This is the Karachi Grammar School Model United Nations delegation, which is for the first time attending the annual Harvard Model United Nations, being hosted in Beijing, China from March 15 to 18. That explains the departure lounge tensions, as the school prefect body and three other final-year A’ Level students fuss over routine checks in preparation for their nine-hour flight to Beijing. No one is more hassled than History teacher Ayesha Shaikh, who can be heard on the phone counting and recounting luggage. “We’re extremely excited about this three-day conference organised by Harvard,” she says. “Top schools and colleges from across the world will be competing, so it’s very exciting.” Final-year A’ Level student Sophia Ashai is a combination of stress and excitement. “I have to research on my country, finish a computer project and study for my mocks all the same time – I have no idea what I’m going to do in China!” Still, she muses, “It’s a nice way to end this year, visiting a new country.”

This isn’t the first time this team has left Karachi though. According to Head Boy Shayaan Abdullah, “It’s kind of ridiculous how much I’ve travelled with this team, to MUN PK in Islamabad and LUMUN in Lahore.” And the team bonding reveals itself in the way Ashai offhandedly says, “How do I know these people so darn well?” Or in the way Areeba Tariq often refers to the team as ‘family’. For some, it’s all about the country. Faiz Khalil jokingly says, “Chinese food was probably the biggest incentive in joining up in the first place.” There is plenty of excitement: “On our first day there we get to see an acrobat show – how cool is that?”

Meanwhile Omar Mahmood has packed a reference book on Beijing just so he knows where “exactly” he’s being taken. Though the conference itself lasts three days, the trip is ten days long, with the Forbidden City and Wall of China on the list of places to visit. For some though, it’s about the conference. Saad Ahmed Khan, who cannot stop saying how excited he is, refers to himself as the “underdog”.  “I’m probably the least experienced on this team, even though I’ve won at MUN IBA,” he says, “So this MUN is going to be a challenge. I just hope my partnership with Omar works out for the best in our committee.” Akasha Sarwar is excited about the “change of faces in China”. “In Pakistan it’s always the same kind of people from similar backgrounds debating,” says Sarwar. “But imagine representing the country Germany as a Pakistani, and then actually meeting German kids.

That has got to change perspectives.” KGS is one of many schools from Pakistan that is attending HMUN, which include Bayview High, Aitchison College, Headstart, Roots and LGS. Still, the relatively small scale of Pakistani schools attending this competition is only just beginning to hit. Pride, both personal and for the country, is what’s on everyone’s mind right now. Says Ayesha Shaikh: “We’re just hoping to bring back some good news for Pakistan.”

Published in The Express Tribune, March 13^th, 2012.

KARACHI: The Sindh police chief earned the ire of the Sindh High Court for not complying with its orders to report on the state of affairs of the Airport police station and was summoned for March 13.

The order came from a bench headed by Justice Ahmed Ali M Sheikh on Friday in a petition filed by a businessman, Muhammad Ali Jan, who has a cloth shop in Faisal Shopping Centre at Colony Gate, Karachi.

The petitioner, alleging harassment and intimidation by the Airport and CID police, maintained that a man named Irfan alias Baboo, the brother of ASI Akbar of Shah Faisal police station, who also had a shop in the same centre, had him implicated in three different FIRs. He has since been acquitted in them but a fourth FIR was lodged after he filed this petition.

The businessman said that a police team raided his shop and took away cloth worth three million rupees and that they were still intimidating him.

The bench had ordered an inquiry into the matter through SSP Niaz Khosa. The inquiry report indicated that the petitioner was involved in street crimes. Going through this report, the court held, however, that the police department was plagued with “dishonest” officials.

The bench expressed its concern over the state of affairs at the level of the police station which it called “deplorable”.

The police chief was told to “look into the dismal affairs of the Airport police station” and “to conduct an inquiry at his level and submit the report to court within a fortnight.”

The order was passed on January 11.

When the matter came up for hearing on Friday, the bench noted that its orders were not followed. It gave the police chief one last chance and ordered him to appear on March 13.

