Married in Britain - review

If you are British, what was not to love about this programme? ‘Married in Britain’, a programme shown on BBC2 last week, followed 3 immigrant couples about to be married. Everyone was so positive and effusive about Britain it almost made your heart glow. All, undoubtedly carefully selected from many potential interviewees, but nevertheless you could not help but warm to each of them.

In Britain today, 1 in 4 births are to parents who were born outside the country. That makes you sit and think about the huge changes that are happening here, for better or worse.

Firstly there was Fernanda and Clovis from Brazil. He used to have several businesses in Brazil but they collapsed and he came to Britain for a new start. They had 2 daughters here together although she spent the first 6 months crying as she couldn’t speak English and was homesick. She eventually found connection with other Brazilians who were students and through the church. Clovis was the breadwinner, currently working 60 hours / week as a minicab driver. He searched all over for work in Britain then found work cleaning before moving on to washing dishes in a coffee shop and finally to minicabbing. ‘London is fantastic, a wonderful town’ he maintains. For Fernanda, she says that, ‘in London, I learnt a lot more about the world than in Brazil’ – because of the diversity of the population here. She cried as she talked of her brother who had recently died in Brazil, that she couldn’t be there when he died and that she didn’t have the money to bring her mother over for her wedding. Clovis was trying to restrict the wedding budget to £1000 in total – Fernanda had bought her wedding dress off the internet for £154 and her shoes for £14.99. They did the catering themselves- only sleeping a few hours each night for the preparation. And the rain on the day of their wedding did not dampen their joy: ‘We are blessed!’ as Fernanda said, before having their photographs taken in front of the river and Houses of Parliament to send back home.

Then there was Catalin and Cassandra from Romania. Cassandra couldn’t yet speak much English, but among the couples she was the exception – everyone else having acquired a very good level of English since being here. For Catalin, coming to the UK was ‘easy to come but hard to stay’. Asked why, he said, ‘The rent’. Yes, living and housing costs in London are steep and many will rely on government support to supplement their low income.

Finally there was Robert and Agnetha from Poland. They had only known each other for a short time – around 2 months, but Robert was effusive about her. He had previously been an alcoholic in Poland but had come to the UK for a new start. He had work he liked in a packing factory and found strength (and a wife) from the church here in the UK. For Robert, England was great because of its ‘beautiful roads and beautiful motorways’. Infrastructure is clearly one of the UK’s good points then. For Agnetha, it didn’t matter about his past, only what you are now. She wanted a Christian man and found it in Robert. It almost made you believe in marriage and the forever after just listening to them. The simplicity of their wedding in a very basic community hall, with a translator from English to Polish, was actually very moving. And truly I am not the wedding type.

There were other anonymous interviewees as well. I loved the Syrian woman waxing lyrical about freedom of speech. ‘In my house,’ she said, ‘I speak my mind. And my family say ‘Mum!...’. I say, ‘Listen, I come all the way to Britain to have freedom of speech, which I was denied in Syria’.

Then there was Marian, a 17 year old student from Romania. When asked whether he preferred Britain to Romania, his reply was, ‘Hell yes’. ‘In Romania,’ he said, ‘people don’t care about you.’ ‘In England, if you need help, people will help you’. He wants to join the British Army, once eligible. He says he is prepared to potentially lose his life for Britain if necessary – but not Romania. Wow.

Another wedding organiser said, ‘Spain, Tunisia, Ghana – you name it they all come here’. Another, running a banqueting hall, says, ‘We have Somalian, Congolese, Nigerian, Ghanaian, Turkish…..we don’t have British’. The British apparently are not so bothered about weddings these days: we are happy just being boyfriend and girlfriend.

