“It is easier to be a feminist outside your family” was a sentence I frequently heard within my social circles. When you bring your feminist ideals into the four walls where relationships are carefully dictated by patriarchal value systems, the costs of opening wounds can make life insufferable. However, when one has the right people around, healing from these wounds becomes easier with time.
Finding feminist solidarities in our society that support you uncritically to grow despite patriarchal norms is a fortunate experience, something I had the privilege and pleasure of experiencing within my family.
My parents separated when I was ten. This was no ordinary feat in conservative Kerala, where the responsibility of maintaining a happy marriage demanded servitude and compromise from only one partner. A woman walking away from a marriage is considered the greatest misfortune that could befall her. Unfortunately, not many women can turn to their families for support, especially if it is a love marriage, as was the case with my parents. There still remains a strong belief that marriage relegates the woman’s natal home and familial ties to secondary importance. It was witnessing a single incident of abuse inflicted on my mother that brought the matter to her family’s attention—an act that revealed the dynamics behind the façade of the marriage. My aunt and my grandmother responded sharply and stood by my mother. I was too young to understand how momentous this act was then.
A while later, my mother moved out with her two young daughters. Our relatives—both near and far—relentlessly pursued my sister and me, urging us to be the reason for our parents to reunite. This oft-repeated request (which felt more like a mandate) left me wondering why my relatives would want one of their loved ones to walk back into an abusive relationship willingly. Some of these moments made me question all the sanctity attached to familial ties. My mother probably faced even worse challenges as a single mother.
Throughout my childhood, whenever people spoke to us with sympathy for coming from a broken home, I found it strange that the happiness, freedom, and security we enjoyed with a single mother were seen as a source of concern rather than celebration.
Reflecting on the past, I am awestruck by my mother’s unwavering determination and the challenging path she underwent as we navigated our way forward. Her job became a saving grace in this process. Among her many stories, my grandmother constantly recounted the moment my mother chose to leave. What always struck me the most was the incredible pride with which she described her daughter’s actions. Back in our native place, she perhaps faced enquiries and judgements for my mother’s choice—far more than she ever let on. My grandmother’s unflinching support, even in the most trying times, showed me the beauty of mothers supporting daughters and empowering them to live life on their terms. My three aunts, all of whom lived far away from us, were always with us—financially and emotionally. They became a steady and comfortable presence that supported us.
Throughout my childhood, whenever people spoke to us with sympathy for coming from a broken home, I found it strange that the happiness, freedom, and security we enjoyed with a single mother were seen as a source of concern rather than celebration. Did the independence we derive from rejecting a normative family life scare the society a little? Maybe. After several years, when the same relatives put forth the same request to reunite my parents, my sister and I had drawn enough strength from all the women in my family to put an end to it.
I learnt sisterhood from my home, from all these incredible women around me, who became my source of joy and reason.
Looking back today at these relationships, the one that I shared with my grandmother and the ever-evolving one with my mother and aunts—I know that love requires uncritical solidarity. Love without any power struggle has the ability to be truly transformative. The choice my mother made to leave her marriage taught me that abuse and love cannot co-exist, and walking away from relationships where respect is absent is a revolutionary act. It is not just an act to celebrate one’s agency but also to challenge the sacrosanct institution of marriage. This gave us the liberty to create two homes where respect and love were the norm. The women in my family who stood by my mother’s decision and supported her choices were my first teachers in practicing feminist solidarity.
