NONFICTION, CRITICAL ESSAY
Performing for Our Humanity
Transgender Pakistanis are more visible than ever, especially women. But viral TikTok videos don’t equate to real power.
Performing for Our Humanity
Transgender Pakistanis are more visible than ever, especially women. But viral TikTok videos don’t equate to real power.
Mehrub Moiz Awan
no. 7, The Nonbinary Issue
Summer 2022
The 2018 transgender rights bill in Pakistan was hailed by many as an advancement far beyond the presumed capacities of a Muslim nation in the post-9/11 world. Transgender people would now be legally brought under the protective umbrella of Pakistani legislation. As big a landmark as this may have seemed in the halls of power, the real revolution was yet to begin; the transgender rights bill suffered the same fate in practicality as Pakistani law enforcement in general, giving lip service while failing to curb or even reduce the persistent persecution and genocide of transwomen.
It did do one thing, though. It brought a new voice to the forefront of the cacophony of power: visible transwomen.
“Meanwhile, in Pakistan, the khwaja sirah community has become increasingly visible: over the past half or so decade, headlines celebrating the country’s first trans model or doctor or news anchor have become commonplace and this year, Joyland, a love story starring Pakistani trans actress Alina Khan won a jury prize at Cannes.”
Read no. 7’s feature,
The Guru Who Said No
Social media, compounded with a new generation of tech-savvy millennial trans folk, put the lives of transwomen in front of the masses. Performers, yes, but the few, fortunate, and influential trans folk who had been given the economic opportunity of joining the development-sector workforce were also part of the mix. These few, owing to their exposure to the language and networks of the development sector and the social mobility it provides, built influential platforms rivaling the new class of trans entertainers. The performance had shifted, and trans opinions were being considered in policy making — they were empowered.
But are they really empowered? Who is represented, and on whose terms? What power is actually being redistributed? Is the audience there to support real change, or for Twitter fodder — and to feel better about themselves?
Social media, compounded with a new generation of tech-savvy millennial trans folk, put the lives of transwomen in front of the masses. Performers, yes, but the few, fortunate, and influential trans folk who had been given the economic opportunity of joining the development-sector workforce were also part of the mix. These few, owing to their exposure to the language and networks of the development sector and the social mobility it provides, built influential platforms rivaling the new class of trans entertainers. The performance had shifted, and trans opinions were being considered in policy making — they were empowered.
But are they really empowered? Who is represented, on what terms? What power is actually being redistributed? Is the audience there to support real change, or for Twitter fodder — and to feel better about themselves?
***
Who is represented?
For a cisgender man, being attracted to a transgender woman is not considered aberrant in most of Pakistani culture; transphobia stemming from sexual anxieties is fundamentally a problem of the urban middle class and the elite. It’s common for transfeminine performers to dance mujras at groom’s bachelors’ nights. Mehak Malik is just such a dancer, and she has a massive fan following, adored and loved by millions. The reason isn’t just her unquestionable beauty and dance talent — it’s her TikTok savvy, her ability to draw fans in with Mehak-Malik-as-a-relatable-person content instead of dance. This humanizing of the most dehumanized of all transgender women, a dancer, shows Pakistan’s unlimited capacity for transgender acceptance. “Have you ever loved someone?” asks a reporter on TikTok. Teary-eyed yet smiling, Mehak responds, “Love for us transgenders can never be fulfilled because we can’t get married.” Replete with a sad music track, this video was viral on Pakistani TikTok for months.
“It’s funny: men who repeatedly misgendered me were offended at not being invited to my farewell lunch. I tell friends it was a parting fuck you but in truth, they terrified me. What autonomy do I have if excluding shitty humans feels like rebelling? When joblessness is more secure than employment? When my unpaid emotional labor is both expected and invisible? When my contributions are erased but my existence is a spectacle?”
Read Sophia-Layla Afsar:
Fragments of Grief
On whose terms?
Aisha Mughal, who works for Pakistan’s Ministry of Human Rights and is the world’s only transgender woman to represent a sovereign nation at a UN platform, was viciously attacked by journalist Orya Maqbool Jan in an Urdu newspaper. He misgendered her, deadnamed her, and used the colonial-era rhetoric of “a man dressed as a woman.” Others joined in, going as far as perpetuating transphobic stereotypes such as the one suggesting that transgender women are just “looking for sex.” Aisha wasn’t a dancer; she was a professor at a reputed university. She worked for the government and the nonprofit sectors. Her ecosystem is urban and hypothetically progressive. But visibility didn’t go the same way for her when paired with actual steps into the halls of power, and she was sexualized, not humanized.
On whose terms?
