If you ask a weaver at Avani what her favourite part of her job is, the answer will almost never be the weaving itself. Money is a common response, as there are the various results of having it: making home improvements, paying for a wedding, opening a savings account. More often than not, though, the answer will simply be along the lines of, “I like to spend time with the other weavers.” It’s surprising at first. In a field where organisations trumpet phrases like “economic empowerment” and “reviving traditional arts,” the fact that someone might like their work simply because it allows them to spend time with other people feels strikingly inadequate. Yet in the time I’ve worked with Avani’s women weavers, I have come to believe that this social interaction is perhaps the most important— and most overlooked—aspect of any livelihood generation program. &nbsp;

In development literature, the concept of “safe spaces” has generally been deployed within highly specific contexts: a refugee camp, for example, or a shelter for victims of domestic violence. Within these contexts, the term “safe space” becomes extremely literal: A space where women can safely gather, free from physical harm. In the words of UNFPA, a safe space is defined as, “A formal or informal place where women and girls feel physically and emotionally safe. The term ‘safe’, in the present context, refers to the absence of trauma, excessive stress, violence (or fear of violence), or abuse.”&nbsp;

But this is not the only definition of safe spaces. Seemingly on the opposite end of the spectrum, college campuses across the United States have touted the creation of “safe spaces” in order to protect certain groups from marginalisation or emotional/psychological harm. By this definition, a safe space is far less literal, referring more to an abstract “space” in which dialogue and learning are mediated and monitored. Here, “safe” has less to do with physical safety, and instead largely refers to the absence of emotional or psychological trauma. This definition has come under significant criticism recently, with some theorists pointing out that honest dialogue about social justice issues is rarely “safe,” in the abstract sense of the term. In the words of one group of scholars, “We argue that authentic learning about social justice often requires the very qualities of risk, difficulty, and controversy that are defined as incompatible with safety.”

On one hand, the women in Avani’s community aren’t in any immediate physical danger (or, at least not a danger that is readily apparent). Although domestic violence does occur, women in this community generally live without their husbands, as most men have migrated to urban centers in search of work. And while there are cases of crime and violence, the region is, compared to many other areas in India, relatively secure. On the other hand, the definition of safe spaces put forth in academia, and its accompanying critiques is strikingly inadequate in describing the very real physical, social, and emotional threats these women face, just by virtue of speaking their minds and daring to be independent.&nbsp;

How, then, do I describe the spaces Avani’s weavers have created for themselves? Shortcomings of either definition of safe spaces aside, the weaving centers, where Avani’s weavers gather every day, are unquestionably unlike anywhere else in these women’s lives. Each of Avani’s field centers is a social ecosystem unto itself: a vibrant hub of women who come together not just to weave, but also to sing their favorite songs, dance along to Bollywood videos they find on YouTube, trade stories of philandering husbands and misbehaving children, and discuss the news of the day. In a region where it is exceedingly rare to see women simply “hanging out” with each other in public spaces, this simple act of gathering feels radical and undeniably political. Indeed, the positive effects of being part of a supportive community of women seem to be an unintended, albeit wonderful, outcome of creating a women’s cooperative.&nbsp;

In women’s cooperatives, the term “safe space” takes on a new meaning, in between the formalised, rigid structures put forth by the United Nations and the more abstract, conceptual notions discussed on college campuses. The “space” these women have created is both literal and figurative: a secluded, women-only gathering space and a relational, dialogue-driven community. Defining safe spaces in this way illuminates what we already instinctively know to be true: that work can be more than just a way for people to put food on the table— it can be a source of community, support, inspiration, and empowerment. At their best, cooperatives like Avani can serve as a physical space for a community’s most marginalised members to let their guards down, be themselves, and step away from an outside world that forces them to take up less space than they deserve.&nbsp;

My proposition then, is to not simply accept that such communities will emerge on their own— even if they do— but rather, to intentionally pursue this space building as a goal in and of itself, on par in importance with increasing incomes. Generating incomes can be a powerful source of empowerment for women in Kumaon. But in my view, the social and political empowerment that comes with it, in the form of a vibrant, active community, is even more powerful in changing the lives of women in these underserved regions.&nbsp;

*A previous version of<a href="https://aif.org/when-work-becomes-home-safe-spaces-and-belonging-in-a-womens-cooperative/"> this article</a> was originally published&nbsp;by the American India Foundation.

