By Ashfaq Yusufzai
PESHAWAR, Jan 18 2024 – A woman medical graduate from the Hindu community is making waves, as she is the first minority woman to contest the Pakistan Parliamentary election for a general seat, and she does so in the face of deep-rooted religious traditions and wealthy political opponents.

Dr Saveera Parkash, a nominee of the Pakistan People’s Party (PPP) for the February 8 polls, is sure of her victory despite her religion.

“I have been witnessing the support that I am getting from the Muslim-dominated district of Buner in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province,” Parkash told IPS in an interview. 

“My slogan is addressing issues of pollution, women’s empowerment, gender equality, female representation, and their health issues, in addition to ensuring respect for all religions,” she elaborated.

Born to a Christian mother and Hindu father, she has lived in a Muslim-dominated community; therefore, interfaith harmony is on her wishlist.

“Interfaith harmony is extremely significant because we have seen enmity among different religious sects on flimsy grounds.”

“We have to inculcate a sense of brotherhood among all schools of thought and pave the way for lasting peace in the area. We have to respect our religious places and shun differences, as all religions advocate peace and harmony,” she says.

Candidates in Buner, one of the 36 districts of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa that remained thick with militants from 2007 to 2010, are likely to witness a hard contest as the women and youngsters have shown support for the first-ever minority female candidate.

The Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Assembly, one of Pakistan’s four provinces, has 145 elected members, 115 regular seats, 26 reserved for women, and 4 for non-Muslims.

Pakistan is home to 4.4 million Hindus, which is 2.4 percent of the total population.

Her father, a medical doctor and late leader of the PPP and twice Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto, who was assassinated by militants in December 2007 in the garrison city of Rawalpindi, inspire her, she says.

“While my ideal is Mother Teresa, my main focus will be women’s education. The overall literacy rate is 48 percent, but only 25 percent of females are literate; therefore, I want to spread awareness about the importance of women’s education,” she says.

Additionally, it is very important to end favoritism and nepotism and ensure merit in the appointment of teachers, especially women.

After completing medical education in July 2022, she saw the issues women visiting hospitals faced and decided to enter politics instead of continuing her career as a doctor, as she believed issues needed to be resolved at the policy level.

“We need more women doctors, nurses, and paramedics to encourage female patients to visit hospitals. Currently, the number of female health workers is extremely low, due to which most of the women don’t come to hospitals because they don’t want to be seen by male doctors,” she says.

“My big advantage is that I belong to a middle-class family, and the people will vote for me because I am approachable to my electorate.”

The promotion of women’s rights is her main objective.

“We have to scale up awareness regarding women’s rights to property inheritance and their right to education. I sense victory in the polls, as I know the people listen to me and would reject opponents for their bright future.”

So, how does she feel the run-up to the election is going?

“In our district, 75 percent of voters are under 30, and they are well-informed about the issues they are facing. I may be lacking wisdom and knowledge compared to senior politicians, but my sincerity will lead to my success,” says the 25-year-old, who routinely wears a headscarf.

Because she is trying to reach a young electorate, her campaigning includes the wide use of social media, apart from the traditional approaches of public meetings and house-to-house canvassing.

Highlighting corruption is also part of her election campaign.

At the moment, she is concentrating on a smooth run-up so she can win popular support in her constituency

“Voters in my constituency call me ‘sister’ and ‘daughter,’ which gives me immense strength,” she said.

Parkash said she wanted to follow in the footsteps of her father, Oam Prakash, a retired doctor, and serve the people.

Securing a space for women is vital for development, as they have been suppressed and neglected in all areas.

She said “serving humanity is in my blood” due to her medical background, highlighting that her dream to become an elected legislator stemmed from having experienced poor management and helplessness in government hospitals as a doctor.

Most people in the area endorse her candidacy, regardless of her Hinduism or political affiliation. Voters appreciate her bravery for challenging traditional policies

The Election Commission of Pakistan makes it mandatory for all political parties to award 5 percent of seats to women in general seats.

Political analyst Muhammad Zahir Shah, at the University of Peshawar, said that Parkash has created history by contesting the general election.

