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Sadia says the public nature of her ordeal has left her unwilling to leave her home
The four suspects are in custody, and their trial has begun
How the crime came to light: Tahir Imran Mian, Social Media editor, BBC Urdu
A Pakistani rape victim says she has been forced to seek justice after the rapists filmed and released the video of the act online
When a young Pakistani woman was gang raped in a remote village, she kept silent. But then a video of the rape began circulating online and via mobile phone. As BBC Urdu's Amber Shamsi reports, little appears to have been done to stop web users from sharing the video.
Sadia (not her real name) had thought that if she kept quiet, it might protect her from the humiliation of being known as a rape victim.
But in the days or weeks after, two versions of her ordeal began to circulate online - one lasted five minutes, the other 40 minutes.
The video showed her being raped by four men, one by one, while she pleaded for mercy. It spread rapidly through the towns and villages of Punjab.
"It was my elder brother who first told me about the video. He saw it and recognised Sadia, then came to me," Sadia's father says.
"She felt too ashamed to tell me because I'm her father. If her mother had been alive, I'm sure my daughter would have told her."
They then reported the rape, and it was easy to find the alleged culprits in that small community.
It was shared largely through Bluetooth and clips have reportedly made it on to social media websites such as Facebook.
It can still be shared. Pakistan does not have the laws to stop this from happening.
Sadia lives in a typical Pakistani village, with mud homes surrounded by fields of sugarcane and small vegetable gardens.
She is 23 but she looks much younger. Since her mother died, she has been a surrogate mother to her younger siblings.
Sadia is nervous as she speaks, clasping and unclasping her hands, breaking down and re-composing herself.
She says she was on her way to the market to buy her sister's school uniform when she was bundled into a car and threatened with a gun. She claims the four men in the car took her to a house and raped her while filming the act on a mobile phone.
"After I begged and pleaded with them, they beat me even more," she says. "They said to me that if I don't listen to them and do what they want, they'll show everyone the video, put it up on the internet, that they would hurt my brothers and sister.
"I didn't care about myself but I didn't want my siblings' future to be in jeopardy because of me. That's why I didn't tell anyone."
She is acutely aware the video is now being watched widely.
"A lot of people are watching this video for fun, they see it as something interesting."
When I came face to face with the four accused men in the police station where they were being held on remand, they hung their heads to avoid our gaze. They are currently in jail and the trial is under way.
As well as being prosecuted for gang-rape and kidnap, they have also been charged with distributing pornography for which the penalty is three months in jail.
The video is still online although police say they have been trying to get it removed. As far as the gang-rape is concerned, police say that with the video, the case is strong
But this is also a story that underscores how Pakistan's legal system has been unable to keep pace with rapid changes in society and technology.
Lawyers specialising in cyber crime say there is no specific law to force websites to take down the video, and a lack of political will and manpower means this could still be some way off.
A comprehensive cyber-crime ordinance was allowed to lapse four years ago before it could become law.
So local police and federal agents adopt a piecemeal approach when confronted with a crime like the filming and sharing of a video containing sexual violence and invoke laws pertaining to sexual harassment, defamation or criminal intimidation or basic clauses on violation of privacy gleaned from an old law called the Electronic Transactions Ordinance (ETO).
Under a new cyber-crime law (yet to be enacted by parliament), the punishment for distributing sexually explicit material will be three years - whether or not it involves violence which is dealt with under separate laws - and violation of privacy is also three years
A deputy director-general with the central Federal Investigation Agency which covers cyber crime, Shehzad Haider, says he gets about 12 to 15 cases of private videos of a sexual nature being uploaded a month - by jilted lovers and blackmailing gangs - and the numbers appear to be increasing.
"The law which was allowed to lapse was very effective because it was detailed and made the job of prosecution much easier," says Mr Haider. "We make do with the ETO because we have no choice."
Sadia has no choice either. She is now house-bound because of the shame of the public nature of her ordeal. She used to be a primary-school teacher and had been in further study.
"Some of my college professors visited me and encouraged me to complete my studies," she says.
"They say I should put it behind me, but I can't. Not until the men are punished."
"I have something to share with you and I hope the BBC can help the victim." That was the message attached to a video from a reader of the BBC Urdu Facebook page.
It is one the biggest and most followed pages in Pakistan and a huge number of people reach out to us for help. We are often sent graphic material, but I felt numb after seeing the shocking video so decided to investigate.
After a few phone calls and conversations, it dawned on me that people were watching and sharing this. I then found that many men in the area where the attack took place thought it was "fun" to share and watch the video.
There are several closed groups on Facebook where men can share images. Those who have access to tools and technology can take it further and blackmail victims. A mobile phone with a camera is cheap and so are the opportunities it provides to many who knowingly or unknowingly record their videos and then share them.
The victim often ends up being the one stigmatised.
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'Disarmingly intimate' photos of women
(Image credit: Susan Meiselas / Magnum Photos )
An exhibition at the Rencontres d’Arles festival features work by three female photographers who each capture revealing and rarely seen images of women.