And so, you might ask, where is the Indian presence here? Or Pakistani / Bangladeshi presence? After all, the greatest immigration to London in the last decade has been from India. I did wonder this, and concluded that perhaps it was ‘old hat’. Perhaps the Indian presence had simply been too long here in the UK, and integrated enough into the medical, dental, pharmaceutical professions and restaurant trades. Perhaps the focus here had up until now been too much on the lavish weddings, expensive saris and huge banquets of the ‘average’ Indian wedding – and the producers wanted something different. I did also wonder whether the Indian immigrants recently had already married back in India and were here on highly skilled migrants visas (typically IT), or as students – hence already married, or not looking to marry just yet. It was also interesting that all of the featured couples had married within their own ethnicity and religion. None had inter-cultural relationships – which is not to say they don’t exist (in their hundreds or thousands). But all had seemingly integrated well, learnt English to a good standard (except perhaps Cassandra from Romania) - helped, no doubt, by the similarities in cultural backgrounds: Christian, similar clothes and recognisable cuisine. Granted, a highly selective (and possibility unrepresentative) small sample, of course.

The Indian presence on the programme was there in someone describing what kind of wedding outfits would suit a Hindu or Sikh or Muslim population. The only other interviewee was an Indian man, dressed in traditional dress, saying that, ‘Britain has allowed too many immigrants into this country. Looking at the size and the job opportunities, there are too many, you can feel it.’

So Britain is changing – and fast. We might moan about house prices, travel, weather, high rents, low wages, long working hours (I could go on). But if all newcomers are as charming, hard working and committed to Britain as those featured on the programme, please come and please stay. We need you. Even if it does mean that for the more established immigrant communities from the South Asian sub-continent, it is all getting a little crowded.

Nose piercing

For many years, since I was a teenager, I have thought about getting my nose pierced. Despite my rebellious nature and lack of conformity, I always hesitated, however, and decided against it as perhaps being something that ‘nice’, educated, middle class women did not do. I did get my left ear pierced 3 times and my right ear pierced 2 times but then for many years I wore hardly any jewellery at all – earrings or otherwise (primarily because of an allergy to many types of metal).

Then 4-5 years ago, at a time when I was neither working nor studying (a brief hiatus in my life), I suddenly decided I would just do it. I have read elsewhere that it is reasonably common for women aged 40 and over to have their nose pierced, and similar. For me, it was that freeing up of any sense of judgment about myself, a lack of anything left to prove about my place in society, having strived so hard in my 20s to both find myself and make my mark in the world. I had more confidence to do what I wanted without caring what anyone else thought. Perhaps a more solid sense of my own identity. Or perhaps a mid-life crisis.

So, one morning I took myself off to the most respectable-looking place nearest to my home to have my nose pierced. There was a slight ‘discussion’ at the beginning as I was asked to sign a declaration saying I would not sue them under any criminal, civil or common law for any injury arising from the piercing. I argued that this was not legal, that they could not deny any responsibility for any personal injury caused. Once we had got over that slight hurdle, and I had assured myself of the sterile nature of the needle etc., I had my nose pierced on the left side with a very small, unobtrusive stud put it.

My God it hurt! Why did I not think it would be so painful? Putting a fairly thick needle right through the cartilage on the nostril, then trying to thread a curved stud through it – of course it would hurt. I would have taken loads of painkillers beforehand if I had thought ahead at all. Still, it was done – straight to Boots for painkillers, then home.

That afternoon I went to pick up my son from school. The first thing he saw was my nose stud.

‘What on earth is that? he asked. I tried to explain. He thought it was so offensive, so embarrassing that he literally could not look at me in the car on the way home. He just peaked at me out of the corner of his eye with his face covered by his hand.

‘Mum, you look ridiculous’, he said. Not for the first time (usually when I am dancing along to Bollywood songs on a DVD).

In time, my son got used to it and so did I. Then I started a new job, in a profession not noted for its liberal nature, in an office environment where business dress was expected most of the time. I decided the piercing would not look good and may alienate clients. I considered, and tried, a clear plastic ‘invisible’ stud to wear to the office – but decided that too would be too noticeable. Instead, I decided to remove the stud for work, but put it back in during home and leisure time. Sadly, it didn’t work and after only one week, the piercing in my nose (so hard and painfully won) had closed up and I couldn’t put any more studs through it.

But at work there were a couple of women of Asian origin who wore nose studs. In fact, there are many Asian women who do so and it is considered quite normal and respectable.

So, what is the difference? Why did I, as a white English woman, feel rebellious and non-conformist in deciding to have my nose pierced? Why did I think that it was something that ‘nice, middle class, educated’ women did not do from my ethnic background?

