Violence against women: What the status of women says about a nation

India’s first Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru had famously said. More than seven decades after independence, those words are less an affirmation of India’s progress and more of an uncomfortable reflection of its failures.

For a nation that is aspiring to become a global power with economic growth and technological achievements, it has a prominent and pressing domestic question to answer – why can’t women live with dignity, equality, and without fear?

In December 2012, India stood united in grief and outrage after the brutal gang rape and murder of a 23-year-old physiotherapy student who was named as Nirbhaya (without fear) after she succumbed to her injuries. Millions of people marched, held protests, demanding justice not just for one woman, but for every woman whose body had become a battlefield in a society that too often viewed violence against women as normal.

At the time, the government promised reforms, protection policies, fast track courts for timely justice, and stricter laws. We believed, perhaps naively, that Nirbhaya would be the silver lining and represent a turning point.

More than a decade later, the question still remains: What exactly has changed? If anything, people in India have become dangerously desensitised to sexual violence. Every morning, another rape. Another minor assaulted. Another woman killed. Another headline. Another social media debate, and another candle march. 

A recent case in point is the 11-year-old girl, who was raped and murdered and fished out of a pond a day after her family reported her missing in the Indian state of West Bengal. This incident too triggered days of violent protests followed by arrests. But the public outrage is slowly turning into numbness. We have become a country where rape is no longer shocking, but a routine. This normalisation is the greatest tragedy of all. And as its people have begun to normalise the violence, institutions have started following.

Rapists are not born but taught to believe that it is permissible, for not every man becomes a rapist. Every rapist grows up in a society where patriarchy teaches him, subtly and explicitly, that women occupy a lower place. Patriarchy lives in ordinary homes, and it is seen when daughters have a curfew timing, often before dark, while sons are told to enjoy themselves. Girls are told not to laugh loudly, let brothers eat first, mothers are asked to sacrifice careers, fathers question their daughters about their whereabouts, but never bother to check their sons if they are troubling someone. Boy’s anger is a sign of masculinity and a girl with the same attitude is disrespected or called difficult. Consent is never discussed—pornography is the primary source of sex education. Boys learn about women’s bodies before they learn about women’s humanity. These are not isolated customs but societal foundations on which violence mounts.

A girl who grows up witnessing violence at home learns early-on that abuse is normal. A young woman who is harassed daily on public transport is expected to adjust. A professional woman facing online abuse is told to leave social media. A survivor entering the criminal justice system is asked questions about her behaviour rather than the perpetrator’s conduct.

Survivors get exhausted because of the long delays in the criminal justice system, for the cases drag on for years. Political leaders speak about women’s safety during elections, but remain absent when accountability is demanded, or a post on social media does the job.

And to men, who continue to treat women not as equal human beings but as commodities to be possessed, controlled, punished, or consumed, it is time we stopped sanitising this truth that rape is not about uncontrollable desire but entitlement and power.

It is about the belief in men and a woman’s body is for male gratification and that violating her dignity has no consequences.

Countless others remain invisible—society itself appears to have become desensitised.

Every few days another horrific rape dominates television debates and social media timelines. Public anger erupts briefly before fading into collective amnesia. Outrage has become cyclical, but accountability remains elusive.

Meanwhile, every year, the world wakes up and celebrates women for a day with cheesy inspirational messages, discounted makeup products, cliché women-centric celebrations at workplaces, and celebrity posts endorse self-care during Women’s Day in March. 

Undeniably, there’s progress—women are better educated, they make up a bigger chunk of the workforce, they are present in every parliament, and they are achieving milestones on Earth as well as out in space. So, we celebrate them with several slogan-centric programmes, and hold panel discussions with women achievers but they are constrained mostly within fancy conference halls. 

If people were serious about this day, and if governments were serious about bringing real change, they would take a good, hard look at the real world. It is not only about celebration; it is also about shame and guilt. The day affirms the corrosion of women’s rights and the forgotten promises. Almost every country has announced and agreed to achieve gender equality in their widespread agendas. However, so far, not a single one has met the promises.

It also reflects failures of education that do not teach boys equality and consent. Failures of policing that discourage reporting. Failures of courts that sometimes reduce lived trauma to narrow legal technicalities. Failures of politics that reward power over principle. Failures of technology governance that allow misogyny to scale globally. 

Above all, it reflects a society that still struggles to see women as equal citizens rather than simply bearers of family honor or objects to be controlled.