Who Cares for the Caged Bird?
Care and Community
Chapter 8
What struck us most about the women we spoke with was how they seemed far older than they actually were; their grays appeared starker and more plentiful than they should be, their wrinkles more pronounced. It felt as if each woman had lived a dozen lives at least, the ache of those decades reflected in her appearance or the depth of her voice. Subsumed by the whirlwind of criminality and care, all of the caregivers had forgone caring for themselves. Either they did not or could not care for themselves. One woman who supported her family while trying to secure her brother’s release shared her story. “My face is gone… In that hot sun, you have to go, walk, and come," she said, referring to the long, arduous journey to central jail via bus. “My hair has turned to gray. I cannot help it. We do not care about that at all. But we want our person to come out of jail, that is all." Those things which once gave the caregivers joy—how they cherished, nurtured, and nourished themselves, in whatever measure that may seem superficial to those who live outside the neighborhood of carcerality—had been forsaken entirely.
This absence of care persisted even after their loved ones had come home. When asked about how she understands care and what her needs are now that her brother had been released, another caregiver responded: “Happiness for my mother, for my family.” The concept of caring for one’s self seemed alien, almost. So we prodded. Surely there are ways in which she feels cared for? “I never thought about myself,” she explained. “I think Indian women do not think about themselves.”
In the absence of “self-care,” women looked to their communities for support, although this was rare. Another caregiver explained, “There were a lot of my acquaintances, friends, and wellwishers who would call and ask, ‘How are you? What are you doing?’ And they would put in money for me. That way, I am very grateful to a lot of people… There was a time when there was nobody to take care of my son. I was like, ‘Oh no, what am I going to do? This boy, where will I leave him?’ My son did not have a visa, so he could not go to school… Thankfully, one of my friends agreed to let him go to [her nursery] for a few hours every day of the week. And out of nowhere, people just came and said, ‘What do you want? Do you want us to keep your son with us?’ Just hearing that itself was just awesome. That, ‘No, somebody is there.’ It gives you hope, that tomorrow you might get—no, not might—you will get out and you will be reunited once more with your family. That is very, very important.”
“There were a lot of my acquaintances, friends, and wellwishers who would call and ask, ‘How are you? What are you doing?’ And they would put in money for me. That way, I am very grateful to a lot of people…"
A particularly important aspect of finding community, that messy and chaotic thing, was each members’ rejection of stigma. With each shoulder to lean on, homecooked meal, answered phone call, silent prayer, or kind word, the caregivers felt the label of incarceration melt away. “My mother would go to the opposite house, one old lady is there,” a caregiver revealed. “She would hold her hand and she would say, ‘I am praying for your son.’ Because in the morning, we would go [to support my imprisoned brother], we would come home late. My mother would be alone at home all day. What all would she be thinking? We were afraid about what she will do. That is why. So everyone was supportive.” Her entire neighborhood rallied behind her family: “No one has seen my brother through a different eye. Everyone has accepted him, here also, in the neighborhood. My neighbors are Muslims. Every month, they would take oil from us and donate it to a dargah, praying for us. They were all praying for us. They also believed us. Only the UAE authorities did not believe us.”
As a result of the UAE’s strict regulation on media and communications, there are no formal support groups as such. A political void sustains the lack of community care women have access to. But this is also the nature of carcerality: to atomise one from the community they once interacted with on a daily basis. Whisper networks thus became one way for caregivers to form relationships with each other, seeking advice, resources, and compassion. The word “networks” here would be a misnomer; these are isolated friendships forged in the midst of desperation. Furthermore, as everyone is clinging on to the few resources they might have access to—a proactive, pro bono lawyer or an unlikely contact in the judicial system—the actual sharing of material means is limited. Sometimes, however, caregivers extended themselves to those beyond their loved ones, lending time and effort wherever they could. One woman narrated, “You know how many people I helped in between? One guy, his child was in the 10th standard and his mother did not have money to pay for his fees... That academic year was over, but the money was pending. One day, my incarcerated brother called and that father came on the line. He was crying like anything. He was saying, ‘I am your brother. I will come out earlier. After coming out, I will help you. At least I do not want to spoil his education. Please do something, borrow something, and pay the fees.’” She met with the man’s son and approached his school administration after arranging the funds for his pending fees. “[The school] told me that whatever money paid was for last year, now they cannot admit him,” she continued. “They had to come know, that he is inside. They took advantage and they dismissed him. How many times had we gone to the school administrators? We had gone through so many people... Nothing happened. That money we paid, it is finished, and his education still got spoiled. After two years, his father came out.”
“I never thought about myself,” she explained. “I think Indian women do not think about themselves.”
“...That, ‘No, somebody is there.’ It gives you hope, that tomorrow you might get—no, not might—you will get out and you will be reunited once more with your family. That is very, very important.”
She cited several such instances, wherein helpless families leaned on the kindness of others in order to get by, to protect and sustain themselves and their loved ones. Those caring for the incarcerated operated in a moral space of closely relating to one another—this space, that is, the gap left behind by a callous state. It is clear that the UAE government had marooned not just those “criminals” that they jailed, but also their wives, sisters, mothers, and children. In the drought of a caring state, what flourishes is community, in its extraordinary and delicate and thorny ways. One caregiver concluded, “Let our family members come outside and earn something. At least they will be with their family or something like that. We could not celebrate any festivals... We missed them during festivals, birthdays… All our family celebrations, they got stopped. Nobody’s circumstances should be like this. I do not wish this life on anybody else. That is all. Who is there to care?”
“Nobody’s circumstances should be like this. I do not wish this this life on anybody else. That is all. Who is there to care?"
“It is very important when you call from inside and somebody answers the phone and says, ‘Hello,’” another woman shared. “You know, when they do not pick up the phone, you feel as if, uh oh, they have dumped you, they have left you, they have isolated you. That is why I made it a point, I would never miss a call from jail, whoever called me. I picked up every call.” It is here we choose to end: on the possibility of community. That call is now, it is here, it is ubiquitous. It is every caged bird’s freedom song. Are you listening?
“I would never miss a call from jail, whoever called me. I picked up every call.”
“My face is gone… In that hot sun, you have to go, walk, and come,” she said, referring to the long, arduous journey to central jail via bus. “My hair has turned to gray. I cannot help it. That all, we do not care at all. But we want our person should be out, that is all.”
