It is merely in the past few seasons that women in the subcontinent have been acknowledged as professional cricket players. For generations, they endured scorn, censure, exclusion – even the risk of physical harm – to pursue their passion. Currently, India is staging a World Cup with a prize fund of $13.8 million, where the home nation's athletes could emerge as beloved icons if they achieve their first tournament victory.
It would, then, be a great injustice if this weekend's talk focused on their male counterparts. And yet, when India confront Pakistan on Sunday, comparison are unavoidable. Not because the home side are highly favoured to triumph, but because they are unlikely to exchange greetings with their rivals. Handshakegate, if we must call it that, will have a another chapter.
In case you weren't aware of the initial incident, it took place at the end of the men's group match between India and Pakistan at the continental championship last month when the India captain, Suryakumar Yadav, and his team disappeared the field to avoid the customary post-game post-match ritual. A couple of similar follow-ups transpired in the Super4 match and the championship game, climaxing in a long-delayed award ceremony where the title winners declined to receive the trophy from the Pakistan Cricket Board's chair, Mohsin Naqvi. The situation might have seemed comic if it weren't so distressing.
Observers of the female cricket World Cup might well have anticipated, and even imagined, a alternative conduct on Sunday. Women's sport is intended to offer a new blueprint for the sports world and an different path to toxic traditions. The sight of Harmanpreet Kaur's team members offering the fingers of friendship to Fatima Sana and her team would have made a strong message in an increasingly divided world.
It might have recognized the mutually adverse circumstances they have overcome and provided a symbolic reminder that politics are fleeting compared with the connection of women's unity. Undoubtedly, it would have deserved a spot alongside the other positive narrative at this competition: the displaced Afghanistan players invited as guests, being reintegrated into the game four years after the Taliban forced them to flee their homes.
Rather, we've encountered the firm boundaries of the female athletic community. This comes as no surprise. India's men's players are mega celebrities in their country, worshipped like gods, regarded like royalty. They possess all the benefits and influence that accompanies stardom and money. If Yadav and his side can't balk the diktats of an authoritarian prime minister, what chance do the women have, whose improved position is only recently attained?
Perhaps it's more astonishing that we're still talking about a simple greeting. The Asia Cup furore prompted much analysis of that specific sporting ritual, not least because it is viewed as the definitive symbol of fair play. But Yadav's snub was far less significant than what he stated right after the initial match.
Skipper Yadav deemed the victory stand the "ideal moment" to devote his team's victory to the military personnel who had taken part in India's attacks on Pakistan in May, referred to as Operation Sindoor. "I hope they continue to motivate us all," Yadav told the post-game reporter, "and we give them further cause in the field whenever we get an opportunity to bring them joy."
This reflects the current reality: a real-time discussion by a sporting leader openly celebrating a armed attack in which many people lost their lives. Previously, Australian cricketer Usman Khawaja couldn't get a solitary peaceful symbol approved by the ICC, including the peace dove – a literal sign of peace – on his equipment. Yadav was subsequently penalized 30% of his game earnings for the remarks. He wasn't the sole individual disciplined. Pakistan's Haris Rauf, who imitated plane crashes and made "6-0" gestures to the audience in the Super4 match – also referencing the hostilities – was given the identical penalty.
This isn't a issue of not respecting your opponents – this is sport appropriated as nationalistic propaganda. There's no use to be ethically angered by a missing greeting when that's simply a minor plot development in the story of two countries already employing cricket as a diplomatic tool and instrument of proxy war. Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi clearly stated this with his post-final tweet ("Operation Sindoor on the cricket pitch. The result remains unchanged – India wins!"). Naqvi, on his side, blares that athletics and governance must remain separate, while holding dual positions as a government minister and chair of the PCB, and directly mentioning the Indian leader about his country's "humiliating defeats" on the battlefield.
The takeaway from this episode shouldn't be about cricket, or India, or Pakistan, in isolation. It's a warning that the notion of ping pong diplomacy is finished, at least for now. The very game that was used to foster connections between the nations 20 years ago is now being used to inflame tensions between them by people who know exactly what they're doing, and massive followings who are active supporters.
Division is infecting every aspect of public life and as the most prominent of the international cultural influences, athletics is always vulnerable: it's a type of entertainment that literally encourages you to choose a team. Many who consider India's gesture towards Pakistan aggressive will still champion a Ukrainian tennis player's entitlement to decline meeting a Russian competitor across the net.
If you're still kidding yourself that the athletic field is a magical safe space that unites countries, go back and watch the Ryder Cup highlights. The conduct of the Bethpage spectators was the "ideal reflection" of a golf-loving president who openly incites animosity against his adversaries. Not only did we witness the decline of the typical sporting principles of equity and shared courtesy, but the speed at which this might be normalized and tacitly approved when athletes – such as US captain Keegan Bradley – fail to acknowledge and penalize it.
A handshake is meant to signify that, at the conclusion of any contest, however bitter or heated, the participants are putting off their simulated rivalry and recognizing their shared human bond. If the enmity isn't pretend – demanding that its athletes emerge in vocal support of their national armed forces – then what is the purpose with the arena of sports at all? You might as well don the military uniform immediately.