Published in The Express Tribune, February 27^th, 2012.

The play, which opened for three days on Friday at the Rangoonwala Centre, is an almost scene-by-scene, line-by-line adaptation of V for Vendetta the film. “A friend and I watched the film, and it was just amazing,” says Mustafa Changezi, the 21-year-old director of the play. “I kept thinking to myself that Aleem [an actor who had worked with Mustafa in an earlier play] would be perfect to play the High Chancellor, and things just started rolling from there.”

The chancellor is the all-powerful head of the totalitarian government Norse Fire, which controls Britain through persecution and propaganda.

The central figure in the story is V, a masked vigilante obsessed with Guy Fawkes, a historical figure who almost blew up the House of Parliament, played by Changezi.

The female lead is Evey, a young woman who V saves from an attempted rape, and strikes up an unusual alliance of sorts with him. Evey is played by Myra Merchant, 17, who finds the role a challenging one. “I’m nothing like her,” she quips. “I’m chirpy and hyper all the time, and she’s just this very confused and disturbed woman because of everything that’s happening around her.”

The play opens with an attempted rape on Evey, which sets the dark mood. The first half is concerned with story development, while the second half picks up considerably, with some excellent performances including those of the chancellor’s mental breakdown, Evey’s torture scene and the death of Dr Delia Surridge, played by Lisa, which received the most applause from the audience.

“Ambitious” is one word used by both the cast and audience to describe the play. V for Vendetta the film had the advantage of special effects to show off its multiple action scenes; the play has to make do with fake swords and strobe lighting to portray bullet shots. Several scenes from the film are also cropped, but this was inevitable, according to Changezi. “We had to keep only the essentials from the film, otherwise it would have just stretched on and on.” Still, it did lead to what one audience member saying, “Unless you’ve seen the film, I think you’d have really hard time understanding what’s going on.”

In the end, V for Vendetta strikes a chord primarily because of its political undertones. “People should not be afraid of their governments, governments should be afraid of their people,” was the central line said by V and repeated again by Changezi in the curtain call, to much cheering from the audience.

Audience members Saba and Farah Khalid found the play enjoyable because it was “extremely applicable to Pakistan.” Lisa, visiting here from Finland, was roped in to act in the play not just because she was friends with the director, but also because she “really like the idea of the movie”. Ultimately, the play is about “liberation, and standing up for yourself,” says Changezi. And the actual performance itself? “Practice makes perfect,” he asserts. Sunday is the last show. Tickets are available at Agha’s Supermarket, Espresso and Butler’s or at the venue.

Published in The Express Tribune, July 31^st, 2011.

Shiza and Naima were at the cinema with seven friends, aged between 17 and 20 years. “Harry Potter’s just something you grow up with,” gushed Naima.

Testament to how long Potter has been around was the fact that the majority of people who came to the premiere were mostly in their late teens or early 20s. Maham and Aroob, aged 21 and 20, respectively, remembered “running up the stairs for the tickets the day the doors opened.” They have been “obsessively following Potter for ten years”.

Asma, one of the few parents present, was roped in to see the film by her 15-year-old nephew. “He’s in the line over there trying to get last minute tickets, but just look at the rush!” she pointed out, amused. Her young daughter of about 10 hasn’t read the books but still shyly admitted that her favourite film was the Goblet of Fire.

The response so far has been “brilliant”, according to Atrium senior manager of marketing Anita Kenneth. “From the day we started selling tickets this place has been buzzing,” she told The Express Tribune. “Apart from a few limited tickets, almost all Friday, Saturday and Sunday tickets have been booked. We stopped phone bookings because there were just too many people.”

Potter fans have been extremely lucky. According to Kenneth, the distributor was unsure whether to release it in Pakistan or not. “There’s just never been demand for Potter before – not like this,” she said, attributing the madness to it being the last film. “I mean it’s Harry Potter – it’s a lifetime experience,” she emphasised. “There was an outpouring of support on our Facebook page, even people specifically calling to lobby for Potter.”