Aisha Mughal, who works for Pakistan’s Ministry of Human Rights and is the world’s only transgender woman to represent a sovereign nation at a UN platform, was viciously attacked by journalist Orya Maqbool Jan in an Urdu newspaper. He misgendered her, deadnamed her, and used the colonial-era rhetoric of “a man dressed as a woman.” Others joined in, going as far as perpetuating transphobic stereotypes such as the one suggesting that transgender women are just “looking for sex.” Aisha wasn’t a dancer; she was a professor at a reputed university. She worked for the government and the nonprofit sectors. Her ecosystem is urban and hypothetically progressive. But visibility didn’t go the same way for her when paired with actual steps into the halls of power, and she was sexualized, not humanized.
What power is getting redistributed?
Pakistan is a land of surprises, and it’s almost fitting that the only Muslim country to grant legal recognition and protection to transgender people would also be the one to give birth to far-right, ultra-conservative transgender people. A small but significant minority of transgender women, nested in Islamabad, have put forth a narrative on transgender women that replicates urban bourgeoise sensitivities: “Transgender women are gays who are converting into women so they can get more sex.” If this weren’t comical enough, this group, aided by the Jamaat e Islami — Pakistan’s largest religious political party — launched a petition for a judicial review of the Transgender Persons Protection Act, arguing that if this law remains, homosexuality will spread because the “fake transgenders” are spreading it as part of their Western agenda. To any sane person, this conspiracy theory would be laughable. But in a world where Marjorie Taylor Greene is a lawmaker, sad irony is the norm. In an almost-Republican fashion, this group also attracts repenting transgender people who are convinced that they have wronged God and are now seeking His forgiveness.
***
As we begin to make sense of these three absurd, obtuse cases, a chaotic pattern emerges. At one end, we see urban sensibilities molded by a superficial version of allyship; representation in mass media asks the public for surface sympathies, showcasing an exaggerated, dramatized, take on trans lives that consciously creates the impression that the viewer is better-than. At the other end, we have trans professionals and government ministers attacked for attempting to do their jobs rather than performing for the TikTok public. And lurking in the wings, we have self-hating trans folks.
None of these representations treat trans folk as human beings, but as an outlet for all of society’s collectively cruel misgivings.
(It’s not surprising that transgender folks are still not seen as fully human: The highest currency in our heteropatriarchal, capitalist world is a reproductive system where the minority elite produces more male heirs, while more labor force fodder is procreated by the majority poor. In this class-capital conundrum, what value would a “hermaphrodite” have? Evidently none, and that is how the depersonalized sympathy for the oppressed transgender person that’s the hallmark of urban Pakistan is created.)
“Spaces that accept black people but not Black culture are not actually integrated spaces. By professing to accept black people as equals, Black culture can be criticized or rejected, fair and square… reprising the age-old, colonial usurpation of our right to manage our communities, families, and institutions as we see fit.”
Read Breai Mason-Campbell, Innocent Dominance
We can use policy to set a trajectory for a more inclusive Pakistani society and move toward a decolonized understanding of gender. Yet here we are, rewarded only for performing: For the benevolent international development agency looking for gratification through misery porn, we glamorize our pain to satisfy their voyeurism, followed by a feel-good story about how the benevolence of our white saviors allows us to live a good life. For the “I am not transphobic but…” crowd, we must present a trans entertainer who conforms to their middle-class gender moralities. And for the ultra-religious zealots, we must cower under the threat of imminent murder or be hounded by a public invitation into a social media scrutiny of our genitalia.
We can use policy to set a trajectory for a more inclusive Pakistani society and move toward a decolonized understanding of gender. Yet here we are, rewarded only for performing: For the benevolent international development agency looking for gratification through misery porn, we glamorize our pain to satisfy their voyeurism, followed by a feel-good story about how the benevolence of our white saviors allows us to live a good life. For the “I am not transphobic but…” crowd, we must present a trans entertainer who conforms to their middle-class gender moralities. And for the ultra-religious zealots, we must cower under the threat of imminent murder or be hounded by a public invitation into a social media scrutiny of our genitalia.
None of this is accidental. This is deliberate sanitization of transgender identities to make them consumable by the urban sympathetic imagination. Empathy, however, would require them to walk in a trans person’s shoes, which is impossible for many and further exasperated by the class difference. Allyship must be more than a 100 rupee note given to a transgender person at a traffic light, or a sad emoji reaction to a Mehak Malik interview.
Transgender people have gotten a seat at the table, and the table is already too small.
Dr. Mehrub Moiz Awan is a khwaja sirah activist and global policy practitioner focused on institutional and governance reform in post-colonial states, and issues of gender and sexuality. Her methodology is transdisciplinary and utilizes elements of human-centered design thinking, participatory ethnography, systems thinking, and econometrics. She has previously consulted for the World Bank, the International Center for Research on Women, and the International Committee of the Red Cross. She has a Doctor of Medicine and was a Fulbright scholar at George Washington University.