When you look at them today, you realise how topical and relevant they are now – Clara Bouveresse
You see the variety of bodies, the flesh, the skin, the hair, the wrinkles, the scars – Clara Bouveresse
Heyman’s images show us, again and again, how rarely women are portrayed as they really are in the media, even now
The US photographer Susan Meiselas first began shooting women who took their clothes off for a living in 1972, when she was in her mid-20s. Travelling around New England, she’d encountered the country fairs that toured rural parts of the northeastern US; many had a ‘girl show’ tent, where women danced in striptease acts. Meiselas was fascinated. Over the course of three summers, she haunted the fairgrounds, befriending dancers and sneaking backstage to capture what their lives were really like . She also recorded hundreds of hours of interviews. In order to blend into the crowd and get the shots she needed, she sometimes dressed like a man.
The book Meiselas eventually produced, Carnival Strippers (1976), has become a classic . Unsparing but sympathetic, both humane and abjectly sad, it showed a world many at the time preferred to ignore: one in which women danced nude for handfuls of dollars, in tawdry, spit-and-sawdust tents erected in one-horse towns. Yet perhaps the most remarkable thing about the work is that Meiselas gives the story a complicating twist. We might expect a sob story – a tale of exploited, objectified women in an exploitative, objectifying industry. Yet Meiselas finds nuance in the biographies of the women who danced, along with remarkable amounts of self-awareness and courage. One says that performing is her path to financial independence; another that the carnival has given her a home when she had nowhere else to go.
“It was a complex story, and I wanted to show it in its complexity,” Meiselas tells BBC Culture. “Not everyone was expecting that.”
Forty-three years after it came out, Carnival Strippers is the centrepiece of an exhibition at this year’s Rencontres d’Arles photography festival . Entitled Unretouched Women , it reunites Meiselas’s photo essay with two other books from the same period by American female photographers, both canonical in their way. One is the publication that gives the show its title, The Unretouched Woman (published the same year, 1976), in which Eve Arnold, a pioneering photojournalist, compiled portraits she had taken of women around the world over the previous quarter-century. The third is Abigail Heyman’s Growing Up Female (1974), which describes itself as “about women, and their lives as women, from one feminist’s point of view”.
All three books were their authors’ first: a chance to make their own creative selections and tell the story in their own terms, rather than dealing with the whims of magazine picture editors (usually male). And in their different ways, all three paint a portrait of a tumultuous and convulsive era. Second-wave feminists were campaigning for issues such as abortion rights, workplace equality and an end to sexual harassment; female photographers were challenging the male gaze and questions about how women should be represented. Four decades ago this might be, but walking through the show, you feel you’re not so much stepping into history as peering at a mirror of the present day.
Susan Meiselas, Shortie on the Bally, Barton, Vermont, USA (Credit: Susan Meiselas / Magnum Photos)
“Back then, these issues were only just starting to filter into photography,” says the curator, Clara Bouveresse. “But when you look at them today, you realise how topical and relevant they are now.”
When Meiselas and I speak, I ask her for her memories of the mid-70s, and how Carnival Strippers fitted into the debates of the time. She recalls that opting to turn her lens on women who stripped felt like a controversial act: some of her fellow feminists were appalled that she was attempting to document and understand this world rather than condemn it outright.
Susan Meiselas, Tunbridge, Vermont, USA, 1974 (Credit: Susan Meiselas / Magnum Photos)
“A lot of women regarded the girl shows as straightforwardly exploitative,” she says. “That was the debate that was going on. But I wanted the book to be part of a dialogue. When one of the women I photographed, Lena, says she found performing a revolutionary experience, that for the first time she'd got men eating out of her hand, who could deny her that feeling? She was acting in defiance against what the world she’d grown up in expected her to be.”
The pictures in Carnival Strippers are disarmingly intimate. We do see the dancers in their carefully crafted public roles, gyrating on makeshift stages in tasseled bikinis or posing for mobs of gawping, baying men. One particularly uncomfortable shot shows a woman in a semi-transparent twin piece perching on the ‘bally box’ outside the tent to drum up business, as if she’s a prize animal on show.
Susan Meiselas, Debbie and Renee, Rockland, Maine, USA, 1972 (Credit: Susan Meiselas / Magnum Photos)
But we also glimpse the strippers in private moments: lounging in dressing rooms playing cards; horsing around; swigging beer; collapsed on motel beds. For women who spend their lives on show, these times, captured by Meiselas in grainy, low-light photographs drenched in shadow and atmosphere, must have been particularly precious. In contrast to the bodies they put on display for paying customers, artfully costumed and made up, their real bodies – scarred, sweaty, dirty, sometimes bruised – are finally visible. It is a different and altogether more revealing kind of nakedness.
Bouveresse agrees: “There’s an empowerment of sorts in these pictures: you see the variety of bodies, the flesh, the skin, the hair, the wrinkles, the scars.”