I am slightly comforted by a study from Southampton in 2001 that could not associate the present of body piercing (of any type) with any socioeconomic class, method of contraception, number of partners or presence of any genital infection. The study showed that it was probably just done for purely fashion reasons (International Journal of STD & AIDS, 2001, 12(6):358-360).

But in a rapidly globalising world, how is it that women in India, and women of Indian origin here in the UK, have a choice of clothes: from salwar kameez, saris, jeans and kurta, leggings and kurta and western-style jeans and T-shirt. They can have their nose pierced, or not – and it wouldn’t be a sign of rebellion or otherwise.

For women of English origin, though (like myself), we have no such choice – without seeming ‘hippy’, ‘rebellious’ or just plain weird. If I wear a shalwar kameez, I feel slightly self-conscious, like I am trying to make a statement (I’m not – I just like them). Similarly if I have a stud in my nose. I haven’t even tried a sari yet, for fear of coming across like a Hari Krishna groupee.

Why is it OK one way and not the other? Maybe I will go and get my nose pierced again but this time take a lot of painkillers beforehand.

Justice in Delhi

The aftermath of the gang rape and murder of the physiotherapy student in Delhi – now known to be Jyoti Singh Pandey - has shown many deficiencies both in Indian civil society and the criminal justice system.

In an interview in today’s (UK) Times, Awindra Pandey – who was with the victim when they were both attacked – said ‘everything was a failure that day’. Even after they had been thrown off the bus, it took 20 minutes for anyone to stop and help. Mr Pandey said many people were watching as he tried to alert them, trying many cars, rickshaws and bikes, but no-one stopped. Even after the police eventually arrived, they argued about who should take the case. The police did not want to touch his friend, who was bleeding heavily, while waiting for the ambulance in case they got blood on their uniform.  Instead, Mr Pandey was asked to put a sheet, eventually obtained from a hotel, around her and put her in the van – despite the fact that he himself had a broken leg. Even once in the ambulance, it apparently drove past better equipped private clinics to take her to a government hospital, whose facilities Mr Pandey says were poor. He believes that she might have survived if the level of care in the government hospital had been better.

The rape and murder of Jyoti Singh Pandey, while in no way unusual in itself, has caused national and international outrage. But the refusal of the Indian Bar Association to allow any of its members to defend those accused will not aid justice, in a supposedly democratic country where the rule of law presides. The Bar Council in the UK has called on the Indian Bar to uphold high ethical standards and provide legal representation as a cornerstone of the right to a fair trial, no matter how horrendous the crime or the personal views of the lawyers (reported in ‘The Lawyer’ today). In the last couple of days, 2 lawyers have offered to defend 5 of the men, despite the condemnation of their legal colleagues.

Lawyer Sivaramjani Thambisetty has highlighted the flaws of Indian justice in her post yesterday on the LSE India blog: ‘Due process threatened? What the Delhi rape case reveals about justice in India’. In this, she argues a raft of measures are needed to facilitate access to justice for all sections of society. She comments that ‘The Supreme Court itself’ [in India] ‘has acknowledged that many convictions are unsafe, poverty is a significant factor and that the penalty has a “class bias and a colour bar”. The subjective criteria on which the sentence is imposed includes whether the case “shocks one’s conscience” or amounts to the “rarest of rare” circumstances. These are vague criteria masquerading as legal doctrine.’

The UK Bar Council has been accused of judging from afar and I am certainly wary of that. There may be a very real threat to the lawyers in India who volunteer or are put forward to represent the men accused. The UK is far from perfect: there is violence and discrimination against women here. Let’s hope that justice is done, whichever country, in accordance with the due process of law and not at the end of a lynch mob.

'Indian bar must represent Delhi gang rape defendants, says Bar council' - www.thelawyer.com, accessed 09/01/2013

Due process threatened?  What the Delhi rape case reveals about justice in India' - India at LSE blog, accessed 09/01/2013

Arranged marriage

My friends and relatives know that I live quite close to one of London’s most important heritage attractions. Just at this time of year the numbers of tourists dwindle considerably but then picks up noticeably around Easter. Hordes of European schoolchildren arrive, sneaking cigarettes at the back of the group, or holding hands with their boyfriends or girlfriends.

