CHENNAI: On October 22, Kottravai, a 28-year-old BBA graduate, was going about doing her everyday ‘new normal’ routine — washing milk packets, soaking the freshly bought vegetables in warm water, running errands for her parents and sending out applications for miscellaneous jobs. “I was working as a clerk in an HR firm.
But, due to the lockdown, I was laid off. The company shut its doors,” says the transwoman, who had been engaged in begging and sex work for six years before she found a ‘guide’ in Tamil Nadu’s trans community to help her find a job. It was a WhatsApp message that interrupted her new-found routine, leaving her devastated.
“A friend from Kovai sent me a newspaper clipping about Sangeetha amma’s death,” she shares, her voice trembling, as she speaks about the gruesome murder of the 60-year-old Coimbatore district Transgender Association president and activist. “I am originally from Coimbatore. When I was struggling with my identity,
Sangeetha amma was a beacon of hope for people like me. I was one of the many people she encouraged to pursue our dreams. It was with her words of encouragement that I moved to Chennai in search of better prospects. Reading about her demise sent me down a spiral. If someone well respected and bold from the community can be killed and silenced this way, what about those like me, who are yet to find our voice? I haven’t left the house since I heard of the news.
I’ve been washed over with fear… Will people from the community ever feel safe?” she asks, the question reverberating in my head, even hours after our conversation. Kottaravai’s friend, Suganthi*, a 35-year-old sex worker, clicks her tongue when we ask “Do you feel safe here?” She cackles in a deep, raspy tone. “I have been in this business for a decade now.
‘Safety’ has become a debatable term. Is walking down the road without fearing crass remarks considered safe? Is going to bed without the fear of someone knocking at your door in the middle of the night for ‘sexual favours’ safe? Is stepping out in daylight without being conscious of judgmental eyes, safe? Every trans person — privileged or not — has had to face these at some point in their lives. Now, cybercrimes have made our safety only worse.
But, that’s not going to stop me from going out. Sangeetha amma wouldn’t have wanted us to sit inside, consumed by darkness. I will go out, I will do my job, I will earn money and a name for myself; the society should change, not us,” declares the Erode native, who moved to Chennai in 2008. Despite Tamil Nadu being the first state in the country to introduce a transgender welfare policy, set up a Transgender Welfare Board in 2008, playing host to the trans festival under the brand of Koovagam every year and whatnot, the acceptance of the community’s identity remains questionable.
In 2019, a year before Sangeetha’s murder, another prominent trans individual, Rajathi, a priest, was beheaded in Thoothukudi. “Such crimes usually attempt to silence members of the community. While the offender in Sangeetha amma’s murder has been arrested and brought to justice, can we ever bring her back? Yes, such crimes do happen against women too. But there is a community outpour and condemnation after such gruesome incidents, there are candlelight vigils in every corner of the country and, sometimes, even the world comes together to raise their voice for justice.
Yet, if the same crime happens to someone from the trans community, very few voices are raised. The case is immediately closed. Why? Are we not important enough to live?” asks Avira*, a city-based activist, calling out the prevalent bigotry and apathy in the society. Aryan Kumar*, a 26-year-old transitioning male, has been feeling nothing but unsafe in the city. “The lockdown made me miss my shots for hormone replacement therapy (HRT) and this led to my menstruation cycle to start again. Living with existing dysphoria and mental illnesses only made this worse.
This was made harder when people on the road mocked at me for the way I looked. Transphobia exists; it lurks very close to where people from our community live, ready to pounce on us,” he shares. Aryan also admits that he has come across people, who’ve stood up to the abusers and lent him a helping hand. “In such times, my faith in humanity gets renewed until I meet the next bully.
Transmen lead invisible lives and not having a safe environment makes it harder to come out,” shares Aryan, who works in the formal sector. For Prithvi*, a 40-yearold salesperson at a small textile showroom, safety has become a bubble of close friends. “I step out of it and I feel unsafe,” says the transman, who worked at a restaurant as a waiter for about eight years since the transition. “I was always humiliated and I even received death threats from coworkers. I was mocked from my workplace to home and it became intolerable after a point. So, I quit. My current job, luckily, has given me supportive friends. I am grateful for it.
My employer too has been appreciative of my performance and my communication skills. Isn’t this what all of us need, irrespective of what community, caste, creed or gender we belong to? A nurturing and safe space. I continue fighting battles every day but, at least, I am not alone now. Chennai has made me feel scared on some days but it has also shaped me into the person I am today,” says Prithvi, a native of Pollachi. “I ran from my house when I was 15 years old and came to Chennai when I turned 20 years old. I was forced into sex work and begging for a few years.
I am thankful for the life I am leading now. It is safer than it was…but do we have to accept the crimes that are happening against us and brush it off as normal?” he asks. The safety woes of those from the community are further compounded when love and a sense of companionship remain evasive. “About 80 to 90 per cent of transwomen in the city are cheated by their partner or lovers. In the pretence of being in love with them, men enter their lives, promise to be their partner for life, pretend to be empathetic only to swindle their hardearned money and confidence, leaving them in a lurch.
This happens not only in Chennai but in trans communities across the country,” shares Jaya of NGO Sahodaran. For Vasanthi (25), Rubeena (31), Grace (45), Sudha (33), Vijayan (20) and Sarath (42), safety in the city remains an astral projection of sorts, an out- of-the-body experience rather than an entrenched reality. “I was molested by my house owner.
This is the first time I am talking about it. While there are NGOs and community-based organisations working for our welfare, the ratio of the number of allies or people working on the ground is less in comparison to those who need protection. We don’t go to police stations to file complaints as past experiences have left many of us with a bad taste,” says Vasanthi, a flowerseller.
And some workplaces, in the guise of being inclusive, also have been brutal for those from the community, alleges Rubeena. “While many workplaces advertise that they hire people from the trans community, bullying and harassment continue to render it a non-inclusive environment. There is need for more awareness campaigns and more sensitisation drives where those from the community can interact with police personnel and the general public.
Everyone should be enabled to get a better understanding of our lives and the reality than stereotyping us and putting us under labels,” tells the 31-year-old, who works at a supermarket. With over 4,000 trans people in the city and only one-fourth of the population registered with the Tamil Nadu Transgender Welfare Board (TGWB), to monitor the conditions of the unidentified populace has not been successful.
While NGOs like Sahodaran and Thozhi have been working relentlessly for the welfare of those from the community, helping them set up small businesses, providing vocal training, and formation and governance of transgender Self-Help Groups (SHG), and those like PeriFerry that provide employment opportunities and training for those from the community, safety remains an issue without a concrete solution. Sixty-one-year-old Santhana Lakshmi, a transwoman, says that she goes to bed every night dreaming of a safe society for people from her community.
“I moved to Chennai when I was 18 years old. I begged, engaged in sex work, sold flowers and vegetables, got married to a man who promised me companionship but left, raised an abandoned child and got her married to someone of good repute. Through the journey, I’ve always felt unsafe about my tomorrow.
Now, 43 years later, when I look back, I am surprised that I managed to survive for so long. The life expectancy of people from our community is short — from hate crimes, mental health deterioration to isolation and abandonment, we see it all, stopping us from leading life to our complete potential. Safety for transgenders has remained a utopian dream. One that the departed dreamed and fought for. Will I ever feel safe? Only time will tell,” she concludes. *Names changed