The 3D factor helped. “Maybe if it was in 2D people would have just skipped the cinema and opted for a pirated DVD instead,” Kenneth mused. It is all about the cinema experience as well and not just watching a film at home. Twenty-year-old Zara’s biggest cause for concern was that her group of friends was supposed to dress up in gowns and wands but it didn’t work out. Zara had wanted them to take a cue from the way she saw them do it in Canada where she watched Deathly Hallows Part I. “Over there, every second person was dressed up as a character,” she said.

And even if the preparation did not go as far as costumes, there were people like Faizan who geared up by watching the films back to back. Zara poured over the books. And the two friends had even had a “little fight” over the last ticket – before they managed to buy another.

And when it comes to Harry Potter even Sameer Mahmood, 17, admitted that he would be coming back with more friends on Monday. “I honestly don’t mind watching Harry Potter again,” he said.

Small wonder that the Atrium’s Kenneth mused: “It’s times like these you wish you had a few extra cinemas, just to cope with all the fans.”

Published in The Express Tribune, July 23^rd, 2011.

Before you start on your own sappy version of that fateful Wednesday, know that there are no greater patriots in the world than a bunch of A-level students. Nothing you say, not even worn-out stories of how you wept for the team, or how you’re actually related to Shahid Afridi, will compare to what we did for the Pakistan cricket team.

We messed up our chemistry practical, that’s what we did. And sociology, and history, and math and anything else we should have been studying in those nine hours.

We were glued to our screens and busy painting our faces, forgetting about enzymes and molecules, which was of course the rational thing to do during this battle of the nations.

It’s just that when Sachin appeared for his Man of the Match speech, we didn’t just scream and throw our bowl of popcorn at the TV in a fit of depression because we had lost – it was because his smiling Indian face was a reminder of all that we had missed out on. We weren’t getting a holiday tomorrow, and we weren’t getting a holiday on Monday (somehow winning this semi obviously meant we’d win the World Cup on Saturday too). We wouldn’t be able to go through our exams properly; couldn’t pin little Pakistan pins to the transparent pencil cases we have to use.

It was a little horrible actually. All month long, our teachers had begged us to stop staring obsessively at the green bands around our wrists. Cue: “Sir, my heart says Pakistan, but my mind says India.”

“I don’t care what your mind thinks beta, as long as it can solve these physics problems.”

It’s odd how cricket can obscure everything else that may be going on: exams, suicide bombs, Libya. Why shouldn’t it? We love the team. Fifty-two of my friends are attending ‘Shahid Bhai, we love you’ and ‘Proud to be Pakistani’ events on Facebook. We’re not huffing and puffing about match fixing like we always do – we’ve matured beyond that.

And that’s how we spent the rest of our week. “I googled Wahab Riaz images, and he’s actually really cute” – a perfectly normal fact to gush about just five minutes before a physics final. Or while you attempt to start math past papers, your Facebook newsfeed is littered with conciliatory “Don’t worry, our boiiiz are still better-looking.”

Cricket fever has hit us all over again. Exams? What exams? Our team’s great, our country is great, and all you other nations out there just wish you had our Boom Boom t-shirts. Pakistan Zindabad!

The writer is a first-year A’ Level student and can be reached at karachi@tribune.com.pk

Published in The Express Tribune, April 4^th,  2011.

“Art tuitions?”

Two heads shake somberly in unison at the prospect.

“But I thought Art was…”

“Don’t even think about saying it’s innate. It’s not.”

Students across Karachi will unanimously testify that after-school makeup tuitions exist for every subject under the sun. But, this was the first time we had heard of someone taking tuitions for Art. Perhaps it was nervous backlash against one of the worst O’ Level Art results ever this year when the Cambridge International Examinations suddenly decided to give the Monets of my class Bs and Cs? Did we have to go to Art tuitions now because we suddenly had no faith in our brushstrokes?

No. It’s because we’re A’ Level students now.