Then into early summer the nature of the tourists change; more couples and family groups. I notice more tourists of Indian origin from India – you can tell the difference quite easily. Often they are in multi-generational groups. The more of these family groups you see the more predictable patterns emerge; the husband leads from the front, charging ahead, usually 10 yards, with a child, leaving his parents or his wife’s parents behind together with his wife. The body language between both the younger and older couples feels awkward at best. Often it feels the older couple are there almost as a chore; they seem to have no interest in their surroundings. I presume the parents have been invited and hosted by their children almost as a sense of duty.

I do have two questions the answers to which are related: firstly, wouldn’t the grandparents be happier touring by themselves, and second why does the younger man just charge ahead not paying heed to his wife, talking with her, enjoying being together, in one of the world’s great cities.

The second question will be partially answered here and it won’t come as a surprise to you Dear Reader.

My parents had an arranged marriage and my father behaved just as the young fathers did on those London streets; he would walk on ahead and just leave my mother in many places.

Most people including myself find the idea of an arranged marriage a strange foreign concept; the thought of marrying someone you don’t know, and spending your life with them. Defenders of arranged marriage will say your parents have done the matchmaking, found someone of your class / caste who will be an accompaniment to your life. And they say the love will grow as if to denigrate the Western concept of what in Indian culture is called “love marriage”. But let's not forget that Royal marriages in Europe were often arranged for political purposes; in the era of Jane Austen mothers schemed to get their daughters married off to rich, eligible men.

Since this is a relatively serious piece I’m going to get the personal anecdotes over with early. When growing up in Birmingham I would read the local paper which had many stories of girls and boys being taken to Pakistan and India to be married off. This scared the BeJesus out of me. So for a long time I was extremely wary of my parents’ friends who had daughters about my age. At a secondary school I stayed well clear of a Bengali girl in my class; I think that caution was justified as she had an arranged marriage at 19. This was an extremely rare occurrence among my cohort; I would never have been asked and had I been asked I could have said no. But at the age of 14/15 I wasn’t to know this. Later on in my late 20s my father was called suggesting he had “two eligible sons”. My mother would occasionally give me numbers of her friends’ daughters who lived in London, but after dates with different women I rather tired of the type and never did that again.

I guess I was aware from about the age of 11 that my parents didn’t quite connect – they had nothing much in common. Perhaps before that you don’t think there is anything wrong. My father was well educated and professional while my mother’s schooling was limited; in the West that meant a high degree of dependency which is not what you need when you have a busy and demanding job.

One would see that my parents had very little communication between themselves. My father would come home, make his tea and then retreat to his study until it was time for dinner, generally at the late Bengali hour of 9pm. There was no small talk of the type Sue and I have about our day, just over a cup of tea or a glass of wine. The other thing I realised was that they never called each other or seemingly referred to each other; their names, whether formal or informal, were never used. Nor did they use any terms of endearment. Perhaps this is common amongst Indians or Bengalis; on a number of occasions I have heard women refer to their partners as “my daughter’s father” rather than by name.

Of course it’s very difficult as an outsider to tell how well a marriage works but one can tell how well a couple communicate and interact and that perhaps is a sign. I remember seeing the Indian prime minister and his wife arriving at Downing Street for the G20 meeting and being met by Gordon Brown and his wife; the Indian couple took forever to get in their right places for the photographers. They seemed to have no idea how to communicate with each other. Although I have no definitive information I am inclined to think the marriage was arranged.

My insight from arranged marriages is mixed. Most (if not all) of the Bengali couples, my parents’ friends, that I knew in Birmingham were in arranged marriages. The majority were both of identical caste and academic / professional achievement, with both parties generally speaking English perfectly before coming to the UK. Some of those marriages ended in divorce, the percentage of divorces probably higher than in India. But most of those marriages seemed to be successful, although is just longevity an indication of “success”?

My cousins in India that had arranged marriages, almost all, have all stayed together. But a number of girl cousins have adamantly refused to get married; whether this is because of their own experiences of their parents’ marriages or more a rejection of the traditions is uncertain. But their conduct suggests that India is changing; it may be more acceptable for a woman to be unmarried.

