Indian protesters hold placards as they demonstrate against the brutal gang rape of a woman on a moving bus in New Delhi in December, 2012.Altaf Qadri/The Associated Press
A searing new documentary about a gang rape in New Delhi has been banned by India's government. But even though efforts to suppress the film are obviously misguided, it's much too simplistic to conclude that India is unable to have a frank discussion about gender-based violence. Indeed, the furious debate in India about the imperfect film proves the opposite, and simply justifies the documentary's wider release.
The documentary India's Daughter, by the British filmmaker Leslee Udwin, makes for difficult viewing. It chronicles the gruesome attack on Jyoti Singh in 2012. Ms. Singh boarded a private bus in India's capital with a friend and was gang raped, sexually assaulted with an iron bar and left for dead. The attackers were captured quickly. And as doctors tried to revive the 23-year-old medical student, the tragic case captivated India and led to huge street protests. Ms. Singh eventually died as a result of her horrific injuries, and four of the attackers were sentenced to death.
The documentary tells this story plainly, through interviews with the victim's family – and the families of the impoverished attackers – as well as police, student activists, NGO workers and the authors of a government report on sexual violence.
But the backlash to the film has been intense; and it has come not just from a government who says the documentary is an "international conspiracy to defame India," but also from liberals who see it as a platform for rapists' views, a demonization of Indian men and a simplistic recounting that ignores the root cause of gender-based violence in India.
Most of the outrage has centred on Ms. Udwin's lengthy prison interview with Mukesh Singh, who was driving the bus at the time. He has been sentenced to death, but is unrepentant as he blames the woman he helped rape and kill.
"It takes two hands to clap," he says without emotion. "A decent girl won't roam around at 9 o'clock at night. A girl is far more responsible for rape than a boy."
These views are stomach-churning, but they are not reason enough to ban a film, especially since his views are not that shocking: He grew up uneducated in a Delhi slum, and is simply parroting patriarchal notions of a woman's role in Indian society.
Much worse are his two defence lawyers. One says: "We have the best culture. In our culture, there is no space for a woman." The other says he would set his own daughter on fire if he found she was having premarital sex.
But again, this documentary isn't meant to comfort.
Leaving aside the delusional claim that this is a conspiracy to insult India, many object on procedural grounds: that Ms. Udwin got the interview in the first place, or that she didn't run the footage past jail officials, or that the case is still waiting on a final appeal (in an infamously slow judicial system). Fire the prison officials, then, who probably shouldn't have allowed the interview.
Many are also embarrassed that the film was produced by a foreigner. Several think the film is orientalist, has a "white saviour complex" or ignores rape in other countries – criticisms that focus on Ms. Udwin's identity and citizenship, rather than on the actual content, and point, of her documentary. This isn't exactly a repeat of Kony 2012.
But these criticisms are getting closer to the mark, and there's a crucial point: Indians have not hesitated to lob legitimate criticisms at the film, despite the government's attempt to shield them from seeing it.
Many justifiably object to the title India's Daughter, which they feel is an offensively patronizing and patriarchal reference. The documentary also ignores the role of India's hierarchical caste system, a major reason police officers refuse to pursue cases lodged by dalits, and also treats law-enforcement officials as angels, rather than the reluctant guardians they often are. Further, there is no discussion of rape as a weapon in communal rioting or the difference between rapes in urban areas and in rural areas, where local officials may know the offenders – or even recommend rape, or death, as a punishment. More important, the film also doesn't deal with rape by husbands, relatives or acquaintances, who were responsible for a staggering 98 per cent of the 24,923 rape cases reported in India in 2012, according to India's National Crime Records Bureau. A bus rape in Delhi, however horrific, is not representative of India's real problems with violence against women.
But this is just one documentary – in which the director has opted for a tight focus on a single case. It might be imperfect, as a comprehensive analysis, but it is just part of the historical record, not the historical record. Prime Minister Narendra Modi boldly asked Indian parents to take responsibility for their sons. Now, his government is trying to suppress something that could kick-start crucial conversations – not that Indians aren't already having that discussion themselves.