a constitution which, among other things, states that no one should be discriminated against based on gender, and calls for its subjects to ‘renounce practices derogatory to the dignity of women’.
As I write this, the Supreme Court has not announced its verdict, but a decision from the highest court in the state of Maharashtra in March 2016 offers an indication. At that time, the court in Mumbai decided that the local government should ensure that all women are allowed access to the temples in the state.
But while politicians, lawyers, and religious leaders argue, menstruating women are visiting temples – ban or no ban. In an article published in the International Journal of Social Science and Humanity in 2013, Aru Bhartiya writes that when 300 Indian women between the ages of 20 and 25 were asked whether they visit the temple during menstruation, almost half of them said yes.
So does Manjula. She is in her forties and lives in Chennaveerana Halli, a village in Karnataka where the houses are painted in mild pastels. Roughly 60 million of India’s more than 1.2 billion inhabitants live in Karnataka, which borders on Goa and Kerala in the west and stretches to the Arabian Sea. Outside India, Karnataka is most famous for the successful IT investments in the rich city of Bangalore that have propelled the state’s economic development. At the same time, estimates indicate that almost a quarter of Karnataka’s inhabitants live in poverty. The gap between Bangalore and the villages reflects an inequality that also marks other parts of India.
Manjula’s house is green and located at the end of the pathway that passes through the village, soon to be widened with the help of an excavator parked in the middle of the road.
‘I do everything,’ is Manjula’s short answer to the question about potential restrictions because of menstruation.
One by one, the women of the village drop in at the house. Manjula rubs her hands with herb leaves to get rid of the pungent smell from the newly shelled beans that are now neatly packed in white sacks outside, ready to be sold at the annual festival in celebration of the bean harvest in Bangalore.
Manjula’s position on visiting the temple during menstruation is provocative. The other women, Hanumakka, Rosa, and Lakshamamma, would never take that risk. They talk about women who have been stung by bees and attacked by monkeys when they have visited the temple during menstruation. Deterrent punishments that have no effect on Manjula.
When I ask what underlies the rules about not visiting the temple during menstruation, Rosa has already left – upset, bored by the topic, or simply busy. Siddama has joined us. She and the others reply that: ‘It’s tradition. It’s always been that way.’
If there ever was another reason, it has been lost. Is it about the oppression of women, about shame and being unclean? Or about giving women an opportunity for respite from temple visits that are otherwise considered obligatory? About Hindu theories of energy? In the case of the Sabarimala temple, one of the explanations provided is that the god Ayyappa lived in celibacy. Fertile women are a temptation.
But regardless of their origin, both Manjula and Kushala interpret the rules as restrictions they are not willing to accept. Those who participated in the campaign #HappyToBleed consider menstruation bans to be shaming and oppressive. ‘Retrogressive’ and ‘misogynist’, Nikita Azad wrote in an open letter to the Sabarimala temple’s representatives.
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At the children’s home where Kushala lives, not far from Chennaveerana Halli, there are 52 children between 5 and 20 years old. Some are orphans while others have parents who cannot take care of them.
It is Sunday, and breakfast – served later than usual – is just over. Except for one of the girls. She is 12 years old and sits on the cool floor in one of the dormitories, eating bread and lentil stew without looking up. The other children do not seem to take any real notice of her, but they explain that she got her first period last night. That is why she is eating alone and from special bowls that are not to be mixed with the other china. Later today, she will go to her home village and stay indoors for 15 days. She does not want to speak, neither with me nor with anyone else. Her fringe falls into her eyes.
It’s tradition, Kushala and her friends note. They close the door to the big bright room where they usually do yoga, so that they can speak freely, without curious boys.
‘I had to eat on my own and sleep on a mat instead of the bed those days after my first period,’ says Kushala, who has already spoken unabashedly about the papaya and the temple trip, and now continues while the others sit silently.
Everything was different during those two weeks. In a bad way, she clarifies. No one was to visit and she was not allowed to go out.
‘I felt so alone. And it was boring!’
A few of them nod in assent. Others do not agree. A couple of them say that it was nice not to have to go to school. But the days of isolation only occurred at the time of the first period. When they menstruate nowadays there are no restrictions, except that they have to wash their entire bodies carefully as soon as they get their periods. Strictly speaking, they are supposed to get up in the middle of the night or walk home from school, but if they get their periods at night they usually wait to tell the warden – to get to stay in bed. And then there is the temple ban, so obvious that they initially forget to mention it.
In Karnataka’s capital Bangalore, where wealth has accumulated with the IT companies, I visit a high school and ask in vain to interview the girls individually. It will have to be as a group. Thirteen girls between 13 and 17 years old with braids and earrings most reluctantly explain how they manage their periods. Everyone uses disposable pads. For the most part, they do not change menstrual protection in school, for one thing because there are no waste bins. In addition, the brown and white school uniforms have no pockets and so they are forced to hide the pads in their hands.
