“To Witness”
Ankita Deb (Stanford University)
To Kill a Tiger (Nisha Pahuja, 2022) begins with a long disclaimer regarding the film’s choice to depict a survivor of sexual violence. It clarifies that the film decided to make Kiran, the survivor, visible based on her choice. In an interview Pahuja said that, as an adult, Kiran saw the film and decided to come out in order to inspire other survivors to seek legal justice. To Kill a Tiger follows Kiran’s father Ranjit in rural Jharkhand, in Eastern India who – along with his wife Jaganti – sought legal recourse after their thirteen-year-old daughter was brutally gang raped. The family’s decision to seek legal help rather than pursue a local resolution within the village community invites the ire of the fellow villagers. In the same interview, Pahuja said that the film took over seven years to make, during which she and her team worked with multiple formats to show Kiran’s story. However, Kiran was so moved looking back at her own journey of courage as a thirteen-year-old who defied social norms in her village, that she decided to reveal herself. The names in the film were nonetheless changed for the sake of the family’s safety. As Pahuja negotiates what can be revealed and what must remain hidden, troubling questions on the representational politics of documentary haunt the entire film.
While Kiran’s decision to appear on screen is powerful, we see her throughout the film as a thirteen-year-old breaking down on camera on several occasions. At one point while speaking on camera seated next to her father, she starts crying, unable to raise her head and face the camera. As the camera lingers for a few minutes on Kiran who is still wiping her tears with her skirt, her father Ranjit asks her to go wash her face so she can collect herself away from the camera. One wonders now, as an adult when Kiran sees the film, did she struggle to look at her vulnerable self on screen as the family goes to court to seek justice? The camera’s proximity to Kiran and the rest of the family in their humble mud and straw house is overwhelming. This is especially so as the film captures the intense turmoil of the family undergoing this painful ordeal in the intimacy of their home.
Pahuja confirms several times within the film as well as in her interviews that what stood out to her was the patriarch of the family, Ranjit. Ranjit appears as a father who went up against huge odds to fight for his daughter, despite social pressures to do otherwise: a phenomenon she claims is quite rare in the Indian subcontinent. This focus makes sense, because the film works closely with the Jharkhand based non-profit, the Srijan Foundation, to trace how men can be supported to become allies in the feminist movement. What gets pushed to the background, however, are the defiant women who nevertheless emerge with extraordinary force in this story. Capturing the victim blaming and slut shaming of the local villagers – including the village head who actively harasses the family and orders them to marry Kiran to one of her perpetrators – the film lays out the volatile social politics of the region. Both Kiran and her mother, despite having far less screen time than Ranjit, hold their own ground. For instance, Ranjit falters with surmounting pressures from the villagers, but Jaganti’s confidence never dwindles. She gently scolds him at times, for instance when he gets tongue-tied with the lawyers discussing their case. In one sequence, Jaganti speaks directly to the camera asking Pahuja if the crew believes that the family has made the right decision. This is a rare instance of breaking the fourth wall in this largely observational film, reminding us of the film crew’s presence in the intimate life of the family. At that moment, Jaganti powerfully challenges the camera’s formidable presence. Throughout the film, the camera captures vulnerable moments in their home as the members of the family go through a fourteen-month harrowing ordeal seeking justice for the gang rape of their daughter, in a system in which such crimes are not taken seriously. Eventually, the family wins the case through Kiran’s powerful testimony and the court’s verdict sets a new precedent by awarding the longest punishment in the state of Jharkhand for committing sexual violence.
Towards the end of the film, as the trial progresses, the villagers – their neighbors – barge into the family’s home and start accusing the family of bringing a bad name to their community. The villagers are infuriated by the media attention they have received due to this case – and, likely, to Pahuja’s documentary camera in their midst. They argue that the film crew’s presence has brought disrepute to the village, which – they claimed – prior to this incident had never encountered any incidents of sexual violence. In this powerful scene, Jaganti remains composed and addresses these women with confidence. She says it is, in fact, nobody’s business what the family decides to do with the trial and that they have no reason to withdraw the case. After this incident, the filmmakers consult with the women’s rights activists at the Srijan Foundation who suggest that they should henceforth avoid entering the village with their camera. The crew follows the family through the trial from outside of the village, in the city.
Hence, the end of the film makes one wonder what place the documentary has and will have in the lives of their subjects. What kind of subjecthood emerges when the film gets screened to (largely) western audiences who witness the lives of Kiran and her family entrenched in the turbulent socio-politics of rural Jharkhand through Pahuja’s lens? What kind of representative politics transpires through the Oscar nominated documentary as it negotiates with the ethics of capturing, witnessing, and displaying?
“Gender-Based Violence and Documenting Justice”
Suzanne Bouclin (University of Ottowa)
Throughout the world, gender-based violence (GBV) has reached epidemic levels. In India, a sexual assault is reported every 20 minutes. While GBV occurs across economic strata, race, and religion, an overwhelming number of sexual assaults are committed against girls and women from the lowest tiers of the nation’s rigid caste system. An increasing number of these are committed by multiple perpetrators. The country’s laws have recently been overhauled, adding specific protections for minors and expanding the definition of sexual assault, yet justice still eludes many victims. As few as one percent of victims will report to the police – a result of victim-shaming, fear that their complaint will not be taken seriously, and threats of violent reprisals. Of those reported cases, an exceptional few will result in a conviction. Nisha Pahuja’s documentary To Kill a Tiger chronicles one such exceptional case. It follows Kiran (a pseudonym) as she attempts to attain justice after three men from her village – including a cousin – raped her at a family event. While thirteen-year-old Kiran is the focal character, her resolve and resilience are conveyed through her father’s (Ranjit) and her mother’s (Jaganti) interactions with a complex matrix of faith-based rules around honor colliding with state-based laws around crimes.