Susan Meiselas, New Girl, Tunbridge, Vermont, USA (Credit: Susan Meiselas / Magnum Photos)
Complexity is everywhere you look. A shot of Lena undercuts – or at least complicates – her words about revolution by depicting her after the show, naked and plainly exhausted, pressing a towel to her face in what looks like desperation. Yet elsewhere you sense something more defiant: a sense that these women are attempting to control how we look at them (Meiselas made sure to share her contact sheets with her subjects, often asking them to choose which pictures they liked). For all the tattiness of the fairs, what comes through is the sense of a close backstage community – solidarity, perhaps sisterhood.
Meiselas says, as a women watching these women, she felt it too. “I was like them and not like them,” she says. “That’s why the project was so interesting to me, in a way.”
Eve Arnold’s pictures are revealing in a different sense. Born in Philadelphia in 1912, Arnold shattered nearly every glass ceiling placed in her way: one of the first full members of the prestigious Magnum photo agency in the late 1950s, she managed to make a career as an independent photojournalist in an era when that trade was almost exclusively male (she once observed that “it’s the frustration that drives you” ).
Eve Arnold, Marlene Dietrich at the Recording Studios of Columbia Records, New York, November 1952 (Credit: Eve Arnold / Magnum Photos)
A self-confessed workaholic, she had pictures printed in nearly every major photography publication of the 60s and 70s, among them the Sunday Times Magazine, Esquire, Harper’s Bazaar, and Life magazine, and became especially renowned for candid shots of celebrities such as Joan Crawford, James Dean, Andy Warhol and Paul Newman. Despite the astonishing range of her work – South African townships in the apartheid era alongside confessional portraits of Marilyn Monroe, whom she shadowed for nearly a decade – she always had an eye for female subjects. In the early 1960s, she shot a pioneering photo essay on birth, and in 1971 made a film, Women Behind the Veil, which stepped inside the closeted world of Arab hammams and harems.
Even so, she waited until her 60s to produce The Unretouched Woman. “It was a way of looking back at her career as a photographer, saying who she was,” says Bouveresse.
Eve Arnold, Actress Joan Crawford, Los Angeles, 1959 (Credit: Eve Arnold / Magnum Photos)
Though some of the images in the book feel a little uninvolved – pitch-perfect, pin-sharp pictures gathered by a globetrotting pro – they nonetheless speak to the democracy of Arnold’s way of looking at the world, especially the women in it. Next to an image of pregnant Zulu women in a labour ward in South Africa there is a melancholy portrait of an elderly woman in a care home in the Cotswolds in England. Yes, here’s Marilyn, probably the most photographed face of her era, but there are also women from Afghanistan, their own features obscured by flowing chadors.
Perhaps the most moving images in the Arles exhibition are those shot by Abigail Heyman. A neglected figure now, Heyman’s attempt to capture female experience in Growing Up Female (subtitle: A Personal Photojournal) is more inward-looking than the other books: a living-out of the mantra that the personal is political. Combining unstaged, stripped-back photographs with handwritten comments, it echoes another canonical feminist text of the era, the bestselling study of female health and sexuality, Our Bodies, Ourselves . Where that book – which included guidance on everything from sexual orientation and gender identity to birth control – encouraged women to take control of their destiny, Heyman’s images show us, again and again, how rarely women are portrayed in the media as they really are, even now.
Abigail Heyman, Beauty Pageant, 1971 (Credit: Courtesy of Abigail Heyman)
As well as the simple beauty of these photographs – shot in a luminous black-and-white that, in Arles, seems to leap off the walls – they’re full of sly irony. One of Heyman’s photographs is a group shot of a beauty pageant in the Deep South of the US: six teenage girls, impeccably preened and perched on folding chairs, looking bored out of their skulls by the experience – as well they might. A picture taken at the Houston Livestock Fair in 1970 is a droll essay in gender expectations: three men in sober slacks and blazers clustered around a woman wearing a ten-gallon hat, knee-high boots and the shortest of shorts (one wonders what would have happened if the dress codes had been reversed).
Equally often, though, those expectations are turned on their head. A picture of schoolgirls in uniform tartan skirts catches one girl in pigtails separated from the rest of the pack: legs planted wide with a fearsome expression on her face, she stands defiantly alone, determined not to go along with the crowd. 
Abigail Heyman, Self-Portrait, 1971 (Credit: Courtesy of Abigail Heyman)
Somehow, it’s the photographs Heyman took of herself – a feminist photographer’s perspective on her own experience as a woman – that speak loudest to the exhibition’s theme. One of her most reproduced images is of her own face caught in the bathroom mirror in an expression of surprise. Because of the angle she’s taken the photograph from, her features are tiny, half cut-off by the mirror. Looming large at the bottom of the frame – far larger, in fact, than Heyman’s head – are a clutter of beauty products, creams, gels and powders. Which is the more honest self-portrait, it seems to ask: my face, or the stuff I’m expected to put on it because of my gender? In the era of the #nomake-up selfie , it’s a question we’re asking still.
Unretouched Women is at the Rencontres d’Arles until 22 September.
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