Are they answering honestly? The embarrassment factor is inhibiting and my feeling is that they just want my visit to be over. Disposable pads are a status marker. Admitting in front of others that they are too expensive is not a given.
But when I ask about menstrual rules they almost bubble over with examples, relieved – it seems – not to h
ave to talk about the menses itself, about menstrual products and toilets. When they menstruate, they are not supposed to eat sweets or eggs and drink tea or coffee. They mention the temple rules and then move on to restrictions that apply at the time of the first menstruation. They are supposed to stay away from the kitchen; boys are not allowed to see them; they are not supposed to touch young children; they have to sleep on special mats and eat from special bowls; and they have to stay indoors. For how long seems to vary, but they are separated from the rest of the world for somewhere between 10 and 20 days.
They also talk about the celebration of the first period, when they are visited by relatives and friends who offer gifts, new saris, and jewellery to mark that they have become adults, can marry and have children. Some of them think it is fun, at least the gifts, while others say that it is annoying to be the centre of attention and that ‘everyone knows’.
A few of the oldest girls say that they do not understand why they must follow the various rules around menstruation. Their mothers simply reply that they are to ‘listen, not ask questions’. Will they pass it on to their daughters? The answers are rather evenly spread out between yes, maybe, and absolutely not.
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They are usually called ‘menstrual taboos’, the social, cultural, and religious rules that most often dictate what one must not do during menstruation, sometimes how things are to be done. They seldom apply to an entire country or group, but rather exist in certain countries or groups. Sometimes they are explicit, sometimes a silent ‘social code’. These are rules that to some extent can be traced back to historical ideas about the power of menstrual blood, the good and the evil, and, perhaps most of all, with emphasis on the destructive and polluting.
Menstrual restrictions on the practice of religious activities, such as visiting Hindu temples, are not a rarity. Under the influence of Hinduism, some Buddhist temples have also introduced bans on visiting during menstruation. Within Islam, menstruating women are not allowed to visit the part of the mosque where prayer is performed, nor touch the Quran. According to the regulations of the Orthodox Church, women are not supposed to receive the Eucharist when they are menstruating.
Sex is also regulated by menstruation, both within and outside of religion. According to Orthodox Jewish religious law, sex is forbidden for 14 days from the first day of menstruation, a period that is concluded with a ritual bath. Islam has a similar practice, but in that case the prohibition only lasts for seven days. In the Bible there is indeed a long passage about woman’s untouchability during menstruation, but it does not seem to have led to any explicit edicts within Christianity. The perspective is, as in religious documents generally, strictly heterosexual. It is about the relationship between women and men.
Regardless of a person’s religious conviction, there is plenty of evidence to suggest that sex during menstruation falls under the ‘menstrual etiquette’, which the menstruator must negotiate. It is reflected in the – again, heteronormative – expression ‘blowjob week’. On Swedish websites with sex advice columns, questions about sex during menstruation are common. Others’ experiences and opinions are sought on various discussion forums. In articles in evening tabloids and women’s magazines, such as Expressen and Vecko-Revyn, sex during menstruation is encouraged, but on premises like: ‘Many people think it’s “unhygienic, messy and embarrassing”’ and ‘Are you someone who frets about having sex on your period?’ In Issues of Blood: The Politics of Menstruation (1990), Sophie Laws writes that several of the British men whom she has interviewed think of sex during menstruation as something you just don’t do, while others think it is exciting because they are ‘breaking the taboo’.
Around the world, there is a great variety of other rules around menstruation, such as the one about avoiding baths or washing the body during one’s period. In a survey among students in Afghanistan, for example, 70 per cent claimed that they cannot wash their bodies while on their period. In Gujarat state in northern India, the corresponding figure was 98 per cent. In Bolivia and Egypt too, there are beliefs that one should not shower or bathe during menstruation.
Cooking may also fall under the rules of menstruation in parts of Senegal, Zambia, Nepal, Bangladesh, and India, among other places. In some cases certain foods may not be touched, such as sour foods in India. In France, there is a deep-rooted myth that mayonnaise will be of poorer quality if made by someone who is menstruating. In the 1970s, it was still considered questionable to allow someone who is menstruating to participate in bread baking in several countries in Eastern Europe.
Avoiding physical activity does perhaps not qualify as a rule, but there are, on the other hand, widespread notions that it is not good to move around too much during menstruation – despite the fact that exercise has been shown to alleviate both menstrual pains and premenstrual syndrome.
