Feminist Underpinnings in The Handmaid’s Tale

Feminist Underpinnings in The Handmaid’s Tale By Disha Takle and Rusheen Bansal

2020 has been a tumultuous year. Everything that could possibly go wrong went wrong. Personally, this year felt like a growing pile of books I never got around to reading, instead just watching the pile grow and eventually topple, feeling as if there is nothing I could do to “fix” this problem.

This was also the year that exposed the systemic structural inequalities within our societies and governments, forcing us to reevaluate several instances that were usually ignored as “normal”. A striking example of this is Poland’s recent attempt to ban abortions in cases of foetal defects, which was met with a furious uproar by women all over the world, followed by mass protests and rallies that aimed to remind everyone that a woman’s body is not a commodity that can be legislated. Instances like these trigger anxiety and worry for the future because it is a cumulation of such events that lay the foundation of any classic dystopia.

Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale gives us a chance to evaluate these accruing systemic leaks and question if these are laying the foundation of a dystopian future for all of us. The book is largely inspired by George Orwell’s 1984, with Atwood exploring a world where it is almost criminal to be a woman. Set in an environment where rising levels of pollution and toxicity have decreased fertility rates, fearing the human race on the verge of extinction, the government of the USA is overthrown by a right-wing organisation which forms the Republic of Gilead. The theocratic order of Gilead alludes to the Old Testament, where most men take on roles of power and women are forced into submission. The role of a woman is severely dehumanised: they’re reduced to vessels of reproduction, servants, and objects of childrearing. This story is a cautionary tale of the unforeseen circumstances of unchecked political power — a world where the passing of misogynistic laws didn’t gather crowds on streets, a world where no one protested.

Of the limited roles women are allowed to assume, there is an apparent segregation: in richer households, Handmaids do the surrogate childbearing (as they are one of the few fertile women left), Wives (infertile) raise the children, and Marthas do the housework; the wives of lower-ranking officers are labelled Econowives, who perform all the functions listed above; aunts are instructors that train handmaids. The Handmaids are denied a personal identity — they are allowed no personal objects, no personal relationships, and no name, as they are referred to as “Of their commander,” (like Of-fred, the protagonist) and assigned an identification number (printed on a ring cuffed to their ear). Once a month, the Commanders, the infertile Wives and the Handmaids partake in a conception ceremony, an euphemism for state-sanctioned r*pe.

The story is told from Offred’s perspective, a Handmaid. Offred is not our regular ‘rebellious, assertive and fearless’ protagonist; she is resilient, but also submissive and passive. Although many may criticise her nature, this is an accurate representation of another type of woman (almost never represented in media as they are “bad role models for young girls”) — women who identify the oppressive structures of the system but feel powerless, who are not self-sacrificial leaders but self-preserving individuals, who have their own tiny acts of rebellion that help them survive. Without material markers of self-identity, Offred often indulges in personal rituals, like rubbing butter on her skin as a moisturizer, taking long baths, or remembering faint memories to regain a sense of self and to feel like a person again. Her acts of self-care themselves are a rebellion against a regime that treats female bodies as commodities. Throughout lockdown, I observed myself indulging in self-care activities whenever I felt overwhelmed or helpless. And then it hit me — self-care helps us ground ourselves, and to reconnect with the person inside this body, a body that is a constant battleground for liberation.

Not only do we hear Offred’s personal account, we are also made aware of other women’s struggles in Gilead. In this clear segregation, Wives and Aunts are more domineering and cruel to Handmaids, which makes one think “Why would a woman oppress another woman in a regime which collectively oppresses women?” At first, this idea seems bizarre. But, as the plot progresses, pitting women against each other is a convenient tool used to maintain the patriarchal order of Gilead. These displays seem very compensatory in nature - by allowing higher-ranked women to feel small doses of power, the patriarchs disassociate them from the actuality, which is that these women too are powerless and have very little freedom for themselves. By distorting the idea of sisterhood and creating an environment of jealousy and distrust, the women of Gilead are unconsciously complicit in their collective oppression. This is a tool in our reality too, where women are indoctrinated to see each other as competitors for a partner, or for their career. As higher-ranked positions are often rationed for women, it exposes the implicit assumption that there is room for only a handful of women at the top.

Inspired by some words from John Green, I can now say that we always think of the future to be better than the present. We expect it to be more progressive, with less things going wrong, and with people living better lives. But The Handmaid’s Tale envisions a future so regressive and bleak that our yearning for the future involves grasping for the glorified past, no matter how oppressive it might’ve been. So, let’s never stop fighting because the alternative is a dystopia not far from the clutches of the systems surrounding us.