Getting through school has been marked by a steady realisation that just when we thought we were grown up enough, another level of maturity and academic challenge awaited. For example, when we were in class VI, class VII was the epitomy of grownup-ness. Then, the real grownups [read parents and teachers] asserted that class X was the most important. In the final lap, drunk as we were on a steady diet of high school movies and dramas, they cried O’ Levels! We split change for chicken rolls and Pepsi after tuitions, started conversing in Urdu mahavarey, dreamt of Beatrice and Benedict, Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy. And then, D-day arrived. Our balding invigilator made it sound as if we were flying PIA: “Khawateen o hazraat, thank you for choosing the CIE. Your Chemistry exam will begin shortly in five minutes…”

We emerged from those exams having survived the great hypothesized battlefield of school. After three months of holidaying over the summer, we forgot the fear of academic failure instilled by the overzealous adults in our lives. A’ Levels would be just another case of cry wolf.

Until we opened our textbooks, that is.

Did you know that Marie Antoinette was referred to as Madame Deficit? Speaking of deficits, did you also know that Pakistan has a trade deficit of 20 billion dollars? Or was it two? A’ Levels is turning out to be as much about amassing useless figures and bits of information as it is absorbing great ideas. “Liberte! Egalite! Fraternite!” cries my History teacher. I don’t attend Economics class – I attend “Politics, the Global Recession and the Future of Pakistan’s Agrarian Economy.” The bottom line? We are being forced to work. We have all infinitely aged. We will never be carefree again because we can’t afford to.

I turn to the new kid next to me in class and ask: “How many As did you get [in your O’ Levels]?”

Thirteen.

“How nice,” I mutter. I hope you go jump off a cliff! Another new student takes his SAT vocabulary dictionary wherever he goes. We are not spared during Sports either. The PT instructor shouts FAIL when we drop the ball. “Who taught you that word!” we cried. My Economics teacher cheerfully calls us a “bunch of nerds” while explaining oilrigs on the Karachi coastline. “Has anyone been to the beach lately?” she asks. “No one? You people have no social lives.”

A class of 30 students stares back at her blankly. What social life? Were we even allowed one now?

The writer is a first-year A’ Levels student and can be reached at karachi@tribune.com.pk

Published in The Express Tribune, November 29^th, 2010.

KARACHI: There are five stages that an O’ Level student goes through on his or her result day: anxiety, religiousness, panic, shock and espresso. The last is the most drawn out – it involves Facebook, friends, a phone, tissue paper, a hug and maybe coffee.

I couldn’t sleep the night before. I picked up The Motorcycle Diaries, which isn’t a very good book to read if you want to go to sleep. By the time Che Guevara had visited his eighth leper colony I had thrown the book aside and turned to my pathetic little mp3 player for some solace. Coldplay sounded more random than usual: “Look at the stars – ECONOMICS – look how they – PHYSICS – shine for you and everything that you do, yeah they were all – ADD MATH – yellow.”

It’s not comforting to know that the results are out on the first of Ramazan when you remember that the last time you prayed was because the sports reporter had cornered you: “You shall read namaz!” Ja, mein fuhrer.

One egg, 2 parathey, a bowl of Frosties and a dozen Azaans later, I was feeling better. But neither Surah Kausar nor Chris Martin had quelled the bubbling fear of Cs and Ds. So, I decided to become newly acquainted with my room. I plumped up my pillow, sprayed Fabreeze on my curtains. I sent Ramazan Mubarak messages to every idiot in my phonebook. Feeling adventurous, I climbed the narrow stairs to the roof. Standing there in my floral nightie, in all reckless abandon, I watched the sun rise over the Arabian sea on one side and Defense sprawl out on the other. The sky turned pink and caramel. The golden arches of McDonald’s Seaview rose up through the morning fog.

Then I fell asleep. In my bed, not on the roof. And I woke up only when a friend called at noon telling me the results were being given out in the auditorium, so where are you?

The guards were smiling as I walked by. “Aur baby? Kaisi ho?”

Some students who had received their results were walking out. “Yeah! I got 6A*s! 3 As! Tell Mumani Jaan, Beenish Khala…”

As the auditorium loomed closer, I saw my entire class, after two months of being cooped up like chickens studying their brains out, sitting haphazardly on chairs, some staring out blankly, some looking like they’ve been tasered.