(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed above are the personal views of the author and do not reflect the views of ZMCL)

If you ask a weaver at Avani what her favourite part of her job is, the answer will almost never be the weaving itself. Money is a common response, as there are the various results of having it: making home improvements, paying for a wedding, opening a savings account.

If you ask a weaver at Avani what her favourite part of her job is, the answer will almost never be the weaving itself. Money is a common response, as there are the various results of having it: making home improvements, paying for a wedding, opening a savings account. More often than not, though, the answer will simply be along the lines of, “I like to spend time with the other weavers.” It’s surprising at first. In a field where organisations trumpet phrases like “economic empowerment” and “reviving traditional arts,” the fact that someone might like their work simply because it allows them to spend time with other people feels strikingly inadequate. Yet in the time I’ve worked with Avani’s women weavers, I have come to believe that this social interaction is perhaps the most important— and most overlooked—aspect of any livelihood generation program. In development literature, the concept of “safe spaces” has generally been deployed within highly specific contexts: a refugee camp, for example, or a shelter for victims of domestic violence. Within these contexts, the term “safe space” becomes extremely literal: A space where women can safely gather, free from physical harm. In the words of UNFPA, a safe space is defined as, “A formal or informal place where women and girls feel physically and emotionally safe. The term ‘safe’, in the present context, refers to the absence of trauma, excessive stress, violence (or fear of violence), or abuse.” But this is not the only definition of safe spaces. Seemingly on the opposite end of the spectrum, college campuses across the United States have touted the creation of “safe spaces” in order to protect certain groups from marginalisation or emotional/psychological harm. By this definition, a safe space is far less literal, referring more to an abstract “space” in which dialogue and learning are mediated and monitored. Here, “safe” has less to do with physical safety, and instead largely refers to the absence of emotional or psychological trauma. This definition has come under significant criticism recently, with some theorists pointing out that honest dialogue about social justice issues is rarely “safe,” in the abstract sense of the term. In the words of one group of scholars, “We argue that authentic learning about social justice often requires the very qualities of risk, difficulty, and controversy that are defined as incompatible with safety.” On one hand, the women in Avani’s community aren’t in any immediate physical danger (or, at least not a danger that is readily apparent). Although domestic violence does occur, women in this community generally live without their husbands, as most men have migrated to urban centers in search of work. And while there are cases of crime and violence, the region is, compared to many other areas in India, relatively secure. On the other hand, the definition of safe spaces put forth in academia, and its accompanying critiques is strikingly inadequate in describing the very real physical, social, and emotional threats these women face, just by virtue of speaking their minds and daring to be independent. How, then, do I describe the spaces Avani’s weavers have created for themselves? Shortcomings of either definition of safe spaces aside, the weaving centers, where Avani’s weavers gather every day, are unquestionably unlike anywhere else in these women’s lives. Each of Avani’s field centers is a social ecosystem unto itself: a vibrant hub of women who come together not just to weave, but also to sing their favorite songs, dance along to Bollywood videos they find on YouTube, trade stories of philandering husbands and misbehaving children, and discuss the news of the day. In a region where it is exceedingly rare to see women simply “hanging out” with each other in public spaces, this simple act of gathering feels radical and undeniably political. Indeed, the positive effects of being part of a supportive community of women seem to be an unintended, albeit wonderful, outcome of creating a women’s cooperative. In women’s cooperatives, the term “safe space” takes on a new meaning, in between the formalised, rigid structures put forth by the United Nations and the more abstract, conceptual notions discussed on college campuses. The “space” these women have created is both literal and figurative: a secluded, women-only gathering space and a relational, dialogue-driven community. Defining safe spaces in this way illuminates what we already instinctively know to be true: that work can be more than just a way for people to put food on the table— it can be a source of community, support, inspiration, and empowerment. At their best, cooperatives like Avani can serve as a physical space for a community’s most marginalised members to let their guards down, be themselves, and step away from an outside world that forces them to take up less space than they deserve. My proposition then, is to not simply accept that such communities will emerge on their own— even if they do— but rather, to intentionally pursue this space building as a goal in and of itself, on par in importance with increasing incomes. Generating incomes can be a powerful source of empowerment for women in Kumaon. But in my view, the social and political empowerment that comes with it, in the form of a vibrant, active community, is even more powerful in changing the lives of women in these underserved regions. *A previous version of this article was originally published by the American India Foundation. (Disclaimer: The opinions expressed above are the personal views of the author and do not reflect the views of ZMCL)