Meanwhile, a recent survey in India suggested that there is continued support for the tradition of arranged marriage; NDTV (an Indian TV news channel) in association with Ipsos reported that 74% of Indians supported the tradition (although there were regional variations with Bengalis to my delight being the least supportive). The survey was conducted among 30,000 respondents. Anecdotally it is believed the number of “love marriages” has increased. The survey also found that 89% of respondents preferred to live in extended family households which would be anathema to most British readers. But there is probably a connection; if you are in an arranged marriage, and in an extended household then your husband’s family are your family too and you have a ready source of new friends if you don’t get on with your husband. Of course the husband would never move into his wife’s family home.

Meanwhile, an academic paper surveyed 783 families in Kolkata who had advertised in the newspapers for brides and grooms for their offspring. The researchers found that 30% of respondents had accepted an out of caste partner, 40% eventually found a partner through other channels (friends, family networks and presumably the Internet), and that 20% entered into a “love marriage”. The latter number is interesting since it suggests that offspring had presumably kept their affairs / relationships from their family, and only the fact that their parents had begun looking for a partner forced them to reveal all. It should be remembered that the sample is limited to those using the newspapers. Such people are generally English speaking and high caste. Many groups might use other channels from the outset. I might also add that Bengali attitudes are not necessarily reflective of the rest of India. (“Marrying for What? Caste and Mate Selection in Modern India” – Banerjee, Duflo, Ghatak and Lafortune, 2009)

So, despite the pace of change in India the concept of arranged marriage still holds sway. From various conversations with friends I understand that in the home city of the hi-tech industry, Bangalore, young educated managers still expect to have an arranged marriage. They often plan 2-3 years in advance, thinking for example that they should get married at 24/5, or when they’ve completed their MBA, or Masters. Of course at such an early stage they have no idea who they will marry. To the Westerner (and I am one) this sounds cynical.

But let’s not forget this is not “forced marriage” but a situation where each party would meet any number of potential partners before there is a meeting of minds. There may be some supervised or chaperoned meetings.

My anecdotal experience of my cohort in the UK (Bengali Hindus 2nd generation raised in Birmingham) suggests there were few arranged marriages. One woman was “married off” relatively young (at 19/20) while another woman married a groom “imported” from Kolkata. Not surprisingly that marriage ended in divorce. Of the rest of the cohort some married partners from other Indian regions, but UK born, and the majority have married native British partners. I would think that the rates of marriage between Bengali Hindu second generation and white native British partners are probably the highest of any ethnic group from the Indian sub-continent. This is mainly due to the fact that there is little or no parental pressure and that Bengalis, of both sexes, are highly integrated at work and in education. It should be remembered that Hindu Bengali first generation (i.e. my parents’ generation) were educated and professional before they arrived in the UK. There may also be a tendency to avoid arranged marriages because of any possible and perceived stigma. In addition, there is probably an aversion to potentially being in a loveless arranged marriage and possibly emulating the young and old couples on holiday.

Although there are significant western influences in India it appears that the institution of arranged marriage there is strong and will remain so for the foreseeable future. But what of arranged marriages in the UK amongst the sub-continental Indian diaspora? My group, Bengali Hindus, are clearly not representative. It would appear that some groups originally from the Indian sub-continent have high rates of intermarriage, probably arranged amongst the diaspora. This trend looks likely to continue. Amongst some other groups there would appear to be large numbers of arranged marriages, particularly to brides "imported “from their parents' home region. However, recent government legislation will make it difficult to “import” partners with Britons having to show at least average incomes, the ability to support their partners without recourse to benefits, and their partners showing competence in the English language. Despite this arranged marriages in the UK will continue for another couple of generations, perhaps to the surprise of some.

Midnight's Children

My very yellowed and battered copy of ‘Midnight’s Children’ still sits on my bookshelf where it has sat for the past 25 years. I read it when I first went to India, back in 1987 as essential reading for 21 year old backpackers in those days. It, and India, opened up new worlds for me – worlds beyond European Judeo-Christian ordered society, where human life and death, wealth and extreme poverty were lived out on the street, not sanitised by European industrial bureaucracy.