“We have been seeing women becoming members of the assembly on reserved seats. They don’t contest elections but are nominated by parties on the basis of the seats they win in the election,” Shah said.

In the past, some women have fought elections, but they were Muslim; therefore, they don’t draw as much media and public attention, but the case of Parkash is unprecedented.

She is well educated and belongs to the Hindu community while standing for vote in an area where 95 percent of the voters are Muslims.

“She is contesting on the PPP’s ticket, which isn’t a popular political party, but it seems that she will make her presence felt during the electioneering,” Shah said. Already, she has hit headlines, and if the election takes place in a fair and transparent manner, there is a greater likelihood that she will emerge victorious,” he said.

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By Theresa Beckmann
BRUSSELS, Belgium, Jan 18 2024 – ‘Per Giulia e per tutte’ (‘For Giulia and for all’) echoed through the streets of Italy in mid-November 2023. Thousands of women, activists and supporters gathered to protest and show solidarity with the 22-year-old student Giulia Cecchettin, who was killed by her ex-boyfriend on the night of 11 November 2023.

The outrage over the murder of the young student unleashed a wave of protest that was audible far beyond the country’s borders in the weeks after the incident.

Browsing through the page Women for Change on Twitter/X triggers a wave of emotions which constantly sways back and forth between disbelief, grief and anger. The South African NGO is dedicated to women’s rights and documents all the cases of murdered women in the country. South Africa’s femicide rate is five times higher than the global average; on average, nine women were murdered there every day in 2022.

A quick glance reveals a seemingly never-ending series of posts titled ‘In Memory of’, each featuring a portrait of a smiling women — a tribute to all the woman and girls whose lives were abruptly cut short. One of them is Nombulelo Jessica Michael, a social worker who was attending a gender-based violence and femicide (GBVF) case in court on the last day she was seen alive.

The deaths of Nombulelo and Giulia account for a series of murders of women all over the world — femicides. The term describes the most extreme form of gender-based violence. In 2022, the UN registered 89 000 cases of intentional killings of women and girls worldwide. Fifty-five per cent of these murders are committed by (former) intimate partners or perpetrators from the victim’s own environment.

Despite general homicide rates decreasing, femicide cases have been rising continuously in the last two decades. And still, these figures only paint a fragmented picture of a blunt reality: a significant number of femicide victims (around 40 per cent) remain unaccounted for in the UN report, as they are not categorised as gender-related killings due to variations in criminal justice recording and investigation practices across nations.

With the start of the new year, it is high time to highlight the pressing need for continuous advocacy initiatives and policy implications aimed at promoting societal transformation and confronting the fundamental factors contributing to gender-based violence.

But the challenge requires a multifaceted approach that acknowledges the intersection of underlying power dynamics in the form of a patriarchal society, racism and structural inequalities.

Dismantling the roots

Giulia and Nombulelo were two different women, on different continents, who became victims of the same alarming global crisis of gender-based violence, affecting women and girls in diverse cultural, economic and political contexts.

In patriarchal societies, the omnipresent grip of traditional gender norms reinforces a culture where violence against women is normalised. This norm transcends borders and adapts to different cultural contexts while maintaining its oppressive nature.

Those stereotypes and prejudices continuously foster expectations of femininity and masculinity, weaving dangerous narratives of victim blaming. As a result, it is common for the public discourse surrounding gender-based violence and femicides to be marked by the inappropriate behaviour of a young woman who is drinking alcohol and is walking home alone at night, rather than being centred on expressions of grief, condolences and righteous indignation.

In this regard, media portrayals and narratives must shift and tell the stories from the victim’s point of view, avoiding stylistic instruments drawing from love tragedies and sensationalism.

But what other causes are there for the rise of femicide cases? The Covid19 pandemic, which forced people to stay locked up at home, intensified the extent of violence against women immensely. It also pushed people into financial uncertainty and economic distress, which became a crucial driving factor for gender-based violence.

Government authorities, women’s rights activists and civil society partners worldwide were reporting significantly increased calls for help to domestic violence helplines during that time. Disrupted support systems, the intensification of pre-existing tensions, overwhelmed healthcare systems and restricted mobility made it challenging for victims to seek help and support.