Blog: Safe spaces and belonging in a women's cooperative

Last week, a coworker and I spent several days in Digoli, a remote village in Uttarakhand that is home to the Bora community, a small caste native to the Kumaon region. Nestled deep in the foothills of the Himalayas and accessible only via a two-hour trek, Digoli seems to have sprouted organically from the steep mountainside, with narrow, winding stone paths connecting each house and terraced rice fields stretching into the distance.

Renowned for their skills as spinners and weavers, the Bora people have long been known in the area for their prodigious skills in the cultivation and weaving of hemp.

I had travelled to this remote corner of the world to conduct interviews for an exhibit my organisation, Avani, is preparing for the Google Arts and Culture Institute. The exhibit was intended to be centred on traditional hemp weaving, with a focus on the ways in which the legal boundaries around the crop&rsquo;s cultivation have hampered local traditions.

Going in, I thought I knew what the story would be: A small, marginalised community had taken pride in their traditional craft, and felt angry and disempowered when the government robbed them of their ability to practice it. I imagined impassioned interviews with villagers, in which they would describe the deep emotional and cultural value of hemp cultivation and mourn the loss of their traditional heritage and skills. The exhibit, as I envisioned it, would be a fiery polemic against blanket policy prescriptions, and a celebration of the beauty of traditional crafts.

Of course, India always seems to have a way of upending my expectations. For the most part, the community members I met in Digoli weren&rsquo;t mourning the loss of their craft or yearning for a return to their traditional roots. True, some of the village elders expressed anger towards the government for its restrictive hemp laws, telling me that the ban on hemp cultivation in the mid-1980s was misguided. But most, particularly in the younger generations, met the entire subject with a shrug.

<div class="ui-state-default"><img alt="" src="http://s.wionews.com/photos/boracommunity01-copy-250x202-20171122063353.jpg" />
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Digoli, a remote village in Uttarakhand that is home to the Bora community (Others)
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&ldquo;Hemp is old&rdquo;, Govinda, one Bora community member, told me matter-of-factly, &ldquo;People don&rsquo;t want to do it anymore. It takes too much time.&rdquo; Indeed, cultivating and weaving hemp is an extremely labour-intensive process. Many elderly women in the village who had woven hemp as young girls were missing their front teeth, as they spent so many hours pulling the fibres with their teeth to prepare them for weaving. Most of the pride village elders derived from their hemp cultivation seemed to centre less on its cultural value, and more on the sheer difficulty of producing it.

Given this, it seems entirely understandable that members of the younger generation would be reluctant to revive the craft. Even though hemp cultivation was legalised by the Uttarakhand government in 2015, few in the community believed that the traditions would be revived. Yet as I continued to hear the stories of the Bora community, I began wondering, &ldquo;Is that such a bad thing?&rdquo; Yes, hemp cultivation had largely disappeared in Digoli. But elders also told me that the girls today were getting married at 22 or 23, rather than at 14 or 15.

Women who had previously been unable to leave home without being accompanied by a male relative were now working independently and attending school. What I imagined seeing in Digoli was a community mourning the loss of its heritage and traditions. What I got instead was a community that was rapidly changing, modernising, and altogether disinclined to look back.

In the West, we have a tendency to fetishise and romanticise the &ldquo;traditional&rdquo; crafts of developing communities. As I continue to work with Avani, this feels increasingly problematic. After all, I don&rsquo;t particularly mourn the loss of traditional handicrafts in the U.S., and I would never wish to take up handicrafts as a profession (although to be fair, I am hopeless with crafts). So why should we impose these values upon developing communities, at the expense of encouraging them to pursue careers in other, less labour-intensive fields?

This is not to say that traditional cultures aren&rsquo;t valuable. Working with Avani&rsquo;s weavers, I am awestruck by the beauty and skill of this traditional craft. Yet after my time in Digoli, I am convinced that we must strike a careful balance between celebrating traditional cultures, while also respecting the desires of some community members to move on. There is beauty in preservation, to be sure. But there is equal beauty, sometimes, in letting go.

