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Buss kareen o yaar

For the supernova in my blackhole..

I told you today I’d be writing specially for you coz you not only understand but feel what I say. I had been trying to do that for so long- evoke feelings through words- but I hadn’t been able to.
I give you the name of supernova coz in the brief moment this star shines, its radiation exceeds that of the entire galaxy and then it fades away for weeks. You have been that star. You have been the keeper of my secrets, and the only company my tears flow unhesitatingly infront of.
Shine on!

And I rest my case..

Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.

Elie Wiesel, writer, Nobel laureate.

I disagree. In my opinion, neutrality is a must when one can’t discern between the tormentor and the tormented. Nothing works in isolation. No incident is a one-off event. Terrorists don’t step out of a vacuum and neither can you send them there.

But that’s not what I intend to say in this post.

I have stopped watching TV. I have stopped reading any sort of news related to the war or the bombings in Pakistan. Not only is it too depressing, its infuriating. I don’t support any form of violence: not the war, and not the ‘retaliatory’ violence that follows. A lot of people have drawn allusion to the large-scale migration during the Partition and the plight of the IDPs. The following conclusion from Jason Francisco’s review of the anthologies of all the literature on the partition, titled: In the Heat of Fratricide: The Literature of India’s Partition Burning Freshly, sum up my thoughts regarding the futility of debate and discussion:

What political debate will never fully do—and the reason we so badly need the literature—is defeat the urge to lay blame, which keeps animosity alive. Only the literature truly evokes the suffering of the innocent, whose pain is more universal and ultimately a vehicle of more honest reconciliation than political discourse. The literary work on the Partition affirms that the subject of the Partition was first the human being—not the Hindu human being, nor the Muslim, nor the Sikh. In the world of the stories, the experiences of each community distinctly mirror one another, indeed reach out to and clutch at one another. No crime, no despair, no grief in exile belongs uniquely to anyone. On the one hand, then, the stories seem to suggest that secularism puts a fence around the sanctity of life often more effectively than religious devotion—when, that is, secular thinking destroys religious myths of destiny and privilege that justify violence. At the same time they remind us that secular nationalism is not without its own mythology, including justification of foundational violence and violence deemed necessary for national sustenance.

Perhaps we emerge from the literature with a mistrust toward group solidarity of an oppositional bent. If so we must emerge at the same time,paradoxically, with a conviction to oppose such mistrust with trust in the goodness of the human life-urge wherever we find it. Indeed, we emerge from the literature as searchers for such trust. If we find it in the solitary dissidence of even a single person, we feel obliged to offer him or her our companionship. And if we find it stitched into whole communities, we come away not necessarily more pious, but inspired. The literature as a whole seeds pathos for the suffering and inhumanity of the Partition, and related instances of cultural chauvinism, but not merely so. It also sprouts a countervailing protest, a voice of justice that must be the surging of our humanity itself—something greater than our bestiality—within us. In this sense the literature does what religious leaders in each community failed to do: to make communities forces for the affirmation of humanity broadly, and to forge nations—if nations are the destinies of cherished traditions—dedicated to human improvement, dedicated precisely to virtuous conduct with those of different faith. If religious politics worked nefariously in favor of partition, it was because an ecumenical religious politics never developed. We are in a different position than the men and
women of August,1947/ Our choices are not limited to exile, death or resignation. If the literature of the Partition can teach that committed people of different faiths serve God far more effectively when they face one another in prayer than when they face their respective temples, we can learn to exercise such a choice.

What I essentially interpret from it, and what I mean to say, no amount of discussions- on TV talk shows, in drawing rooms, on blogs- is going to take away the misery of the people who are suffering. Whether or not I feel this is my war or not does not matter. I don’t wish to enter into argument with anyone who doesn’t agree with me.

Coming Full Circle

They tell me the soldiers are fighting My War.

They tell me that while I should support the troops.

They tell me that the IDPs are collateral damage.

They call me a traitor for not agreeing.

The more I think about it, the more perplexed I get. I feel for the displaced families. I feel for every single soul that has been turned out of its home, in this sweltering summer heat. But not a single cell in my brain is ready to accept the logic behind the so called operation. The cost of this war outweighs any benefits that were to be had from it. Who are these Taliban? What writ of the government are they challenging?

Yes, the writ… the word that works so many of us up. They tell me, no one can have their own brand of justice when the constitution exists? Is the government not challenged in the crime infested streets of Lyari? Do tribal lords with private jails only pose a threat when they don’t benefit the ruling party?

But the war… this war, they call mine and yours.. where did that come from. Have you seen Charlie Wilson’s War?

When the world wasn’t looking, he changed it forever!