More than this, food insecurity is also intertwined with women’s exposure to domestic violence. The economic roles of women, especially as full-time unpaid caregivers, are associated with a higher likelihood of experiencing violence, as highlighted in a UN report.

Additionally, women with income experience a greater sense of safety and reduced perception of violence (except for those who out-earn their partners) — portraying the harmful power dynamics perpetuating femicides and gender based-violence and their connection to women’s economic dependence.

Consequently, we need to prioritise initiatives that enhance financial independence, providing women with the resources and support needed to escape abusive situations, such as shelters and other help centres: in 46 European countries, 3 087 shelters provide 39 130 beds for women and children, but because of capacity and space issues, it is impossible to provide accommodation for all those seeking help.

When looking at the emergence of femicide and gender-based violence, it is also important to acknowledge that racism amplifies the vulnerability of women and girls — particularly those from marginalised communities. In the context of femicides, racial dynamics intersect with gender-based violence, creating compounded challenges for women of colour.

The Femicide Census, which documents women killed by men in the UK, reveals the ethnicity of only 22 out of 110 victims. This lack of data in the documentation of the victims’ ethnicity leads to insufficient conclusions and examinations, which disregard cultural circumstances, influences, as well as intercommunal disparities.

Experts suggest that women from ethnic minorities and indigenous groups may encounter discrimination due to factors like ethnicity, language and religion. This bias puts them at higher risk of various adversities, such as limited access to healthcare or higher risks of experiencing violence by strangers.

Finally, many women of colour fear engaging with the police in the first place due to concerns about discrimination or lack of support, hindering effective strategies to address the vulnerabilities faced by marginalised communities.

It is imperative that these issues extend to law enforcement. Legal and policy responses cannot be blind to structural inequalities that disproportionately affect marginalised communities. It is crucial to ensure that activist groups, NGOs overseeing femicide data processing, along with family members remembering victims and other stakeholders dismantling harmful narratives, gain increased visibility in the debate.

Legal change in progress?

From Italy to South Africa to America, in recent years there have been major efforts by feminist movements, NGOs and international organisations to put femicides on the political agenda. But how successful have these movements been?

As a study by the European Institute for Gender Equality (EIGE) suggests, the prevention of femicide is closely linked to legal responses to domestic violence. A societal rethink makes up only one part of the equation — legal consequences and political implications must follow.

When looking at Italy’s recent implementations, one strong deficit becomes apparent immediately: the government’s spending on countering gender-based violence was more than doubled in the last decade, however, the femicide rate has remained stable. The reason for this is that a large amount of money is put towards the treatment of the victims instead of the prevention of femicides.

In South Africa, the opposite has happened: the South African National Assembly recently passed the Gender-Based Violence and Femicide Bill 2023. The legislation aims to enhance the criminal justice system’s response to gender-based violence through improved law enforcement, police training and legal processes.

At first glance, this seems to be a progressive implementation, however, the initial optimism of advocates, supporters and activists was quickly dampened: the South African Social Development Minister Lindiwe Zulu squandered 100 million rands meant to assist survivors of gender-based violence by mismanaging the allocated money and transferring funds to nonfunctional civil society organisations without GBVF mandates — an example for the gap between legislative intent and effective implementation in reality.

However, one thing is clear: we should never stop telling the stories of Giulia and Nombulelo and all the other women and girls around the globe who were brutally murdered. Their stories should lead to collective action, which demands not just sympathy but systemic change and constantly amplifies the voices of the silenced.

Theresa Beckmann works at the Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung EU Office in Brussels in the editorial team of International Politics and Society.

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By Inés M. Pousadela
MONTEVIDEO, Uruguay, Jan 18 2024 – Guatemala’s new president, Bernardo Arévalo, was expected to be sworn in on 14 January at 2pm –the 14th at 14:00, as people repeated in anticipation for months. It was a momentous event – but it wasn’t guaranteed to happen.

One year earlier, Arévalo – co-founder of the progressive Movimiento Semilla (Seed Movement), a political party born out of widespread 2015 anti-corruption protests – was largely unknown, freshly selected as his party’s presidential candidate. He wasn’t on the radar of opinion polls. A long chain of unlikely events later, he’s become the first Guatemalan president in living memory who doesn’t belong to the self-serving elites who Guatemalans call ‘the corrupt pact’, which he has credibly promised to dismantle.