Over three years, the family (poor rice farmers from the Adivasi Indigenous community) face obstacles to bringing the assailants to justice: the police initially conduct a shoddy investigation; they live 40km from the prosecutor’s office and the court; they must attend multiple, time-consuming pre-hearing meetings through the Special Courts System established under The Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act; they amass crushing legal costs. However, more immediate and impactful on their daily lives is the pressure they experience from their extended community. In the opening sequence, a news anchor introduces the central theme of the documentary in voiceover, asking whether, considering the alarming increase in GBV, there is “something fundamentally wrong with our country.” One can only deduce that the answer the film provides is yes and that India must “kill the tiger” – the tiger representing the misogynistic worldview that constitutes India’s rape culture. Pahuja captures the discourses and rationalizations for violence against girls and women that lead boys and men to feel entitled and victims to blame themselves for the harm they have experienced. For instance, the Mukhiya (district chief) proposes that family drop the charges and have Kiran marry one of the assailants. Muthalik (a panchayat member) argues that the assailants are “young and made a mistake” and that “cut[ting] their throats and toss[ing] them away” will do nothing to restore peace to the village. In any event, he implies, Kiran provoked the assault: “A girl always bears some blame. A boy will only be naughty if a girl encourages him.” A woman from the village suggests that Kiran marry the most egregious offender because “they’ve already had sex” and in any event marriage will shelter her from further stigma: “[it] is the only solution because her house has been shamed by that boy … She can’t marry another man now.” The family receives death threats and begins to internalize shame: Ranjit blames himself (“I did not protect her,” “I wasn’t vigilant enough, so this happened”); Kiran does too (“Maybe I’m a bit of a fool. Otherwise, why would they target me?”). Pahuja counterbalances these messages by showcasing the tireless efforts of the Srijan Foundation – an NGO advocating for gender equality in rural India – without whom, the matter would not have made it to trial. Mahendra Kumar, for instance, explains that to eradicate GBV, boys and men must be part of a broader dialogue around bodily integrity, dignity, and citizenship: “Do girls not have lives of their own? Their own desires? Or do they just want to be puppets that belong to men?”
The narrative arc is one of resistance in the face of violence and the successful pursuit of justice. The assailants are found guilty of kidnapping and gang rape; each is sentenced to 25 years imprisonment, a term they are currently serving. The postscript states that Kiran has left her village to train as a police officer. She and her family are shown riding roller coasters – a moment of levity after an arduous ordeal. However, that happy ending is complicated by the fact that the convictions are currently under appeal; the choice to include a scene in which Kiran is memorizing and rehearsing her statement may render her testimony vulnerable to contestation during that appeal; and whatever compensation Kiran is entitled to under POCSO is unlikely to be paid. Moreover, the political commitment that Pahuja sought to advance – enhancing the conversation around eradicating sexual violence against girls and women – is complicated by how she represents the relationship between customary norms and the criminal law.
Specifically, the documentary does not satisfactorily probe into the lasting effects its filming will have on the family’s relationships with other members of their village. On some level, everyone – especially Kiran and her family – wants to move forward. The community has its own pre-existing modes and methods of doing so. The customary practice of marrying victim and assailant is embedded in notions of honor – whether individual, familial, or collective – as well as a version (albeit narrow) of restorative justice that recognizes the harm suffered (disharmony and divisiveness) by the entire community as the result of this atrocious act. It is also rooted in the patriarchal and sexist belief that female victims are sullied and therefore no longer worthy of marriage. The documentary depicts this practice as the outcome of a primitive and regressive (“typical village thinking”) worldview. Importantly, it juxtaposes this solution with the one proposed by the common law (state-based, colonial): the prosecution and punishment of sexual offenders, with harsh sentencing provisions, including life imprisonment and capital punishment. Hence, while shattering misogynistic worldviews through education is the initial focus of the film, the formal criminal justice system is ultimately portrayed as the only viable means of ending GBV. This is confounding because the exact same patriarchal norms and sexist biases that the film critiques when they are reflected in customary practices are just as deeply embedded in Indian legal institutions. Indeed, the practice of marrying victim and assailant has been advanced by defense counsel to garner a reduced sentence or an acquittal because the rape of one’s wife is not a crime. Most shockingly, it has even been endorsed as an appropriate remedy by the former Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.
Given that feminists have long argued that stricter sentences do not eradicate sexual assault and often lead to backlash and increased violence, the film leaves a few questions answered, such as: What is the role of the criminal law in eradicating GBV? Can documentary contribute to amending laws to better protect survivors? Can patriarchal customary practices be challenged in ways that do not reproduce derogatory views of the communities who practice them? Can community justice in India be reconceptualized to include a broader understanding of restorative justice, that enhances girls and women bodily autonomy?
DOCALOGUE 