Joytika Devi Singh

Amsterdam, 14 Febr 2014
Exactly one year ago I was in Suva, dancing "break the chain" in the streets, together with many other people, one of them was Joytika Singh. Joy was killed by her husband in the morning of 27 June 2013.  I know that her friends in Suva have been dancing today in her memory.

Shortly after the killing of Joytika I wrote below text after having attended one of a series of tributes to her life. At the time I did not feel comfortable posting it. I have changed my mind now. Joytika stands for many women that are being killed. But she has a name and a face and should not be forgotten.



Suva, 9 July 2013             

        

I met Joytika in October 2012 during the premier launch of Suraji (a Fijian movie on indentured cane workers in Fiji). I think that may have been the first time I saw her. During the premier launch I took a picture of this beautiful small young woman in a black, white and red salwar kameez. I did not know Joytika then and it was after her death, when I went through my photos that I realized that she was Joytika. 

I also met her more recently, in the context of the One Billion Rising project – during a dance rehearsal at YMCA on 9 Febr 2013 and I was dancing with her on the streets of Suva and at the end of the Vagina Monologues one week later on 14 Febr. I also did not know her then, though during my search through my pictures I found her on a number of the photos and several of the videos I took during these events to protest and make a stand against all forms of violence against women and girls. 

I did not get the opportunity to know her personally while she was alive, but I have the feeling I have gotten to know her last week, the week after she was killed. She had been a teacher, was now at student at USP, and married since 3 years.

Joy was the victim of a very brutal murder, by the hands of her husband on 27 June 2013. Last week the Fiji newspaper mentioned that this was an “alleged murder/suicide”; through Facebook I learned she was in the process of leaving her husband with whom she was in an emotional abusive and manipulative relationship. 

The cremation was the following Wednesday in Labasa, her hometown, and a vigil on Thursday in Suva Cathedral. Two days later, on Saturday at the tribute at YMCA her friends spoke emotionally about that she was kind hearted and had tried reconciliation but it had not worked. She had even brought her husband to counselling and she had agreed on meeting her counsellor on the day she was killed. As she did not show up, her counsellor went to her apartment with the police where they found her in a pool of blood.

Although the newspapers were vague about it, apparently the circumstances were very clear. The couple had been meeting up with friends, gone to bed – Joy had even texted a friend at 1 a.m. When she was asleep he must have held her down and cut her throat, her arteries and she bled to death. He was a gentle guy, ‘could not even kill a chicken’, but police found on his computer that he had researched how to kill. In the morning her cell phone rang, and he told her mother she was asleep. Later that morning he drunk a bottle of hard liquor and cut his wrists….  They found him next to the bed.

At the YMCA tribute from the stories it became evident that she must have gone through hell. Her traditional Indo-Fijian background placed lots of importance on family honour and shame; the pressure on her to stay in the relationship must have been tremendous. Recently three other women have died in forced suicides, apparently a ‘safe' way of killing women in this culture. Joy who was part of the movement to end violence against women, had been silent about her own situation. She had confided in only a few friends, her thesis supervisor and her counsellor. Friends had asked about her safety and she did not feel she was in danger...

At the tribute, her friends, one by one, came to the front of the big mat on which we all sat, and related all kinds of stories and anecdotes: how they had met; things that they had done (that’s how I heard she had played in the movie Suraji); what a tiny woman and bubbly and friendly person she was… Her friends mentioned repeated that they should have asked more, should have called her more often, should have been more involved, should have kept her out of her apartment, so that she could have been saved. There was also much anger against a society that was judgemental and had not protected her. One young woman in the audience mentioned that Joytika was living on borrowed time. That had she not been killed that night, she would have been killed some other time, some other place... 

I felt troubled. Many things passed through my head. The complete helplessness if you absolute cannot know what goes on in someone’s head. That you can never really know a person.

I was not planning to speak up at the tribute. Most participants were friends and relatives who had been processing their emotions over a week now and I felt a relative outsider. Nevertheless my heart was bursting. I raised my hand after everybody had already spoken: “I was not planning to speak, but I have something to say.” I was invited to sit at the front of the mat facing all the others, just like all speakers before me had done.

“I did not know Joytika, but I have been listing to you all. I keep noticing the feelings of guilt among some of you: wondering if you could have saved her, only if… But I want to tell you one thing: the only person who is guilty here is the murderer. He has killed her; he planned it; he knew what he was doing… But… Joytika did not see it coming, and nobody saw it coming. I heard he could not even kill a chicken. The most frightening thought that I have been struggling with during this session is the thought that you can never really know a person even if you live very closely with this person. Nobody expected this. My main message is I want all of us to remember that only the killer is guilty.”

I arrived home at 7 pm. A. the night security guard had just started duty. He does not know what work I do. I told him that I had just been at a tribute for the girl that was killed. “Henriette” he said (and he rarely uses my name), “let me tell you something. I live near the street where it happened. You know nothing about it. People talk about all kind of things and I do not want to know. People had heard them fighting, and if a man is angry he cannot control himself.”  A. sounded so judgemental; I was taken aback about his implicit victim-blaming; he implied she should have known her place … I uttered: “If people heard them fighting they should have called the police…” but I did not feel like starting a discussion with A.

At home I opened my email and found this message from one of the women who had been at the tribute that afternoon. “I really appreciated your afterthought at the YMCA since a lot of my friends were feeling guilty for what the murderer did; I think it was very important for them to hear it. Thanks and I'm so glad you were there.”