Sure as hell he did. But as the movie will show you, he also failed. After he succeeded in his covert operation of arming the Mujahideen to drive out the Russians, he couldn’t convince the US Senators who had spent billions on the arms, to spend merely a small proportion of that on reconstruction effort. The Russians were defeated alright! But what did that achieve. Charlie Wilson himself believes they fucked up.

These things happened. They were glorious and they changed the world… and then we fucked up the endgame.

A few days ago, Nabeel posted some eye catching posters on his blog called ‘What Goes Around’.

In Pakistan, we’re on the receiving end of the coming round of everything that has happened in the past, and the sad news is that the IDPs will start another cycle of disaster.

I don’t support the troops of my country. I feel sorry for them. They join the armed forces with the vision of serving their country, yet they’re only serving imperial interests. Unquestioning, unsuspecting, they follow orders and put their lives on the line for nothing.

You don’t eliminate terrorists with guns and tanks. You never will. You will only breed more. Go fight this war, if you have to but don’t call it mine.

Did I dream this belief or did I believe this dream?

I borrow words from others because my own have failed me far too many times. Tonight, its Peter Gabriel, who can express what I feel, better than I ever can:

The news that truly shocks is the empty empty page
While the final rattle rocks its empty empty cage
And I can’t handle this

I grieve for you
You leave me
Let it out and move on
Missing whats gone
They say life carries on
And on and on
Life carries on

Life carries on in the people I meet
In everyone thats out on the street
In all the dogs and the cats
In the flies and the rats
In the rot and the rust
In the ashes and the dust
Life carries on and on and on
Life carries on and on and on
Its just the car that we ride in
A home we reside in
The face that we hide in
The way we are tied in
And life carries on and on and on
Life carries on!

Ever the skeptic that I am, I can only think of bad things about IBA right now. One of those is how time flied and I how short term my memory of IBA was. All of a sudden the last 4 years feel like a black hole. 4 years of a blank spot in my memory vault. I remember feeling alive but I was so busy living, I forgot to be conscious. I was too lost in the moment, and now when its over, all I feel is a vacuum, both in the then and now.

Tweeting, at last!

As you can probably tell from the sudden surge in my number of posts, I’m free. And I actually have time to catch up with things I had missed on. That also includes catching up on blogs I had stopped reading. Slowly, I’m trying to dig up what a friend from IBA calls my ‘bleh friends’.

Another thing that I’ve done is discovered twitter. I spent an entire day yesterday figuring out what it was, how I can use it, and how its different from Facebook. And you know what, despite its narcissistic qualities, I’ve actually put it to good use. As if I wasn’t spending too much time on the computer already, now I have something else to keep me busy.

So how is twitter beneficial? Before I answer that question, here’s some funny videos I found that you MUST watch if you are a regular twitterer.

Hahaha.. so I don’t need to tell you everything that’s wrong with twitter, but here a few things that are actually good:

1. Quick access to information: Follow news twits, like TIME or people like Guy Kawasaki, who are actually using Twitter to educate and inform people instead of being another full-of-himself-celebrity.

2. Maintains Privacy: A lot of people have been adding me lately on Facebook saying they read my blog. I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make you my friend on Facebook. I do not feel comfortable sharing pictures of myself, friends and family just because you read my blog. Hey, I have an idea, why don’t you follow me on twitter? Add me here.

3. Active blog feeds I don’t need to check my blog feeds as regularly. Bloggers that I am following tweet when they have made a new post.

4. Choose who to follow: I may not be interested in everyone’s life, but there are people who I must know what they’re doing every minute of their day. Stalker-like, no? Not really. Now that I have graduated, I may not be seeing people I used to spend the whole day with so regularly. I don’t talk to them for a whole day, and something feels missing. Now if these people were on twitter, I’d know they’re still alive even if I haven’t heard from them in a couple of hours.

5. Marketing Tool: How could I forget? Guy shows you how. I told you. Follow Guy and you’ll stay ahead of the times. Do I sound like that tweetfreak from the video?

I can’t still use twitter from my mobile device. It doesn’t recognize Warid, but maybe that will soon change. Till then, tweet away!

Oh, also, guess what!! I’ve left behind a legacy of sorts at IBA. They wont admit it was my influence (ok.. so not completely my influence), but 3 of my class mates are now blogging, 2 of them, regularly. Introducing Nabeel, Omar, and Shazia.

Enjoy!

When passion becomes obsession..

The Champions League just ended. I doubt there’s hardly anyone who doesn’t know what that is, but for those who don’t, its one of the most prestigious football tournaments around. The title winners are crowned the king of European football.

I was never a fan of watching sports. Ask me to play whatever sport you want me to and I’ll be the most eager player you’ll find but following a sport was never my thing. But then, I had to start following European football for the simple reason that that is all anyone at school talked about in the last few months. I had the choice of either sitting blankly at stare at faces; force people to talk about something else; or joining in the conversation. I’ll have to admit though that I have only gone as far as knowing team names and a few players and of course, quite a little about FC Barcelona history, thanks to an ardent fan.

