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UNDILAH PAS DAN BARISAN ALTERNATIF
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'UNBURDEN ME'
'Possessed' women flock to Indian shrine for healing from mental illness
By CLAUDIA KOLKER
NAVA, India -- She crouches on the shrine's cool floor, slaps her palms down violently
and bellows for the saint.
"Unburden me," yells Puriben Bargharv. "Whatever I've done wrong, forgive me."
Bargharv is 25 years old. Married to a farm worker, she lived with her husband and
in-laws until the trouble started a year ago. First, she was unable to conceive. Then
the sickness came.
"I couldn't eat, I couldn't drink. I forgot my husband's name," she says. Doctors told
her there was nothing wrong, so neighbors sent her here, to Mira Datar shrine in
western India.
Six centuries have built this sanctuary's fame for healing mental illness, especially
in women. Men also worship or seek healing here. But the women and their freedom to
express themselves unhindered are what bring the sanctuary its renown.
Healing shrines abound in India. Hindu, Muslim, even Christian, they range from
miniature cities to huts encasing a lone holy brick.
Mira Datar, rising from a dusty roadside, typifies the Sufi Muslim shrine. Step into
its entrance, and vendors call out keenly over mounds of rose petals and incense.
Beyond them, in a courtyard, Muslims, Sikhs and Hindus drift toward the modest shrine.
Only 60 miles away, scores of Hindus and as many as 2,000 Muslims died in religious
riots this year. But Sufism welcomes all faiths in its temples. Amid the killing, Mira
Datar pilgrims continued worshipping in peace.
All Puriben Bargharv, a Hindu, knows is that she feels at home here.
"I'm running out of energy," she howls. Bang, her palms slap down. Her hair sprawls in
an inky web across the floor.
A tiny girl draws close to watch. Elsewhere, squatting under murals of flowers and
trees, pilgrims chatter unperturbed.
In the universe of Mira Datar, women like Bargharv pose no mystery. They are seen as
possessed, and living at the shrine is believed to cure them.
In life, Mira Datar was a warrior who died defending Islam six centuries ago. In
death, say pilgrims, he is known for compassion to women. Some come here with their
families and stay a day or week. Others, like Bargharv, linger much longer, renting
cell-like rooms for about $3 monthly.
Saintly power flows like sound waves, Sufi tradition holds. So when a "possessed"
woman nears his crypt, the clash between the saint and demon is believed to throw her
into a trance, writes Beatriz Pfleiderer, an anthropologist who wrote a book about the
shrine.
Rocking rhythmically, the transported woman may yell anything from gibberish to
diatribes against her husband, in-laws or perceived spiritual attacker. Far from
blaming her, says Pfleiderer, Mira Datar's pilgrims see the woman's wild behavior as a
battle against evil.
Such acceptance can be rare for India's mentally ill, especially the rural women who
flock to the shrine for help.
In a poor country with little culture of psychiatry, public institutions can be cruel,
says Bhargavi Davar, an activist and author of a book on women's mental health. Female
patients are often chained, confined or physically abused. Men and women endure
electroshock treatments without anesthesia.
Because Indian society regulates female behavior so strictly, families often blame a
mentally ill woman for her illness or just abandon her, Davar says. In a setting where
they're free to utter anything, she adds, "possessed" women often reveal home lives of
terrible duress.
"Just like with depression or common mental illnesses, what triggers a trance usually
is something happening in the immediate social circle. It can be dowry violence,
beating, pressure to have a boy child," Davar says. "A trance is a way of saying,
`Look what you're doing to me.' "
In Indian tradition, even a woman's hair falls under constraint, contained and combed
from girlhood on. Like her rocking motions, the wild locks of a "possessed" woman are
a form of expression, Pfleiderer, the anthropologist, says.
"There's so much control in India over women's emotions," Davar adds. "It's OK if they
cry, but they can't express anger. They may express pain, but not sexual pleasure."
Perhaps India's best-known crusader for modernizing mental health care, Davar says
compassionate temple environments like Mira Datar can comfort people too poor or ill
to benefit from other treatments.
Davar's own mother, a schizophrenic, chose to live for 20 years inside a shrine.
There, her symptoms were treated as signs of divinity. When she finally came home, she
still believed she was a goddess. Dressed in silk, she assumed the ritual postures of
Hindu gods. Local folks accepted this new identity and paid her homage.
"I don't want to minimize her disability," Davar says. "But she was very happy. In
India, the difference between mental illness and spirituality is very small."
It's dusk at Mira Datar. As pilgrims mill about for one last prayer, a stone-faced
woman stands motionless beside the tomb.
Sita -- she will give no other name -- once lived with her husband, two children and a
constant, unnamed misery. "I vomited blood," she says. "My body felt like it was
burning."
Doctors deemed her perfectly healthy. So village elders sent her to the shrine, and
now Sita returns here, sometimes for months, every time her symptoms surge.
Outside, the sanctuary bustles like a fairground. Families picnic on lentil stew while
women howl only yards away. Chains and padlocks on their necks as talismans,
worshippers stream toward the shrine, cupping handfuls of rose petals as offerings. A
goat sniffs near their feet for scraps. Near the door, a young man turns repeated
somersaults.
Despite the chaos, Sita says, Mira Datar's dim corridors bring her a sense of peace.
She credits Sayed Salaudin for bringing her health.
Descendants of the buried saint, Salaudin and his male relatives hold legal right to
Mira Datar's 30 or so jobs. A few sit on a public council that handles shrine
donations. Some guide pilgrims to the tomb or hector them to buy prayer blankets.
Others, like 24-year-old Salaudin, listen to pilgrims' woes and pray.
"Salaudin is like a brother to me," Sita says. "I tell him all my problems. The longer
he knows me, the more his prayers work."
The pilgrims, she explains, pay attendants when they feel well again. Sita, who is
Hindu, paid Salaudin about $40 for his Muslim prayers after a recent six-month stay.
Salaudin listens from a distance. His work, he later says discreetly, mixes spiritual
devotion with brotherly support.
Outsiders, of course, might describe it more as therapy or even as the role of a good
husband. Whatever the relationship is called, it's a rare one for a Muslim man and a
Hindu woman in this region.
Even in the most progressive culture, says activist Davar, a compassionate environment
is key in treating mental illness. In a country where good health care is a luxury,
she says, Mira Datar at least offers a respite.
"I would rather be possessed," she says, "than be depressed. At least you can express
yourself."
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