Reading the testimonials on the back cover of my 1982 edition makes you realise just how far Europe and India have come in the past 30 years. It marked Salman Rushdie as a major novelist as the voice of the ‘other’, of the ‘orient’ to start to make itself heard on its own terms in the English speaking world. ‘The literary map of India is about to be redrawn….Midnight’s Children sounds like a continent finding its voice. An author to welcome to world company’ as the New York Times proclaims on the front cover.

The story starts with the birth of independent India, as an exhausted Britain finally took its leave, and the birth of 2 boys at midnight on 14/15 August 1947. One born to a wealthy family, the other to a poor family, eeking out an existence begging for coins in exchange for a song on an accordion. But in some sort of private revolutionary act, the midwife looking after them, Mary Pereira, swaps them - denying the riches due to one, condemning him to a life of poverty (and no mother, as his mother died shortly after the birth) and the other to unexpected wealth.

And so the 2 boys are linked not only to each other but to all the other children born at midnight, at the birth of India. As Rushdie put it, ‘….all over the new India, the dream we all shared, children were being born who were only partially the offspring of their parents – the children of midnight were also the children of the time: fathered, you understand, by history’ (p.118). Saleem Sinai (the now rich boy, played by Satya Bhabha) discovers a shared telepathy in which all the children of midnight, can be conjured up for their very own conference. This included Shiva, the boy whose life he stole and Parvati- the witch with magical powers.

Trying to convey the sweep of history the book covers on screen in less than 2½ hours is difficult and not altogether satisfactory. I don’t know how much the film would have made sense without a prior knowledge of modern history of the Indian sub-continent. Rushdie’s forte lies with weaving together the personal lives of Saleem, Shiva and their families with the political events as the newly born India goes through its own growing pains – through partition and the creation of Pakistan, war in Kashmir, the war with East Pakistan and the creation of Bangladesh, to Indira Gandhi’s state of emergency, forced sterilisations and the military coup in Pakistan. I was slightly confused with the character of General Zulfikar Ali (played by Rahul Bose) in the film, the army general husband of Emerald Aunty, Saleem’s aunt. In the film, he seemed to be modelled, both in appearance and role, on General Muhammad Zia ul-Haq – the army general who deposed Pakistan's Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto in a military coup in 1977 (and subsequently had him executed on trumped up murder charges). The swapping of names in the book / film may have been deliberate, though Indira Gandhi had her own name in the film.

There seemed to be some kind of divine fate as Shiva becomes a much respected and decorated soldier following the war with Bangladesh whereas Saleem is reduced to poverty after losing all his family, killed by a bomb on the house. Saleem then marries Parvati-the-witch who is pregnant with Shiva’s child, who he vows to bring up as his own child.

The religious intermingling throughout the film (and book) is sobering, particularly in the light of subsequent world events and Iran’s ‘fatwa’ on Rushdie following the ‘Satanic Verses’. Shiva is born to a (presumably) Hindu mother, fathered by an English colonial, whilst Saleem is Muslim – both swapped at birth by a Christian midwife. Saleem then subsequently marries Hindu Parvati. The film itself was shot in Sri Lanka, as director Deepa Mehta feared protests by both Muslim fundamentalists if shot in Pakistan and Hindu fundamentalists if shot in India. As it was, even in Sri Lanka, filming was temporarily stopped following a complaint from Iran. After the film’s Indian premiere in December 2012, the Indian National Congress complained about the negative portrayal of Indira Gandhi and screenings were stopped – though apparently due to start again next month.

I found the ending poignant, as Saleem makes his way to Bombay and finds Mary Pereira now running a chutney factory. After the idealism and hope of India’s birth, the turbulence and wars of adolescence, Saleem, his son Aadam Sinai (Shiva’s biological son), Sikh father figure Picture Singh and Mary find themselves bonded to each other, connected through circumstance and events that have survived any family or religious ties. They have attained a hard-won maturity, appreciative of the depth and simplicity of human bonds as Saleem embarks on true adulthood, now responsible for his son.

An image that may resonate with many of us, as we reflect back on our own paths and growing pains over the last 30 years. And hopefully one that will now allow India to fully take its place on the world stage, on its own terms.