How Grassroots Collectives Are Recasting Justice for Survivors of Gender Violence
For decades, justice for survivors of gender violence has been framed as a courtroom battle, a sterile space of paperwork, interrogation, and procedural delay. But for millions of women and queer persons, that “justice” feels hollow. Courtrooms cannot always restore dignity. Legal forms rarely repair trust. And state institutions, steeped in bias and bureaucracy, often become extensions of trauma rather than instruments of healing.
Across India and the world, however, a quiet revolution is underway. In small towns, conflict zones, and forgotten corners, grassroots collectives are taking justice back to its most human roots. They are asking survivors not what the law demands of them, but what they need to feel safe, respected, and whole again. Their answer is reshaping global thinking on gender justice.
Imagine a young woman in Uttar Pradesh, assaulted by a powerful man and dismissed by police, who finds solidarity not in a courtroom but in a crowd of pink-clad women standing outside her door. That is the Gulabi Gang, a women’s collective that patrols villages, confronts abusers, and demands accountability when the system stays silent. Founded by Sampat Pal Devi in 2006, this group of rural women transformed their anger into collective power. Over time, they have gone beyond wielding bamboo sticks to leading campaigns for women’s education, economic independence, and participation in politics. What began as resistance has matured into a model of grassroots governance, one where justice is both immediate and empowering.
In the far northeast, another movement lights up the night. The Meira Paibi, literally “women torch bearers”, patrol the streets of Manipur carrying bamboo torches, challenging military excesses, domestic abuse, and trafficking. Since the 1970s, their nocturnal vigilance has symbolized community self-defense. They have rescued youths from arbitrary detention, demanded justice in cases of sexual violence, and turned the streets into spaces of collective protection. In a region scarred by decades of conflict and state repression, Meira Paibi’s activism proves that when formal systems lose legitimacy, moral authority can still protect the vulnerable.
These are not isolated stories. They represent a fundamental reimagining of what justice means. Globally, the World Health Organization reports that one in three women experience physical or sexual violence in their lifetime, yet most never report it. Shame, stigma, and fear of retaliation still silence survivors. Formal justice systems, rooted in punishment, often fail to address the lived realities of survivors who seek not just convictions but healing, safety, and acknowledgment.
That is where transformative and community-centered justice enters. Movements such as INCITE! and Creative Interventions in the U.S. have shown that communities can create their own accountability processes, ones that prevent harm, center survivors’ needs, and push for repair instead of mere retribution. Indian feminists are adapting those lessons. Their message: justice should not begin with a police complaint; it should begin with care.
Few embody that ethos better than Blank Noise, a Bangalore-born collective that treats public space as a site of transformation. Its founder, Jasmeen Patheja, has spent two decades turning street harassment into a public dialogue through performance art, storytelling, and collective memory. The campaign “I Never Ask For It” invites survivors to bring the clothes they wore when harassed or assaulted, rejecting the narrative that women provoke violence by their appearance. Each garment becomes a statement: I am not your shame. By challenging cultural conditioning, Blank Noise extends justice beyond courts, into the realm of social consciousness.
Equally powerful are collectives like Utthan, a survivor-led group working with trafficking and sexual violence survivors across eastern India. Many of its leaders are survivors themselves, now advocating for policy reform and social reintegration. Their model merges legal action with rehabilitation: providing shelter, counseling, skill training, and community reintegration programs. “Healing is a collective act,” one organizer notes, “and justice means standing tall, not standing alone.”
What unites these efforts is a shift from punitive to restorative thinking. Rather than fixating solely on punishing perpetrators, these collectives prioritize survivors’ safety, mental health, and agency. They create systems where survivors have real choices: whether to report, whether to stay anonymous, whether to pursue compensation or reconciliation. They work to dismantle stigma, not just deliver verdicts.
Across India, One Stop Centres (Sakhi), supported by the Ministry of Women and Child Development, are now attempting to formalize this survivor-centered model. These centres provide integrated legal, psychological, and medical aid under one roof, and NGOs often serve as their operational partners. The UN Women’s India office notes that survivor-centered coordination between community groups and such state mechanisms has increased both reporting and retention rates. When survivors feel believed, they stay in the process.
Still, these grassroots actors face formidable challenges. Funding remains erratic. Volunteers often double as counselors, paralegals, and crisis managers. Many face threats from perpetrators or local elites. Despite being on the frontlines, they receive only a fraction of international donor support. According to Equality Now’s 2023 report, women-led survivor networks receive less than 1% of total global funding for gender justice.
What’s remarkable, however, is how much they achieve despite these odds. Survivors who once lived in silence are now leading change, shaping policy conversations, mentoring others, and designing what they call “justice ecosystems.” These ecosystems connect legal aid, psychosocial support, and livelihood pathways so that survivors can reclaim not just freedom but future.
Globally, experts call this the “survivor-centered approach.” It means respecting each survivor’s autonomy, ensuring confidentiality, and prioritizing well-being over conviction rates. The United Nations recognizes it as a cornerstone of effective gender-based violence response. In practice, it requires compassion, speed, and intersectionality, acknowledging how caste, class, sexuality, or ethnicity shape access to justice.
The ripple effect is cultural. When communities learn to respond differently to survivors, to listen without judgment, to hold perpetrators accountable collectively, they rewrite social norms. Over time, justice ceases to be an act of punishment and becomes a practice of prevention.
What would it take to amplify this transformation? First, steady funding for grassroots women’s organizations. Their credibility and local reach far exceed that of top-down bureaucracies. Second, integration of survivor-centered principles across ministries, police, health, social welfare, and education, so survivors don’t have to trade dignity for access. Third, new metrics of success. Instead of counting FIRs, we must measure trust: How quickly did help arrive? Did the survivor feel safe, believed, and in control? Has her economic stability improved?
Ultimately, justice cannot be measured only by laws passed or prisons filled. It must be felt, in homes that are safer, in communities that intervene, in survivors who speak without fear. Grassroots collectives are teaching the world that true justice is not top-down. It is circular, shared, and ongoing.
As the Meira Paibis keep their torches burning in Manipur, as the Gulabi Gang marches through dusty lanes, and as Blank Noise continues to reclaim the streets, one truth becomes clear: justice is not a distant institution. It is a living practice, one carried in every survivor who dares to turn silence into sovereignty.