I have seen a few games. Read up on some history of the teams, yet I still cant relate to the fan following of the game. How people can get so intensely involved in a sport is beyond my comprehension. So much so, that sports and certain games become more important than everything else in a fan’s life. Here’s an example from Good Will Hunting(psst..if you still haven’t seen the movie, you’re surely missing out):

Will: So, when did you know, like, that she was the one for you?
Sean: October 21st, 1975.
Will: Jesus Christ. You know the fuckin’ date?
Sean: Oh yeah. ‘Cause it was Game 6 of the World Series. Biggest game in Red Sox history.
Will: Yeah, sure.
Sean: My friends and I had, you know, slept out on the sidewalk all night to get tickets.
Will: You got tickets?
Sean: Yep. Day of the game. I was sittin’ in a bar, waitin’ for the game to start, and in walks this girl. Oh, it was an amazing game, though. You know, bottom of the eighth, Carbo ties it up at 6-6. It went to twelve. Bottom of the twelfth, in stepped Carlton Fisk. Old Pudge. Steps up to the plate, you know, and he’s got that weird stance.
Will: Yeah, yeah.
Sean: And BAM! He clocks it. High fly ball down the left field line! Thirty-five thousand people, on their feet, yellin’ at the ball, but that’s not because of Fisk. He’s wavin’ at the ball like a madman.
Will: Yeah, I’ve seen…
Sean: He’s going, “Get over! Get over! Get OVER!” And then it HITS the foul pole. OH, he goes apeshit, and 35,000 fans, you know, they charge the field, you know?
Will: Yeah, and he’s fuckin’ bowlin’ police out of the way!
Sean: Goin’, “God! Get out of the way! Get ‘em away!” Banging people…
Will: I can’t fuckin’ believe you had tickets to that fuckin’ game!
Sean: Yeah!
Will: Did you rush the field?
Sean: [surprised at the question] No, I didn’t rush the fuckin’ field; I wasn’t there.
Will: What?
Sean: No – I was in a bar havin’ a drink with my future wife.
Will: You missed Pudge Fisk’s home run?
Sean: Oh, yeah.
Will: To have a fuckin’ drink with some lady you never met?
Sean: Yeah, but you shoulda seen her; she was a stunner.

Poor Will can’t believe someone would miss a game for a woman.

That, I guess, is still acceptable. Also acceptable to me is how men and women who are otherwise known to be impassive and are hardly seen expressing any emotion can work themselves up over a game. But where the fanaticism crosses its line when people kill themselves or others following a defeat.

Sports, today, was one of the most healthiest activities around. Up till now, I considered the fan following to be healthy because it provided people with a much needed escape from the stress of their own lives. Fans are even important for the game itself. Its a proven fact that teams perform better on home grounds because of fans cheering them on. But now, I have my doubts. I am wondering why people need to be able to relate to a team to boost their own self esteem, or derive happiness or sadness from it.

Apparently, I’m not the only one grappling with the sports fans’ behavior. An interesting article, SPORTS PSYCHOLOGY; It Isn’t Just a Game: Clues to Avid Rooting tries to explain behavior from an evolutionary perspective:

One theory traces the roots of fan psychology to a primitive time when human beings lived in small tribes, and warriors fighting to protect tribes were true genetic representatives of their people, psychologists say.
In modern society, professional and college athletes play a similar role for a city in the stylized war on a playing field, the theory goes. Even though professional athletes are mercenaries in every sense, their exploits may re-create the intense emotions in some fans that tribal warfare might have in their ancestors. It may also be these emotions that have in large part fueled the explosion in the popularity of sports over the last two decades.

Another article in National Geographic, Sports Riots: The Psychology of Fan Mayhem reasserts my point. It says:

Experts say fan identification with sports teams is psychologically important for many people, particularly in our increasingly transient and insular society.

and also

“You’re finding satisfaction in a team that you’re not finding in your own life,” Najimy said. “When people lose perspective, that’s when the trouble starts. Don’t take the game too seriously—it’s not your win or loss, it’s the team’s.”

The importance of fanfare can not be denied. Especially not by marketers who are willing to pay through the nose for an ad spot during the Super Bowl ( Advertisers pay millions of dollars to run ads during the game.)Even psychologists admit to benefits to both the teams and the fans themselves:

Daniel L. Wann, who heads the Association for Applied Sport Psychology (AASP) Special Interest Group on Fandom says the following about the impact on teams:

Athletes want to live up to a high paying contract, as well as fan expectations. It is the same with Olympians who strive to live up to expectations. Athletes may say they are immune to fans, but we know better. It is like an adolescent who says they don’t care what their parents think.