The handling of menstrual products is regulated by a very clear and global norm: they are simply not to be seen. On a Swedish blog, one reader offers the tip to ‘use a pack of wipes and put the pads in there. You have to fold them and wiggle around for a little while, but eventually you’ll get them into the pack. When you go to the bathroom you can say that you have to touch up your makeup, etc.’ Clara Henry, the comedian and video blogger who has written the book I’ve Got My Period. So What? (2015), has made a video about various creative ways of carrying menstrual products to the bathroom – seriously and as a joke. She starts by noting that changing menstrual protection in school has always been a bit of a project. Not hiding tampons, pads, and menstrual cups feels ‘a little provocative, almost’. The Ugandan menstrual activist Charlotte Akello describes how pharmacists have asked her to hold up her bag so that they can ‘smuggle down’ the pads, which are already covered in a black plastic bag. In a historic parallel, Johnson & Johnson launched the Modess pads in the US in the 1920s with ‘silent purchase coupons’. The newspaper ad contained a cut-out coupon with the text: ‘One box of Modess, please.’
For the next step – hiding the already used menstrual products – tips are shared on Swedish as well as international web forums, not least in the US. Partly, these are about what to do when there are no waste bins in the restroom. But simply throwing away bloody menstrual products in someone else’s home is also described as a problem. Carrying a plastic bag or jar in one’s purse is offered as a solution.
The norm regarding hidden menstrual protection may, in several countries in Africa and Asia, be amplified by a belief that you can come to suffer from bad luck if others see your menses or menstrual protection. Ideas about infertility linked to visible menstrual protection exist in many places besides Kenya and Uganda. In Bolivia and Bangladesh, there are rules dictating that bloody menstrual protection must be buried to protect the owner from misfortune.
Invisible menstrual protection is a virtue. Tellingly, Always products are sold under the name Whisper in Asian countries like India, China, and Japan. This goes hand in hand with ‘the great silence’ – that is, the notion that menstruation is not an appropriate topic of conversation other than in very particular or private situations. Not included among those are, for example, a social network like Instagram, where the Canadian author and artist Rupi Kaur in March 2015 posted pictures of a fully dressed woman (the artist herself) with menstrual stains on her trousers and on the sheets. The pictures were initially removed for violating Instagram’s guidelines, which include bans on violence, sex, and nudity. ‘This just goes to show who is sitting behind the desk. And whose [sic] controlling the show. Whose [sic] controlling the media and who is censoring us,’ Rupi Kaur wrote in a comment and thanked Instagram for having given her the reaction she wanted to criticise through her work. Instagram backtracked and apologised. The rule of silence is so pervading in both the material I find and the interviews I carry out that the examples could fill an entire chapter. The first time a word for menstruation was mentioned at all in an American television commercial was in 1985, when the actor Courteney Cox held up a pack of ta
mpons and said ‘period’. Using the word ‘vagina’ in a tampon commercial is still a step too far in the US in the 2010s.
In several languages, the rule of silence is illustrated by a number of expressions that serve as a code, a way of talking about menstruation without mentioning it directly. In a study of English and Swedish expressions from 2016, 336 expressions were analysed, of which 248 were English and 88 Swedish. Common linguistic constructions are inspired by the blood or flow, the red colour, being ‘indisposed’, the cyclical/monthly, and being sexually unavailable. When the menstrual app Clue sent out a survey about menstruation in 2015, together with the organisation International Women’s Health Coalition, they received replies from 90,000 people in 190 countries. Together, they provided examples of a total of 5,000 euphemisms for menstruation, on average 26 per country. Everything from ‘ketchup week’ in France to ‘bad luck’ in China, ‘the red plague’ in Germany, and ‘communists in the lust house’ in Denmark.
If we turn the situation on its head: the common challenge for global menstrual activism, breaking taboos and speaking openly about menstruation, points to a rule of silence.
Separation, which the Indian students talked about in connection with the first period, is practised in different forms: at mealtimes, regarding sleeping places, only during the first period, or during every period. In its most extreme form, it can mean that one is not allowed to live at home during menstruation, which is the case in some villages in Nepal and India. Instead, those who are menstruating live in special sheds, huts, or small houses.
In an article in The Guardian from 2015, 25-year-old Poornima Javardhan is interviewed about her experience of living in isolation during menstruation. She explains that it is particularly difficult during the rainy season because of roof leaks. In the village Sitatola in Maharashtra state in India, where she lives, there are two ‘menstrual huts’ shared by 20 families. Fourteen-year-old Sangita Kumra from the same village worries about being forced to sleep alone if she gets her period when no one else is in the menstrual hut.
It's Only Blood_Shattering the Taboo of Menstruation Page 6