The fear this caused among corrupt elite that has long ruled Guatemala was reflected in a series of attempts to try to stop Arévalo’s inauguration. The huge and sustained citizen mobilisation that came in response can largely be credited with keeping alive the spark of democracy in Guatemala.

Last-minute delays

All the Guatemalan Congress needed to do on the morning of 14 January was certify its newly elected members so the body could swear in the new president. But this routine administrative procedure was dragged on for many hours. The Indigenous movement, at the forefront of the months-long protests that had successfully kept at bay successive attempts to reverse the election results, called on Indigenous communities throughout Guatemala to remain on the alert.

In the late afternoon the Secretary General of the Organization of American States, Luis Almagro, surrounded by members of numerous foreign delegations, read a declaration calling on Congress to hand over power, ‘as required by the Constitution’, to the president-elect. This signalled that the world was watching.

As tensions mounted, Semilla reached an agreement for one of its representatives to be elected as president of Congress. This allowed the certification process to resume, and Arévalo was finally sworn in shortly after midnight. Night-long celebrations followed.

A coup attempt in stages

Arévalo’s election was unexpected. He only made it into the 20 August runoff because several other contenders not to the elite’s liking had been disqualified ahead of the first round. His candidacy wasn’t blocked because he scored so poorly in the polls. People’s expectations were extremely low, and first place went to invalid votes.

But once Arévalo entered the runoff, his rise was unstoppable. Death threats soon poured in, and an assassination plot involving state and non-state forces came to light days before the runoff.

As soon as the first-round results were announced, nine parties submitted complaints about supposed ‘irregularities’ that had gone undetected by all international observers. Their supporters converged outside the Supreme Electoral Tribunal (TSE) calling for a rerun.

The Constitutional Court instead ordered a recount and instructed the TSE to suspend official certification until complaints were resolved. Following the recount, the TSE eventually endorsed the results two weeks later.

But meanwhile, Attorney General Consuelo Porras Argueta, an official under US sanctions for corruption, launched an investigation into Semilla for alleged irregularities in its registration process and had its offices raided. She also ordered two raids on TSE offices, and when the TSE officially announced Arévalo as one of the runoff contenders, she ordered Semilla’s suspension. The Constitutional Court however blocked this order and the runoff ran its course. Arévalo took 58 per cent of the vote, compared to 37.2 per cent for the pro-establishment candidate.

Efforts to stop Arévalo’s inauguration began immediately, with yet another attempt by the Public Prosecutor to have Semilla suspended. The Constitutional Court continued to receive and reject legal challenges until the day of the inauguration.

For 100 days, two different visions of Guatemala wrestled with each other: people eager for change protested nonstop while corrupt forces linked to organised crime strove to preserve their privileges at any cost.

Democracy on life support

Guatemala has long been classified as a ‘hybrid regime‘ with a mix of democratic and authoritarian traits. Under outgoing president Alejandro Giammattei, civic freedoms steadily deteriorated. State institutions grew even weaker, ransacked by predatory elites and coopted by organised crime.

One of the last acts of Giammattei’s predecessor and ally, Jimmy Morales, was to end the work of the International Commission against Impunity in Guatemala (CICIG). Charged with supporting and strengthening state institutions to investigate and prosecute serious crimes, CICIG helped file over 120 cases in the Guatemalan justice system and its joint investigations with the Attorney General’s Office led to over 400 convictions.

Under Giammattei, the Attorney General’s Office dismantled all anti-corruption efforts and criminalised those in the legal profession who’d worked alongside CICIG. Impunity flourished. Transparency International’s 2022 Corruption Perceptions Index found evidence of strong influence by organised crime over politics and politicians, with some crime bosses seeking and securing office.

It’s no wonder that Guatemalans’ trust in state institutions hit rock bottom. According to the latest Latinobarómetro report, in 2021 satisfaction with the performance of democracy stood at a meagre 25 per cent.

Challenges ahead

Arévalo came to the presidency on a credible anti-corruption platform. But dismantling dense webs of complicity, rooting out entrenched corruption and rebuilding state institutions are no easy tasks.

