Chup Kar, Be Quiet: Infertility as a South Asian Woman

For Indian women, many expectations are placed upon us. Her hair, vaal, must be long and lustrous. She must have fair skin. Most importantly, she must bear children.

The Omnipresent Evil Eye

Infertility in South Asian families is considered a curse, that an evil eye is cast upon the family. Evil eye, otherwise known as nazar, holds significant cultural and spiritual importance in South Asian culture. It stems from the idea that jealousy, envy, and negative thoughts can cause real harm and misfortune to another. Infertility, as well as illness and misfortune, is believed to be caused by the malevolent gaze of nazar.

Despite these cultural beliefs, I have felt their consequences deeply. The guilt and grief around my infertility are intensified by the expectations within my community. When I speak of my experience, friends and family tell me, ‘chup kar’ meaning ‘be quiet.’ Speaking out is deemed unacceptable. My infertility was not a choice, yet it brands me as different, even cursed. Marrying a white man further distances me from my Sikh community, increasing my sense of isolation.

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My Experience with Infertility

As South Asian women, we often harbour internalised negative attitudes towards fertility in our community. My cousin has voiced, ‘In my arranged marriage, my in-laws told me I was damaged goods and sterile, as I cannot have children. I felt such burning shame and self-blame. After much grieving and stress, my husband was extremely supportive, and thankfully, we are a lot happier.’ My cousin now lives in Malaysia, lives away from her in-laws, and is doing better mentally.  

My own personal health battles have clashed with both these spiritual and social issues. I lost my fertility, my periods, and my ovaries. Pieces of myself were stolen by relentless surgeries and brutal chemotherapy, yet I remain here, surviving. When I got Ovarian Cancer in 2016 and 2020, I could not have hormone replacement therapy as my type of cancer was hormone sensitive.

I was devastated as not only had I become sterile at 38, but I also had to deal with horrendous symptoms like hot flushes, nausea, night sweats, fatigue, brain fog, mood swings, short-term memory loss, and vaginal dryness. This has greatly impacted my life in many negative ways. I must work less, cannot do high-energy exercises or activities, and I am legally not allowed to drive. In spite of this, I have become more aware of my health issues. I have been taking care of my diet and have incorporated exercising and meditating into my lifestyle.

Battling through these health challenges independently, it took me a long time to find a therapist of colour who understood the nuances and idiosyncrasies of South Asian and Sikh culture. In many instances, when I raised my experiences with previous therapists, I was met with racism, bullying, and was ignored.

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I was gaslit by friends and relatives who said my seizure disorder was all in my head. I had to cope with the unbearable grief of losing my reproductive abilities, and I feared public outings as I was haunted by the loss of my hair. Perpetually terrified that the cancer will come back, I felt as though I had lost the most important part of my womanhood. Amid all this loss and fear, I tried to hold onto any fragment of hope I could find. Fortunately, I did get to keep my womb and was able to freeze eight of my eggs, but being 43, I feel the clock ticking away.

The Isolation of Feeling Stigmatised

Within our community, there remains a critical need to acknowledge and address the stigma surrounding infertility and pregnancy. The societal pressure to conceive can be immense, often rooted in traditional beliefs that equate womanhood and marital success with motherhood. As a result, women who struggle to do so may face social ostracisation, judgment, or marital strain. Seeking medical support, such as IVF, is continually considered a taboo subject, leading many to suffer in silence and discouraging them from accessing reproductive healthcare services.

This silence also affects mental well-being. Despite efforts to reduce ethnic disparities in mental health care across the UK, South Asian communities continue to underutilise these services. Cultural expectations, fear of shame, and a lack of culturally sensitive mental health provision contribute to this gap. For instance, one UK-based study found that North Indian women, compared to their white counterparts, were more likely to believe that treatment for depression would be ineffective. Such aversion to help-seeking behaviours results in lower rates of diagnosis and labelling of mental health conditions in our community. Spiritual and cultural beliefs may blur the lines between physical and emotional health, shaping how illnesses such as infertility are understood and responded to within families.

Fear-based and Spiritual Thinking

If infertility is truly of spiritual origin, such as the evil eye, does this make it harder for women to challenge harmful attitudes in their communities? We believe that envy and insecurity motivate people to invoke nazar in order to harm others. This may involve wishing ill health, including infertility, onto people they are jealous of. By placing a black dot (karla) on children, wearing black thread bracelets (thaga), hanging evil eye amulets in our homes, burning incense, reciting prayers, or performing cleansing rituals, we believe that negative energy from others can be eradicated.

The fear of the evil eye can create significant psychological stress, particularly for couples struggling with fertility issues. The belief that one’s inability to conceive may be attributed to malevolent intentions from others can lead to feelings of powerlessness, anxiety, and paranoia. It can also contribute to strained interpersonal relationships within the community, alienating women from speaking up about their experiences.

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Women may bear the heavier weight of these beliefs by being scrutinised for perceived behaviours that ‘welcome’ nazar, such as showing happiness openly or sharing good news. Over time, this can result in to form of self-surveillance. Women may suppress their emotions to ward off harm. This culture of secrecy and fear not only limits access to healthcare and support but further perpetuates generational cycles of shame and having to chup kar.

The Importance of Support and Awareness

Luckily, support groups exist both online and in-person, making seeking advice more accessible for all women. I was given a free membership to The Daisy Network, a UK-based charity that supports women with Premature Ovarian Insufficiency (POI), otherwise known as premature menopause. For the first time, I felt seen and understood in a space where my experiences weren’t dismissed or minimised. It provides information, community, and educates us on medical guidance, all while raising awareness among healthcare professionals and the public.

By creating support networks through education, group counselling, or social outings, women can seek solace from one another and feel more empowered to share their stories. Although support groups on social media trigger me into remembering my painful experiences with infertility, it is good to know that support exists and that there are other women who understand my journey.

If we continue to support each other, we can reduce the silence and stigma that surround infertility in our communities, building a future where no woman has to face this pain alone.

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This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating. 

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