He then mentions the positive benefits of supporting a team for the spectator:

Fans who make a connection with a local team have better societal connections. Identification with local teams have been shown to be related to lower depression, lower loneliness and feelings of alienation, higher self esteem, higher energy levels and greater levels of trust in people, as well as greater satisfaction in social life.

It is obvious that sports has become more than entertainment. It has become an escape from reality for many. It gives people an opportunity to yell at something, be euphoric, be angry… but excess of anything is harmful, and that is where I think the problem. Football Fever is getting out of control, and a few deaths here and there might escalate in the coming years unless teams and authorities act more responsibly. The world, as it is now, is already divided along too many fault lines. Sports does not need to become another dividing line…

Return of the silent spectator

With breath, deep yet bated;
Alone, she silently waited;
On the shores of her storming sea;
For the waves to set her free.

A nightmare revisited- an explanation

She always resented his decision of not letting her ride horses after she turned 12. The one thing that in years had given her the feeling of freedom that she so desired. The week long anticipation would culminate in a feeling of rapturous freedom once she mounted her horse. The army horses at the stable were majestic beauties- a good feet taller than herself. The trainer would always get off his own horse to hold her from behind as she mounted. She was, after all, the best girl rider at the club . His eyes always shone with pride when he talked about her to the other riders.

8 years later, one day, she couldn’t help going down memory lane, a walk she later regretted. Remembering the exhilaration of riding against the wind… she was taught to move to the beat of the horses hooves. ‘stand sit…clip clop… stand sit…clip clop‘. Soobeydaar Sahab, as the trainer was would place his hand at the front of her saddle beckoning her to bring herself forward while riding, his hand lingering on for a moment longer than it was necessary as she pounced up and down. ‘stand sit…slip clop..‘ After a month or so, the instructor had let go of her horse’s reins and she could make it cantor or trot by herself. Nonetheless, she still had to ask her mentor to help her onto one.

She tried to remember why she’d been forbidden. No one would tell her. She was just told that it was HIS decision, knowing well she’d never dare question the patriarch’s authority. No one ever did. She protested, but to no avail. As with everything else she loved, she let go.

As she grew up, the Sundays on the ranch had become a distant yet cherished memory. But it had come back to haunt her once before when she had read about a ritual in Baluchistan. Later, she discovered that the ritual wasn’t restricted to that one province in the south of Pakistan. The sheet display was a standard test of the bride’s chastity in primitive societies around the world. In societies where clean sheets meant stained characters, a girl couldn’t be allowed to do anything that could risk her virginity, not even ride horses. She winced with obvious disgust at the memory.

Moments later, she winced again. This time, with horror. She had remembered something else. Something she had buried deep in the vaults of her memory. Freud would have called it a repressed memory. She called it a nightmare. As a 12 year old it hadn’t bothered her. It had confused her but from the vantage point of an adult, it wasn’t confusing anymore. It was horrifying.

The special attention she got from her instructor was not just because she was a gifted rider.

I wrote this 2 years ago. My only attempt at writing a short story after O Levels. I made a few people read it to see if I had succeeded in putting across what I had intended to. Unfortunately, anyone who’s read this has asked for an explanation. Fiction, I guess, then is not really my forte.

Today, a friend found a printout of this story while cleaning up her room and asked me for an explanation… again. I was reminded of why I had written it in the first place. The story fails to speak to the reader, so I’ll put it here in simple straightforward words.

This story is about men in a typical Pakistani society impose themselves on the weaker sex.

On the one hand is the patriarch- the father, the grandfather, the older brother, the husband. Who the he in the story is irrelevant. All that is relevant is that what he says goes- no questions asked.

On the other hand is every other man outside the house who leaves no stones unturned in an attempt to exploit the weaker sex, be she any age. Teachers making advances on students, bosses harassing their secretaries, male students looking down upon their female counterparts. This is not a blanket accusation but these are trends that occur commonly in our society.

This perfect subjugation of women is set in the backdrop of a primitive society where ancient rituals and traditions justify the treatment meted out to women. It is OK for men to give their daughters off to atone for their sins.

I’m not a feminist. I’ve repeated that on this blog here often enough. But I have also repeated several times that being a girl in Pakistan is probably one of the worst fates you could be born with. In preislamic times, it was custom:

When news is brought to one of them, of (the birth of) a female (child), his face darkens, and he is filled with inward grief! With shame does he hide himself from his people, because of the bad news he has had! Shall he retain it on (sufferance and) contempt, or bury it in the dust? Ah! what an evil (choice) they decide on?

Surah Al Kahaf. Verse 46.

The customs may have changed, yet the sentiments remain. The grief is now cloaked in chauvinism and the women continue to suffer…