“Did you hear? She got a 100 per cent – in Literature!”

“100 @$#% per cent!”

“Yo, how was summer?” Does it look like I give a…

We line up next to the table where the headmistress is distributing the results with an ease not shared by her students.

“Ah, um, here we are… what’s this? Oh well done.”

Hands hold on to you, others pepper the air with, ‘Good luck” and swear words. And then, with the paper in your hands, numb and dazed, you emerge and join in the babble of congratulations and incredulity.

“Oh my God? What did you get?”

“Are you serious!”

“Ninety-three per cent in Chemistry!”

“6As, ladies, 6As!”

And then, suddenly, the world felt funnier and a whole lot kinder. Students who were waiting for their results were laughing away the tension. “I always knew you were going to ace that.” There was the usual barrage of questions: Which subject? What grade? How much? Soon enough I was highfiving, hugging, laughing – I had faced the doom and gloom and lived.

For others it was less celebratory. “Well you see sir, I really DID try.” Followed by, “I expected you to get higher than this, beta.” A shake of the head.

You wipe your friend’s tears away and tell them the British examiner was having problems at home, of course. You call up friends and your throat sticks because they say in a small, sad voice, “Maybe, I’ll have to leave school”.

Then tradition kicked in. We ran around school, barging into the classes for 10 and 11, yelling to the teacher, “Miss! Sir! I got an A!” The teachers either congratulate you, or kick you out. The students in their class stare back at you in shock and awe. You bask in the divine light. You’ve made it through the O’ Levels.

Published in The Express Tribune, August 13^th, 2010.

KARACHI: Each time Laiq Ali refers to his son, he uses the present term “hai” rather then the past tense “tha”.

“He’s alive, shaheed kabhi martey nahin hain,” says the old man. “Mein fakhr sey ketha hoon ke mein eik shaheed ka baap hoon.” I say with pride that I am a martyr’s father – for martyrs never die.

Ali’s son Owais was one of the victims of the Margalla hill plane crash. He was also a member of the Youth Parliament Pakistan, a group of talented young men and women who wanted to make a change.

On Wednesday, Ali and six other mourning parents met at a condolence tribute organised by the Pakistan Institute of Legislative Development and Transparency. For all those present, these young men and women were still alive as “martyrs” as they had given their lives in the cause of public service and democracy.

Hasan Javed Khan, Syeda Rabab Zehra Naqvi, Prem Chand, Bilal Jamaee, Owais bin Laiq and Syed Arsalan Ahmed were the brightest and the best, not only refered to as shaheed but throughout the ceremony as ‘heeray and phool – phool jo hum sey cheen liye gae they 28 july ko’ in the words of Ahmed Bilal Mehboob, executive director of Pildat.

Looking longingly at the six blown up pictures on the wall behind the stage, former senator Javed Jabbar  expressed what only parents can know. “Every parent thinks my child will be an engineer or a doctor or an IT specialist, no one says I’ll make him a politician.” But the Youth Parliament members were exceptions to this rule, people from good families who wanted to serve the people.

Shamas ur Rehman Alvi, a member of YPP’s 2009-2010 batch, had nothing but memories of his friends to console him. “It’s a sad day when you cherish your friendship only when it’s been cut short,” he said. “I remember all the plane trips, the food we shared, the debates we held.”

The academic achievements of the six youth parliamentarians are known. They were headed for the London School of Economics and Cambridge University. They were writers, debaters, social workers. But Shamas offered a different side to them: Bilal Jamaee, I will miss your Urdu poetry, your humour and constant smile. Hassan, the way he could rally people around him for a cause. Rabab for the way she questioned everything and her simple approach to life. Arsalan, how he was never involved in petty politics and his musings on Karachi. Owais’s  ability to win hearts and Prem, an asset to his community, a proud Pakistani.

“It was during the regime of Pervez Musharraf,” recalled Zameer Ahmed Malik, a member of the 2008-2009 batch. “I remember in those days, Bilal Jamaee and I spent our time at the Karachi Press Club. He would say, ‘Watch your mouth or you’ll get killed one day’. How was I to know that it would be him who died first, not me?”

