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The Guardian
02-04-2025
- General
- The Guardian
Women behind the lens: ‘Through needle and thread, a quiet defiance of patriarchy'
This is a portrait of Praween Devi, a woman I met in 2019 through a local organisation while working on my project Nā́rī. I met her alongside other women who gather in their back yards to embroider together, sharing stories over cups of chai. When I asked to take her photograph, she suggested the main hall of her home, mentioning its lack of decoration and how the walls were bare except for a framed image of flowers and, notably, a photograph of all the men in the house. Before we began, she brought in a rug from another room, subtly curating the space. As I composed the shot, I included the photograph of the men, wondering how she would choose to alter the image through embroidery. When she embroidered the portrait in phulkari, a traditional craft originally from the Punjab region, she didn't remove the photograph of the men but instead inserted three women – figures draped in pink and green, mirroring her own clothing. She embellished the space, framing herself with decorative elements and embroidery on the curtains and floor. Her additions transform the image: through needle and thread, she asserts her presence, reclaiming a space dominated by the male gaze – a quiet defiance of patriarchy and a powerful sense of solidarity, almost as if she's surrounded by an army of women. This portrait is part of Nā́rī, a project that, over the past five years, has involved extensive research and fieldwork across multiple states in India, documenting and collaborating with communities of women who have survived gender-based violence. Nā́rī – a Sanskrit word for woman – carries multiple meanings, including sacrifice. In India, where domestic violence is alarmingly common, many women I met weren't even allowed to leave their homes, whether because of their husbands, fathers or the fear of being unsafe. So I travelled to them, photographing them in the spaces where they felt most at ease. I printed these portraits on khadi, a handspun fabric, and asked them to embroider over the images however they wanted, without any guidelines, giving them control over their own portrait. By placing creative control in their hands, these collaborations disrupt the traditional power dynamics of documentary photography. The act of embroidery becomes an extension of their voice, a reassertion of agency in a world that often silences them. Through Nā́rī, I aim to amplify their stories of survival and resilience – one stitch at a time. Sign up to Her Stage Hear directly from incredible women from around the world on the issues that matter most to them – from the climate crisis to the arts to sport after newsletter promotion Spandita Malik is one of four winners of the V&A Parasol Foundation prize for women in photography 2025. Her work will be exhibited at a group show at the Copeland Gallery, London, as part of the Peckham 24 festival, from 16-25 May
The Guardian
28-03-2025
- General
- The Guardian
How Karachi's women got into power: the female electricians lighting up homes in Pakistan
A cardboard sign reading 'Electrician available' hangs outside a house in the Karachi neighbourhood of Shah Latif Town. The name and phone number of a man, along with his expertise in repairing sewing machines and water pumps is listed underneath. In reality, the electrician is 30-year-old Nazia Seher. The phone number belongs to her husband, Mohammad Rehan. Seher is among 200 certified female electricians trained by a private electricity firm in Karachi under a programme called Roshni Baji (Light Sisters). Launched in 2021, the initiative provides opportunities in Pakistan's male-dominated energy sector, where women are just 4% of the workforce. 'Of the 40 in my class, 10 got job offers in K-Electric,' Seher says, referring to the city's utility company. Today, it has about 45 female meter-readers, alongside 426 men. 'Getting selected for the training was a blessing,' says Seher. 'My husband had lost his job during the pandemic and the paid internship saved us.' Seher, who wishes there were 'more than 24 hours in my day', reads about 200 electric meters a day with a handheld device that transmits data online. 'It's a lot of work, but I love it,' she says. At home, her husband, a textile worker, now does more of the domestic chores and helps look after their three children. 'A few years ago, brewing tea and sweeping floors felt impossible,' he says. 'Today, I chop the vegetables ready for her to make dinner.' 'Our relationship was strained with constant bickering,' adds Rehan. 'Money has brought peace.' In the evenings, Seher earns extra income repairing irons and stoves, installing backup batteries and helping neighbours. 'She doesn't charge us,' says Noor-un-Nisa Israr, mother to a six-month-old, who has separated from her drug-addicted husband. 