Among the many challenges is a highly fragmented Congress in which 16 parties are represented, with Semilla on only 23 out of 160 seats. A large majority of Congress remains on the payroll of the interests Arévalo has promised to take on, along with most of the justice system. The 14 January events made clear that the ‘corrupt pact’ will do anything it can to stop Arévalo.

Arévalo’s to-do list is long, ranging from reducing political spending and improving social services to reversing laws that criminalise protest and establishing an effective protection mechanism for human rights defenders. At the top is forcing the resignation of Attorney General Consuelo Porras, the highest official presiding over a judicial network set up to ensure the impunity of the ‘corrupt pact’.

Arévalo can’t remove the Attorney General unilaterally, and so will have to negotiate her departure. This will be a key early test of the hope invested in him to keep democracy alive. Many more are sure to come.

Inés M. Pousadela is CIVICUS Senior Research Specialist, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report.

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By Kris Janssens
RATANAKIRI PROVINCE, Cambodia, Jan 18 2024 – “What on earth are you going to do in Tropeang Krohom?” The driver of the minivan turns his head and gives me a puzzled look. Few passengers want to be dropped off in a settlement between two provincial towns.

Tropeang Krohom or ‘Red Pond’ is located at a junction of the main road. The name refers to the typical blood-red earth in this province of Ratanakiri.

From this point, a motorcyclist will take me to his village. It is a ride of more than two hours, along bumpy and unpaved roads, with large trails of dust behind passing trucks. The leaves of the grayish-green trees are covered with a thick layer of the same red sand.

Stretched out valleys

Everyone is en route to somewhere. Some are packed lightly, others carry cartloads of vegetables, cassava or sugar cane stalks, to be transported from the field to the market. A street vendor travels from one village to another on his motorbike, loaded with small items for sale such as soap, candy, or soft drinks.

About 1 percent of the total population of 17 million inhabitants live in this area. This province mainly consists of villages, each populated by 60-something families, spread across vast valleys. I go to Kbaal Romeas (literally ‘head of the rhinoceros’) next to Srepok, a tributary of the Mekong.

Cambodia’s northeast is home to more than 20 ethnic groups or Indigenous People. They each have their own story and particular customs, from death cults to love huts, and they have specific languages, although nowadays rarely used.

Young people prefer switching to Khmer, the language of the largest Cambodian ethnicity, which is slowly wiping out the others.

In this province, the clash between tradition and development became painfully clear in 2017, when a huge dam was built at the confluence of the Srepok and the Sesan rivers in Ratanakiri’s west. The power plant turned an inhabited area of ​​34,000 hectares into a huge water reservoir. Thousands of residents had to be relocated to a place with newly built houses and expansion options. But about 50 ‘Pounong’ families refuse to leave.

At first, they used small boats to row over the flooded village road. Later, the typical shaded areas under the stilt houses slowly filled with water.

Tompoun children want to show me the ghost forest, but they are still afraid. Credit: Kris Janssens / IPS

Stubborn resistance

Today, the villagers live a little further away, still within rowing distance of the old spot. Ironically, this area close to a hydroelectric power station is not connected to the grid. People here don’t want to pay for electricity from that ‘doomed’ dam anyway. A Cambodian NGO supporting the stubborn resistance is providing solar panels to power night lights and to charge mobile phones.

“I have been to the new village a few times to visit a sick relative, but I will never live there,” says Poo, 64. He shows me his rice field, which has just been harvested. “This land is my identity,” he adds. I know a few Cambodian words for “tradition” or “origin,” but this man uses them all in one sentence.

According to many ethnic traditions, bodies are not cremated as in the Buddhist culture, but buried. This also goes for Pounong people, who believe that the spirits of the deceased are still wandering around the burial site. This is the main reason why the community doesn’t want to leave.

Cambodia’s northeast is home to more than 20 ethnic groups or Indigenous People. They each have their own story and particular customs, from death cults to love huts, and they have specific languages, although nowadays rarely used. Young people prefer switching to Khmer, the language of the largest Cambodian ethnicity, which is slowly wiping out the others

The cemetery of Kbaal Romeas is completely flooded and can no longer be visited. To find out more about this death cult, I travel to other villages in northeastern Cambodia, closer to Laos and Vietnam. The current borders between the three countries of former Indochina were established by the French in the 1950s, but these minority groups have been living here much longer.