As one looked around the room, it became clear that these would-be leaders of tomorrow were from middle class families, a fact not lost on Prem Chand’s relatives who had come from Sanghar. “We are poor, we come from backward areas, but never once did Prem suffer from an inferiorty complex,” they said. “Sometimes I still think that that I’ll go home, drop my bags, knock on his door and we’ll talk like old times,” said one of his friends Rahul.

At one point, Zameer cried out: “Aaj kal corruption ka bazaar garam hai! These kids got though not on bribes, but on merit.”

Prem Chand’s mother Mrs Thakoram’s face was covered but her voice rang out loud and clear: “What does a mother have to say? Can there ever be a son like Prem? One son out of three daughters?”

These words had the effect of breaking the composure of the audience.

Bilal’s father Naseer Ahmed took comfort, however, from the people who had gathered. “The more I see, the more it seems that my son is almost public property,” he said with a flicker of a smile. “My son would tell me, ‘You’re a journalist, why don’t you write, do something?’ But I never did.”

Owais’s elder brother Umer remembered how fondly his brother would call him ‘Ayya’. “As a kid he couldn’t say the word bhaiya,” he explained, and then shaking with emotion and pride, he said, “Four air commodores brought his body back to Karachi. My brother was taken to his funeral wrapped in Pakistan’s flag.”

Rabab’s mother Mrs Murtaza Naqvi saw the tragedy in another light. “This is just another test for us sinners,” she said. But nothing touched Mrs Rafia Taj more than Bilal Jamaee’s gesture right before he departed for Islamabad. “He knew that I loved Nargis key phool and told me that he’d get them from Islamabad for me. It’s not even the season for them! And he said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find them for you.’”

Amid the grief ran undercurrents of anger. Jabbar, for example, was shocked at the insensitivity of both the civil aviation authority and the airline company. “You have a mechanised voice as if it was from a call centre informing you of the death, saying, ‘We are sorry’,” he said.

Wazir Ahmed Jagezai pointed out that not many people knew that these young members were going to start a political party – a different kind of party based on knowledge, intention and sincerity.

As Pildat’s Ahmed Bilal Mehboob said towards the end: “It’s not how many years their life consisted, its how much life there was in those years.”

reporting by MEIRYUM ALI

Published in The Express Tribune, August 12^th, 2010.

KARACHI: Thursday is D-Day for hundreds of 16 and 17-year-olds across Pakistan – the day their University of Cambridge International Examination (CIE) Ordinary and Advanced Level results will arrive. Preparation ranges from sudden religiosity to complete nonchalance.

“This Thursday?” Sarim Waseem looked surprised when asked how he felt about the results coming out this week, “Are you sure?” For this teenager, panicking was just not his style. “We’re going to get what we deserve, so why worry?”

Samreen Fatima, on the other hand, falls at the other end of the spectrum as she waits with bated breath for what she hopes will be a continuation of her excellent grades so far. With five As in the bag, Samreen still wants more, “Do you know that the first thing foreign universities ask is whether you got a B in language [English]?” she says nervously. Thousands of students sit the two CIE exam sessions held in Pakistan each year, in June and November. For the O’ Levels, students prepare mostly from class 8 onwards and sit their exams in class 11. Schools register with the CIE but plenty of students sit as private candidates. For the June exams, the results come in August, which is when the A’ Level and International Baccalaureate intake is scheduled.

When Nadia (not her real name) told her friends she had a goat sacrificed as sadqah for her results, they burst out laughing because religion was not known as Nadia’s strong point. However, she was not the only one who turned to religion as the results drew close.

For instance, Sana (not her real name), resolved to wear the hijab for two months before her Pakistan Studies and Islamiat results were due last year. “I did it because I wanted three As,” she said. “And when I got 3 Bs, I stopped wearing it!”

Bilal, recently back from Umrah, has made a ‘mannat’ or vow to do another Umrah if he gets five As.

