Silent Cries: Confronting Child Marriage under the Cloak of Tradition
Rafiqul Islam
Child Right Activist
It was a hot July afternoon in 2021 when the mobile phone rang. The voice on the other end was hushed but urgent, trembling with the weight of what it had to convey. “There’s a child marriage happening in a village under Mazdia Police Outpost,” the caller said, “A 15-year-old girl is about to be married off to an older man from Baksa district. You have to do something.”
Child marriages had been a persistent issue in this region, but COVID-19 had exacerbated the problem. The ongoing pandemic had led to a nationwide partial lockdown, with emergency protocols in place that prohibited public gatherings and ceremonies. Social distancing measures were strictly enforced, yet these restrictions were being blatantly violated secretly. There were check posts every here and there. Instead of the usual night journey, the wedding party travelled during day fearing interception at night in the check posts. They planned to return home before the check posts become active in the evening.
I immediately felt a surge of anger mixed with a deep sense of helplessness. As I gathered more information, it became evident that the wedding was being orchestrated by a ‘dewani’, a local influential figure known for his sway over the community. Dewani’s word was law in the village; few dared to challenge him. His involvement meant that the marriage would proceed without any opposition, as the villagers were either too intimidated or too indifferent to intervene.
Very rapidly, a police raid was organized. As the wedding rituals were about to commence, a convoy of police vehicles descended upon the venue at Pub Chatla, a remote village. The air was thick with tension and disbelief. Guests scattered in panic, and the music abruptly ceased. Nine people were arrested on the spot, including the groom, the Kazi, his relatives, the bride’s guardians, and the dewani.
There were phone calls from important persons asking to release the dewani who, in our opinion was the most influential abettor behind the child marriage, a devastating menace. Despite the risks, I offered to lodge a First Information Report (FIR) against the dewani, the groom and seven others to bring the marriage to the legal proceeding. The police of Mazdia Outpost had a reputation for being complacent in such matters, but this time, luck was on my side. The Police Officer (SI) Pranab Kumar Das agreed to cooperate fully, understanding the gravity of the situation.
The media quickly picked up on the story, broadcasting images of the arrest and interviews with the police. The incident sparked widespread outrage and led to a surge in awareness about the illegality and immorality of child marriages. In the days that followed, social media was abuzz with discussions and debates. Most people expressed support for the police action, praising the swift intervention that had saved a young girl from an uncertain future. Some, however, raised questions about the minimum age for marriage, particularly in the context of Muslim Personal Law.
It was a sensitive and deeply debated issue. In India, marriage laws vary based on religious communities, with no uniform civil code governing all citizens. According to Muslim Personal Law, girls could be married off once they reached puberty, often around the age of 15 or 16. This directly contradicts the provision of Prohibition of Child Marriage Act (PCMA) of 2006, which set the legal age of marriage at 18 for girls and 21 for boys. The PCMA was meant to override all other personal laws in matters of marriage age, but in practice, many people continued to follow religious customs, unaware of or indifferent to the law.
This incident brought the question of a uniform code for child rights to the forefront. Children are children, regardless of their religious background. They deserve protection and the opportunity to grow and develop without the premature burden of marriage. A uniform code would ensure that all children, irrespective of their religion, have their rights protected equally.
After the incident, I was asked to provide a statement for the case. The girl, now safe with her family and receiving counselling, would testify against those who had tried to force her into marriage and who all are his relatives and care takers. The police had gathered substantial evidence, and it seemed like an open-and-shut case. However, the wheels of justice turned slowly.
The accused were released from judicial custody after couple of weeks though, it took more than a couple of years for the case to reach court. By the time I was asked to appear in the court, the girl had reached the legal age of marriage, and much had changed. The once clear-cut case had become muddied by time and circumstance. The defense had a new strategy, questioning the validity of my testimony. When I finally appeared in court, the defense lawyer asked if I recognized any of the people standing before me. I glanced at the faces, but I couldn’t recall them.
“No,” I replied, unsure of where this was leading.
The defense lawyer turned to the judge with a request to note that the witness did not recognize the accused. His indication was that my testimony was unreliable.
I felt a surge of frustration. This was a tactic to undermine my credibility, to cast doubt on the facts. The defense was attempting to argue that my lack of personal knowledge about the individuals somehow invalidated the evidence against them. It was a flimsy argument, but in the courtroom, even the flimsiest arguments could have weight if presented convincingly enough.
Despite this setback, the incident in Pub Chatla had already achieved something significant. The public discussion it sparked led to greater awareness about the issue of child marriage.
Following the raid, there were no more reporting of child marriage from that area till date. People had become more vigilant, more willing to speak out against such practices.
But the fight was far from over. As the mixed reactions on social media had shown, there was still a deep divide in public opinion. Many supported the intervention, recognizing the need to protect children and uphold the law. Others, however, remained bound by tradition and religious interpretations that conflicted with the PCMA. They questioned whether the state had the right to interfere in personal matters of marriage, especially when religious beliefs were involved.
This highlighted the necessity of a uniform code in cases involving child rights. Without a consistent legal framework, the rights of children remain vulnerable to interpretation and manipulation. The debate over the minimum age for marriage, especially within different religious contexts, only served to further emphasize this need. A uniform code would provide clarity and ensure that all children are treated equally under the law, regardless of their religious or cultural background.
Reflecting on the case, I realized that the real battle wasn’t just in the courtroom or the villages where these marriages took place. It was in the minds and hearts of the people. Changing laws was one thing, but changing mindsets was another. Education and awareness were crucial in this fight. People needed to understand why child marriages were harmful, not just that they were illegal. They needed to see the importance of letting children be children, allowing them to grow up without the pressures and responsibilities of marriage.
As I left the courtroom that day, a mixture of frustration and hope ran through me. The events in Mazdia had shown that change was possible. It would take time, effort, and a lot of perseverance, but I was ready for it. For every child like the girl in Pub Chatla, it was worth it.
This experience solidified our belief in the necessity of a uniform code for child rights. It was not just about laws and regulations; it was about ensuring that every child, regardless of where they were born or what religion they followed, had the right to a safe and healthy childhood. It was about standing up to those who would use their influence and power to exploit the vulnerable.
(The author, Rafiqul Islam is a Child Right Activist)