'It's just me, my mother and sister. As the sole breadwinner working 7am to 7pm I can't have strange men in the house. It'd raise too many questions.' At home, Seher has installed lights and fans. Last week, she replaced the washing machine gasket, her husband says proudly. Razia Asghar, a homemaker, praises Seher for installing a solar panel on her rooftop in the Cattle Colony neighbourhood of the city, saying it has been a lifesaver in the extreme heat and reduced their electricity bill. Seher says: 'We only studied solar panel installation in theory, so that was my first time.' She has since received more requests from families in Cattle Colony. 'It's a purdah-observing area [where women are kept socially separate], so being a woman has worked to my advantage. Building trust and relying on word of mouth are crucial to establishing a reputation as an electrician.' Sign up to Her Stage Hear directly from incredible women from around the world on the issues that matter most to them – from the climate crisis to the arts to sport after newsletter promotion But there are irritations too. 'Just recently, a man commented loudly [asking] if there were no male electricians left in the country that women had to step in, while passing by me,' says Seher, 'I wanted to respond, but let it pass.' In nearly four years, the Roshni Bajis have reached 800,000 households, each visiting 35-40 homes a day. Mushrooming development and unplanned building in slums create high risks of electrical accidents, and cases of electrocution are far from rare. One of the major risks comes from people using metal hooks, known as kundas, to illegally tap into the main power lines in the absence of proper connections. Seven years ago, Durdana Shoaib's daughter touched a transformer on their rooftop, leaving her with burns and permanent nerve damage. 'We were negligent as parents,' says Shoaib, who went on to join the Roshni Baji programme. Living in a slum, she says the most common hazard is wires trailing in puddles, with women and children walking by barefoot. 'It's a perfect recipe for getting electrocuted, but people remain unaware,' she says. Shoaib has made it her mission to raise awareness about electrical hazards. Last year, K-Electric removed more than 250,000 kundas across the city, almost 350 tonnes of illegal wiring. The company works to connect communities to the network. In 2024, nearly 7,000 illegal connections were removed and meters installed in Bin Qasim Town, a hotspot for electricity accidents in Karachi.
The Guardian
05-03-2025
- General
- The Guardian
Women behind the lens: ‘In Cuba, domestic life is forced onto the streets'
This image is part of my project, Surviving the Impossible, which began in 2022 with the aim of capturing everyday life in Cuban, beyond cliches and misconceptions. Over the course of my visits, I have approached this work in two ways. First, I spend time with Cuban families, immersing myself in their routines and daily challenges. Second, I wander the streets to photograph and talk with people in a more spontaneous manner. Both methods allow me to explore Cuba's complex landscape, shedding light on the struggles and on resilience. One summer evening as I was heading back to my hotel I saw a young mother sitting outside the store where she works, feeding her baby. In Cuba, cramped living conditions often force domestic life onto the streets, turning pavements into living rooms and doorsteps into cradles. Drawn by this intimate scene, I snapped some photos as I approached. When we spoke, she explained that this was her only child and that she had no plans for more. Securing food, she said, was already a constant struggle. The store's modest income did not stretch far enough to buy items on the parallel market, and she worried about her daughter's future. She didn't share her name, but we ended up discussing the uncertainty of raising a child in a place where each day can feel like a battle. This image captures the quiet endurance of Cuban mothers, who bear the weight of an unpredictable tomorrow. Even after nightfall, the summer heat remains oppressive, mirroring the unrelenting pressure people face. Despite these challenges, they press on, clinging to hope in a country that often feels suspended in time. Through my visits, I've formed genuine bonds with Cuban people, and with every encounter I feel more at home. I continue to uncover layers of personal stories – families have welcomed me in and opened their doors, and each interaction deepens my connection to the island. Their openness fuels my commitment to document and share their experiences with honesty and respect. My hope is that, by amplifying these voices, we can begin to break down the misunderstandings that have long overshadowed the true spirit of Cuba. Sign up to Her Stage Hear directly from incredible women from around the world on the issues that matter most to them – from the climate crisis to the arts to sport after newsletter promotion Sandra Hernández (Vita Flumen) is a photographer in Mexico whose work focuses on everyday life and overlooked stories. She created the first anthology of street photography in Mexico, and founded Urban Observers, a platform for Latin American street and documentary photography
The Guardian
05-02-2025
- General
- The Guardian
Being a mother in the west would be a dream, I was told. But compared to Uganda, it was a nightmare