In the Tompoun village of Katai, about 20 kilometers in a straight line to the Vietnamese border, I ask a young woman to take me to the ‘prey khmaoch’ or ghost forest. She refuses. Once bodies are ritually buried, they are left to nature. Living souls shouldn’t interfere any more, she says.

Five children are willing to guide me if I promise we will stay together as a group. I see two boys holding hands, one of them whispers he’s quite afraid. Once in the forest, the only sounds we hear come from the dry leaves under our feet and from cawing crows high up in the trees.

Suddenly, the first grave appears in front of us. It is a wooden construction with decorations and a stone stating the date of death and a picture of a woman with a typical pipe in her mouth. Other small wooden graves, scattered around the trees, are in an advanced stage of decay. This place is macabre and peaceful at the same time.

Water buffalo

The burial tradition also exists in the Charai community. Leejapheuy, 68, sits on a bench in the sand under a canvas, in the middle of his village, Loom. A retired soldier who has lived in this village all his life, he has that confident attitude of someone who’s seen it all.

It turns out he is the sculptor who makes the wooden animistic guards, protecting the spirits. In the death forest, I see a statue of a man holding a gun and a sculpted elephant. As the story goes, a water buffalo is to be slaughtered for every burial, but more and more families are abandoning this practice because the animal can easily cost a few hundred dollars.

The journey continues along winding dirt roads and narrow bridges, crisscrossing the rough landscape, which turns into one big mud puddle during the rainy season.

Along the way, we see workers on cassava plantations. 12-year-old Seth comes from Kandal province, more than 500 kilometers south, next to the capital city Phnom Penh. He says he is only here for the harvest and will return to school in his hometown afterward. “This is also a reason why traditional cultures disappear,” says Mana, 37, my motorcyclist. Seasonal laborers and temporary residents do not follow the ancient customs.

The landscape changes and we pass miles of rubber plantations, recognizable by the black bowl on every tree trunk. “Ten years ago these roads were much narrower,” Mana recalls. “But these rubber companies have signed large land concessions and want to be able to drive their big trucks deep into the forest.”

Original inhabitants retreating

Around noon we arrive in Ta Veng, another village with elementary wooden houses on sandy soil. A few neighbors are crouched on the ground around a fire bowl with glowing charcoal. The lunch consists of home-harvested vegetables with sifted rice. Dogs come running towards us, barking at the top of their lungs. Pigs roam freely. Barefoot children shout from afar that visitors have arrived.

We are welcomed by Makara, who has married into this Prouw community. He limps a bit (“an anomaly from my childhood”), but that doesn’t stop him from showing us around the village. He finds traditional culture interesting, but he thinks there is also an important practical aspect.

“Monks in the Buddhist pagoda carry out cremations for free,” says Makara, “while funerals do cost a bit.” He also notices that more and more Khmer immigrants buy land and plantations in this area. “The original inhabitants are moving deeper into the forest.”

Love hut

On the way back we pass several Kreung villages. This community is known for its ‘love huts’, small private houses where daughters of marriageable age receive boyfriends. The tradition arose because it is difficult to ‘date’ in a remote village.

“In my time, I had three lovers in a hut like that before I met my current husband,” says Semapohean, 60, laughing. “And yes, the boys were allowed to sleep over. One or two nights before I’d send them away.” Here, it was girls who got to choose their favorite candidates. The custom is notable in a country where marriages are not necessarily arranged, but often require family approval.

But today the love huts no longer exist. “Every now and then we build one to show to tourists, but nowadays people use their phones to meet each other”. In addition, families now live in larger houses, where the children have a separate room and therefore sufficient privacy. Semapohean doesn’t seem to mind that much.

Sookanjerai, 52, is more pessimistic. “This new generation is too lazy to continue the tradition,” he says. Young people do not necessarily want to leave the area, but they lose interest in the specific customs. Sookanjerai has little hope for the future “In a few years from now everyone will have become Khmer and our ethnicities will be gone.”