I am Dr Asha Achy Joseph...
a woman who has endured sexual harassment at her workplace.
Not in a shadowed alley. Not in an abandoned corner.
I was humiliated while performing an official responsibility in a state-owned cultural institution — one that claimed progressive values — under the Kerala State Chalachitra Academy.
The person who committed the act against me was P T Kunju Muhammed, the Chairperson of the IFFK 2025 Selection Committee, a known producer and director in Malayalam cinema, former Director of Kairali TV, and former MLA from Kodungallur.
It was not a misunderstanding.
It was not an isolated lapse.
It was the deliberate act of a man who understood precisely what his position of authority afforded him.
When society uses words like “victim” or “survivor” to describe me, I feel as though even my most basic right, to exist as a person, is being erased. I firmly believe that no woman should be silenced in the name of protection or safety.
I had been officially invited by the Academy to serve on the Selection Committee for the “Malayalam Cinema Today” category at the 30th International Film Festival of Kerala (IFFK). The invitation was extended in recognition of my experience and professional competence. For three decades, I have directed documentaries and short films, produced television programmes, collaborated on feature films, received central and state awards, earned international scholarships, and worked closely with students as a film educator. I have previously led the Selection Committee at IDSFFK and served on the Research Fellowship Jury of the Academy.
Most recently, my former student and filmmaker Jeo Baby, along with colleagues, supported the production of Palama, a film scripted by my students and directed by me.
After the incident, though shaken and caught in waves of despair, I wrote a detailed confidential letter to the Chief Minister on November 24, outlining what had happened. Within four days, two women police officers visited my home and recorded my statement. I was informed that an FIR would be filed immediately.
In the meantime, office bearers of the Academy called to express sympathy and solidarity. They assured me that the accused would be kept away from IFFK, that his name would not appear in the festival handbook, and that a declaration of “zero tolerance” toward sexual harassment in cinema would be announced. The promises were many.
Strangely, when the news was reported on December 8, no FIR had been registered yet. Local elections passed. The IFFK concluded. One cannot help but ask whether the haste was directed toward ensuring that my voice did not rise.
After the incident, some attempted to define the silence as safety. They advised me: “For your own good, stay quiet.” “Do not complicate matters.” “You will be protected.”
But silence felt like a second violation; an assault upon my dignity.
It took time before I could narrate the incident to my partner, my daughter, and my siblings. My daughter’s first question was simple: “Will you file a complaint?” And yet I found myself wondering, could this experience be contained within a single complaint? The despair deepened.
Nine years after our collective in cinema, the Women in Cinema Collective (WCC), raised its voice following the assault of a colleague on February 17, 2017, I find myself humiliated in my own workplace. If someone like me, with relatively greater privilege, still faces this, what must be unfolding in the lives of other women and those pushed further to the margins? Why does justice remain so distant? From where does authority draw its audacity to isolate and discipline women like Parvathy Thiruvothu, Padmapriya, Reema Kallingal, and many others, lesser known?
How swiftly language changes in this society. “Assault” becomes “controversy.” “Complaint” becomes “settlement.” “Survivor” becomes “circumstance.”
I refuse this erasure.
Had I not reported the assault, would the perpetrator have hesitated before accepting his next official appointment? Would this incident follow him into his meals and sleep?
I speak not because it is easy.
I speak because I recognised that silence, imposed upon me, would be a second violence.
Let me state what no institution has said clearly:
You owe your silence to no one.
It is not my responsibility to produce evidence. It is the responsibility of authorities to prevent such incidents and, if they occur, to address them according to law. The PoSH Act (Prevention of Sexual Harassment) mandates Prevention, Prohibition, and Redressal. A system that cannot prevent or prohibit cannot claim to redress.
To those who ask, “What should we do now?” my answer is simple: do your job. Not only in cases that make headlines, but for every woman who works alongside you.
To those who approached me seeking compromise: please spare me that humiliation.
To Kerala’s society: I do not ask for sympathy. I ask for solidarity. Survivors are not required to be perfect. I seek solidarity that does not wait for judicial verdicts to find moral clarity. Solidarity that understands a woman speaks publicly only after every private door has closed.
To institutions and to the State, I ask:
How did you allow this to happen?
Why, despite the law, is sexual harassment not prohibited in workplaces?
Why are the accused permitted to remain in positions of power while survivors are told to withdraw?
Why are public testimonies seen as threats?
Protection does not mean silencing women.
Protection means assuming responsibility to prevent, prohibit, and redress sexual harassment.
Protection means removing the accused from positions of authority.
Protection means building systems of accountability.
I am not prepared to be erased from history.
Silence has never dismantled patriarchy. Courage and moral clarity have.
I speak in the hope that my voice may make it slightly less frightening for another woman to speak tomorrow. I speak to insist that those who promise safety must be held accountable for it.
Letter translated from Malayalam by Vijayan M.J.