I hear the baby crying in my sleep. My mother hands him to me. I sit up to breastfeed without opening my eyes then I hand him back. I know that when I am ready to get out of bed, there will be fruits and katogo, a meal of plantain mixed with all the fatty meat cuts my mother could lay her hands on, waiting for me. Or I could choose to have porridge. It is sacrilege to have a nakawere (new mother) in the house and not have a flask of hot porridge available for her all day. Nakawere … the syllables are pronounced slowly, and the word must roll off your tongue with awe at the woman who just went through the remarkable ordeal of bringing life. Replaying my new mum experience became my favourite pastime when I moved from Uganda to Switzerland in May last year. I moved with my husband and two children, aged six and 12, because I found my dream job in health advocacy. I was not ready for the parenting nightmare that came with it. While I had lived in Europe before, including in the UK in my 20s, I had never had to live outside Uganda with my family. Nothing prepared me for the reality of mothering without the extended family to help take care of you, and the nonchalance with which the western world treats mothers. There were no cheers for me when I made it to the bottom of the staircase without stepping on a toy car. The audience remained silent when I managed to get my six-year-old son to sit still throughout a one-hour journey. In Uganda, someone in the matatu, or shared taxi, might have at least whispered a compliment: 'What a disciplined child you have!' They might have even offered to carry him so that I didn't have to pay the fare for two. Narratives on African motherhood often depict a life of labour and impoverishment as the woman tries to raise more children than she can afford, in most cases single-handedly. But not much is said about the systems that have developed to enable women across the different echelons of African society to cope. Sign up to Her Stage Hear directly from incredible women from around the world on the issues that matter most to them – from the climate crisis to the arts to sport after newsletter promotion You never hear the story of how it is normal for a mother to drop off her five children at a neighbour's house for an entire day without notice as she goes to do her hair or to the market. No one explains that the aggrandisement, such as the title nakawere and the care given to a new mother for up to a year after she has given birth, is community recognition and reward for women's unpaid care work. As we settled in Switzerland, it was scary for my husband and me to realise we were not just parents any more. We had to be teachers, chipping in with formal and informal education. There were no elder cousins to help with the homework or aunties to share folk tales that carried moral lessons. The system requires parents to be everything to their children and still somehow maintain a semblance of a sane life and career. The Ugandan primary school syllabus, inherited decades ago from British colonialists and never reformed, teaches that the nuclear family is the ideal model. When I thought about raising children in the west, I used to picture happy families with no more than two children seated at the dining table surrounded by beautiful things; not worried about malaria, the distance to the well or the smoke from firewood and cooking stoves. Now I look at women who have had to raise their children in the western world in the nuclear family setting with fresh eyes. How have they managed for so long? We know that even as men are stepping up more to help care for their families, most of the physical and mental care workload still falls on women. Globally, women do 76% of the unpaid care work. In 2019, Oxfam's analysis showed that unpaid care work done by women across the globe was valued at $10.8tn (£8.8tn). My husband and I had to accept that we were not equipped to look after our children alone. It felt unnatural. We were tired all the time and our house was falling apart. We missed Irene, our home manager, and vowed to appreciate her more, knowing what it would cost for us to have help with childcare in Switzerland. Unlike in Switzerland, where getting help with care is the preserve of the wealthy, the average Ugandan family can afford to hire someone to help with running the home. Even where a family might not have the money, they pay for it in kind by taking turns to look after each other's children or communally sharing chores on busy days such as funerals and weddings, or when hosting guests. My husband and the children have returned to Uganda, and I will try to live between Uganda and Switzerland. Our children will be near their grandmother and cousins – surrounded by love, neighbours and sunshine. And when we sit in our Ugandan living room, watching the perfect nuclear family on TV, we shall know the exhaustion that comes with keeping a house clean and telling the children 20 times a day to pick up their toys. We shall remember the dates that we did not go out spontaneously, because there is a particular servitude in parenting without your people. Patience Akumu is a lawyer and journalist who reports on human rights and social justice issues