Some students scoff at the idea. “I’m not one of those hypocrites,” said an offended Mohammed Abdullah. But even he admits to praying more regularly before the results day. “I mean yeah, there’s so much tension in the air, you end up saying duas.”

This young man said he’s ‘calm’ about the results but panic lurks in the deeper recesses of his mind. “I woke up at 9:40 am on the day of my Additional Maths paper,” he said. “[The CIE officials] let me complete my paper but [it was] a 30-minute paper! That completely stressed me out.” The real-life exam runs from 60 to 90 minutes.

For some, a feeling of helplessness is tempered by the sense that what’s done is done. “Honestly, no magic trick is going to get you through,” reasoned 16-year-old Talha Kehar. “It is hard work, some faith and the examiner’s mood [that determine your results].”

The O’ Level results will determine A’ Level admissions for many students. Unfortunately the number of students who sit their O’ Levels exceeds the number of schools offering the A’ Levels. For the students who don’t make it, this doesn’t mean they can’t continue in the same line. They can prepare for their A’ Levels privately. Some students even opt for the one-year foundation courses offered primarily at UK universities ahead of the proper full undergraduate work.

Nonetheless, students want to be able to go to their school of choice. “These grades will decide which school I will go to and I don’t just want the past two years to be a waste,” said Abdullah. For him, Karachi Grammar School and The Lyceum School fall in the “good” A’ Level school category. He has a conditional offer from The Lyceum, which means a minimum of a B in Language, Economics and Math.

The problem is that students cannot always assess how well they’ve done in subjects such as Literature, Language or Art. Sana has been “freaking out” since she doesn’t want to go to anything less than the best schools. Her offer from The Lyceum is also only conditional (minimum a B in Language and C in Art.) “It’s not just the O’ Levels, it’s what happens after the O’ Levels that counts too.”

Twenty-four year old Rabia doesn’t recall her own anxiety as much as her parents’. “My mother made me drink Aab-i-zamzam every day,” she remembered.

For Taha Kehar, in undergraduate university now, it was a “conflicting mix of anticipation and fear”. In retrospect, however, those emotions were a “waste of time” as they had no effect on the results.

Meanwhile, Ibrahim Naqvi, who got 10 As and two Bs in his O’ Levels, recalled how he was “chilling” with his brother the night before. “O’ Levels are a piece of cake,” he shrugged. “Don’t worry, even if you try, you can’t get below a C.” The worse is yet to come. “Just wait till you get to AS levels. Just you wait.”

with reporting by Meriyum Ali

Published in The Express Tribune, August 11^th, 2010.

KARACHI: A University of California, Berkeley student from Karachi Grammar School was among the victims of the plane crash on Wednesday. Nineteen-year-old Misha Dawood was on her way to attend the National Women Football Championship being held in Islamabad.

“It was really hard, too hard to convince my team to get on with the game and play without their Maradona,” said Diya football club’s owner Saadia Sheikh while talking to The Express Tribune. “The girls didn’t want to play but I told them that the only way we can pay our tribute to Misha is by winning the match.”

Diya Football Club’s match against Punjab FC went ahead on Wednesday. Misha had been on her way to catch up with the team that had left for the championship on July 24. She took the first flight of the day to be there before the match started at 5 pm at Jinnah Stadium.

Misha was an excellent athlete, with a smile on her face and a friendly attitude; she was a treat to have around, Sheikh said. The mid-fielder was known as the team’s Maradona and was very excited about playing in the championship matches when Sheikh spoke to her on the phone two days ago.

The athletic captain of her school house when she attended Karachi Grammar School, Misha had just completed her first year at the University of California, Berkeley. However, she had a special place for football in her life, she would fly to Pakistan to meet her family in Karachi and participate with Diya Club at the national level every year.

She became a regular with the club in 2008, when her hattrick against Sindh Soccerites led her team to win 6-0 in the Inter-Club Women’s Football Championship.

Diya FC went on to win against the defending champion Punjab FC 2-0 and cruised into the quarter final, but without her, dedicating the win to her name.

Published in The Express Tribune, July 29^th, 2010.