This <a href="http://aif.org/holding-on-letting-go-notes-from-the-field/" rel="nofollow">article</a> was originally published on 20/11/2017 on <a href="http://aif.org/" rel="nofollow">American India Foundation</a>

(Disclaimer: The author writes here in a personal capacity).

The spinners and weavers of Bora community from a village Digoli, Uttarakhand are experiencing rapid change, modernisation and are altogether reluctant to look back.

Last week, a coworker and I spent several days in Digoli, a remote village in Uttarakhand that is home to the Bora community, a small caste native to the Kumaon region. Nestled deep in the foothills of the Himalayas and accessible only via a two-hour trek, Digoli seems to have sprouted organically from the steep mountainside, with narrow, winding stone paths connecting each house and terraced rice fields stretching into the distance. Renowned for their skills as spinners and weavers, the Bora people have long been known in the area for their prodigious skills in the cultivation and weaving of hemp. I had travelled to this remote corner of the world to conduct interviews for an exhibit my organisation, Avani, is preparing for the Google Arts and Culture Institute. The exhibit was intended to be centred on traditional hemp weaving, with a focus on the ways in which the legal boundaries around the crop’s cultivation have hampered local traditions. Going in, I thought I knew what the story would be: A small, marginalised community had taken pride in their traditional craft, and felt angry and disempowered when the government robbed them of their ability to practice it. I imagined impassioned interviews with villagers, in which they would describe the deep emotional and cultural value of hemp cultivation and mourn the loss of their traditional heritage and skills. The exhibit, as I envisioned it, would be a fiery polemic against blanket policy prescriptions, and a celebration of the beauty of traditional crafts. Of course, India always seems to have a way of upending my expectations. For the most part, the community members I met in Digoli weren’t mourning the loss of their craft or yearning for a return to their traditional roots. True, some of the village elders expressed anger towards the government for its restrictive hemp laws, telling me that the ban on hemp cultivation in the mid-1980s was misguided. But most, particularly in the younger generations, met the entire subject with a shrug. Digoli, a remote village in Uttarakhand that is home to the Bora community (Others) × “Hemp is old”, Govinda, one Bora community member, told me matter-of-factly, “People don’t want to do it anymore. It takes too much time.” Indeed, cultivating and weaving hemp is an extremely labour-intensive process. Many elderly women in the village who had woven hemp as young girls were missing their front teeth, as they spent so many hours pulling the fibres with their teeth to prepare them for weaving. Most of the pride village elders derived from their hemp cultivation seemed to centre less on its cultural value, and more on the sheer difficulty of producing it. Given this, it seems entirely understandable that members of the younger generation would be reluctant to revive the craft. Even though hemp cultivation was legalised by the Uttarakhand government in 2015, few in the community believed that the traditions would be revived. Yet as I continued to hear the stories of the Bora community, I began wondering, “Is that such a bad thing?” Yes, hemp cultivation had largely disappeared in Digoli. But elders also told me that the girls today were getting married at 22 or 23, rather than at 14 or 15. Women who had previously been unable to leave home without being accompanied by a male relative were now working independently and attending school. What I imagined seeing in Digoli was a community mourning the loss of its heritage and traditions. What I got instead was a community that was rapidly changing, modernising, and altogether disinclined to look back. In the West, we have a tendency to fetishise and romanticise the “traditional” crafts of developing communities. As I continue to work with Avani, this feels increasingly problematic. After all, I don’t particularly mourn the loss of traditional handicrafts in the U.S., and I would never wish to take up handicrafts as a profession (although to be fair, I am hopeless with crafts). So why should we impose these values upon developing communities, at the expense of encouraging them to pursue careers in other, less labour-intensive fields? This is not to say that traditional cultures aren’t valuable. Working with Avani’s weavers, I am awestruck by the beauty and skill of this traditional craft. Yet after my time in Digoli, I am convinced that we must strike a careful balance between celebrating traditional cultures, while also respecting the desires of some community members to move on. There is beauty in preservation, to be sure. But there is equal beauty, sometimes, in letting go. This article was originally published on 20/11/2017 on American India Foundation (Disclaimer: The author writes here in a personal capacity).

Opinion: Is celebrating traditional culture always good?

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Camille Parker

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