When the State Behaves Like a Woman’s Husband and Guardian
In Bangla, ‘bhatar’ is a colloquial, somewhat irreverent word for husband. I use it here deliberately, not simply to mean a spouse, but to describe a man who assumes the authority to control a woman’s movements, choices and life, as though she belongs to him.
Supriti Dhar:
By what right does a male state official appoint himself the guardian of an adult woman?
I genuinely want to know.
Where in Bangladeshi law does it say that if an adult woman is unmarried, she must carry a man’s permission along with her passport? Where does it say that when three adult women travel abroad together, immigration officials may ask them why they are unmarried, why they are travelling without a male guardian, or why they want to travel at all?
This is not a hypothetical question.
Three adult Bangladeshi women – Rifa Tamanna, Sohani Islam Samapti and Naznin were travelling together to Nepal. They had their passports, tickets and necessary travel documents. They were travelling with their own money, of their own choice, during their own time. They were not facing criminal charges, nor was there a court order restricting their travel.
Yet they were stopped at the airport. According to their complaint, the questioning repeatedly returned to their status as unmarried women.
Why?
Because they were women?
Because they were unmarried?
Or because the idea is still so deeply rooted in our society that whenever some men encounter an independent woman, they instinctively search for the man who is supposed to own, authorise or supervise her? This cannot be dismissed as a minor case of harassment. It raises a much larger question:
Can the Bangladeshi state recognise an adult woman as a complete citizen in her own right?
A man travels abroad—he is a citizen.
A woman travels abroad—wait. Whose wife is she?
Not married?
Then whose daughter?
Whose sister?
Where is the man travelling with her?
Who gave her permission?
Is the state running immigration control, or a neighbourhood morality committee?
An immigration officer has a job. Check whether my passport is valid. Check whether my documents are in order. Check whether there is any lawful restriction preventing me from travelling.
If everything is legal, let me go.
Whether I am married – what business is that of yours?
Where my husband is – what business is that of yours?
Whether my father knows – what business is that of yours?
Why I am travelling without a man – again, what business is that of yours?
You are an officer of the state. Your authority comes from law. Why should a man’s position within the state give him patriarchal authority over an adult woman?
When patriarchy acquires state power
If a man tries to control a woman in his private life, we can call it patriarchal behaviour.
But when the same mentality is exercised through an immigration desk, a police station, an administrative office or any other institution of the state, something changes.
Patriarchy acquires institutional power.
And that is dangerous.
We have normalised control over women so thoroughly that sometimes we do not even notice when it moves from the family into the state.
A woman goes out at night – questions.
Travels alone – questions.
Spends time with friends – questions.
Does not marry – questions.
Marries – questions.
Does not have children – questions.
Has children – questions.
Gets divorced – questions.
Spends the money she earns as she chooses – questions.
There seems to be no door in a woman’s life without patriarchy standing guard.
Sometimes the guard is her father.
Sometimes her brother.
Sometimes her husband.
Sometimes a religious leader.
Sometimes a neighbour.
Sometimes society itself.
And sometimes, a government official.
The difference is that the last man has the power of the state behind him.
When his personal prejudices become mixed with his official authority, they are no longer merely the opinions of an individual man. They can become an interference with a citizen’s rights.
How adult must a woman be?
The experience of these three women therefore raises another question:
Exactly how adult must a woman become before the state allows her to make decisions about her own life?
At 18, a Bangladeshi woman can vote.
She can obtain a passport.
She can work.
She can pay taxes.
If she commits a crime, she can be prosecuted and punished.
When the state demands responsibility from her, she is an adult citizen.
But when she tries to exercise her freedom, suddenly she becomes somebody’s daughter, somebody’s sister, somebody’s wife—or an unmarried woman who apparently requires supervision.
What an extraordinary form of citizenship.
When I have obligations, I am a full citizen.
When I pay taxes, I am a full citizen.
When I am punished, I am a full citizen.
But when I exercise my freedom, somebody starts looking for my male guardian.
No.
If there is a lawful reason to prevent me from travelling, show me the law.
Do not show me your personal morality.
Do not impose your religious beliefs on me.
Do not measure my citizenship against your family values.
A state official is there to enforce the law, not society’s curiosity about women.
They refused to accept it
There is one part of this story that gives me hope.
The three women did not go home and remain silent.
They filed a formal complaint. They asked for an investigation, preservation of CCTV footage, action against those responsible and compensation for their financial losses. When they received no satisfactory response, they sent a legal notice. Eventually, they petitioned the High Court.
The High Court has asked why preventing them from travelling abroad should not be declared unlawful. It has also raised the question of whether authorities should be directed not to obstruct the lawful foreign travel of adult women merely because they are unmarried, travelling without a guardian, or subjected to similar gender-based considerations.
I do not know what the outcome will be.
But their refusal to remain silent matters.
Because restrictions on freedom do not always arrive dramatically. Sometimes they arrive one small question at a time.
Where are you going?
Why are you going?
Who is with you?
Where is your husband?
Does your father know?
Who permitted you?
And every time women respond, “Never mind, it is only a small inconvenience,” we surrender another tiny piece of freedom.
Until one day we discover that all those tiny pieces constituted a life.
So ask:
Under which law?
Ask for a written explanation.
Ask for the officer’s name.
Complain.
Challenge the decision.
Go to court if necessary.
Whether you travel with your girlfriends is your decision.
Whether you travel alone is your decision.
Whether you marry is your decision.
Whom you love, whom you live with, what work you do and how you spend the money you earn—these are decisions about your life.
If you break the law, the state has every right to intervene.
But being a woman is not a violation of the law.
Women’s freedom is not a threat to men
There is something I would also like to say to men.
A woman’s freedom is not a war against you.
A woman travelling alone does not diminish your masculinity.
A woman making her own decisions does not threaten your existence.
A woman owning her own life does not destroy the family or society.
Quite the opposite.
A society becomes truly adult when women no longer need permission simply to live as adults.
And this applies even within marriage.
If my husband tries to prevent me from travelling for no legitimate reason, I do not have to accept his control as normal merely because he is my husband. Love does not confer ownership.
My father does not own me because he loves me.
My brother does not own my citizenship because he stands beside me.
My husband does not own my passport because we are married.
So why should an unknown man sitting behind a government desk acquire even greater authority over me?
Who made me your wife?
No, sir.
Your government ID card did not make you my bhatar.
You may be a police officer, an immigration official, a civil servant, a politician or a religious leader. You may be my neighbour, relative or even my husband.
But none of you owns my citizenship.
We women, are not property.
We are not spoils of war.
Our bodies are not anyone’s booty.
Our freedom of movement is not a favour granted by men.
And our passports are not permission slips from male guardians.
Perhaps one controlling bhatar is already more than enough to make a woman’s life unbearable.
The state does not need to install another one behind every desk.
My life is mine.
My freedom of movement is mine.
My decisions are mine.
So I will ask the question again:
Are all the men of the state my bhatar?
No.
And women need to say that first to ourselves.
Then to our families.
Then to society.
And, when necessary, directly to the state.
Again and again.
Until the state finally learns to treat us not as somebody’s women, but as citizens in our own right.
Supriti Dhar is a Bangladeshi journalist, feminist and human rights defender based in Sweden. She is the Founder and Founding Editor of Women Chapter, the first feminist online platform established in Bangladesh in 2013.