The names of the Nobel Prize winners for 2011 were announced this week in Stockholm, Sweden. That there was no winner from the Muslim world did not surprise anyone.

The Prize has been awarded since 1901, to some of the brightest minds of the world for their intellectual achievements in the fields of physics, chemistry, physiology or medicine, literature and, since 1969, Economic Sciences. Over 700 persons from different parts of the world have received the Nobel Awards in the last 110 years. (I am not including the Peace Award because that is not awarded for intellectual achievement.)

Barring four exceptions, none of the winners have been from the Muslim world. The exceptions were: Abdus Salam from Pakistan, in Physics, 1979; Naguib Mahfouz from Egypt, in literature, 1988; Ahmed Hassan Zewail, an Egyptian-American, in Chemistry, 1999; and Orhan Pamuk from Turkey, in literature, 2006. Ironically, except Ahmed Zewail, who is a US citizen, the Muslim world did not give the due recognition or respect to their best and the brightest. In fact, they were treated unfairly. Naguib Mahfooz, was stabbed in the neck by religious extremists. Orhan Pamuk was put on trial by the Turkish government for “insulting Turkishness”, because he talked of Kurdish and Armenian deaths in Turkey. Abdus Salam was virtually disowned by his country because of his faith.

We are frequently reminded of the great contributions the Muslim scholars and scientists made in the past, and how it was through their works the West became acquainted with Aristotle, Greek knowledge and other scientific discoveries and inventions. Simultaneously, we also hear the lament about the Muslim world’s current inability to make any advances in science and other fields of learning despite having nearly one fourth of the global population and immense oil and mineral wealth.

This is true. The period between the 8^th and 12^th century, was a golden period of learning and advancement in the Muslim world. But what happened then? Why did it lose interest in seeking and promoting knowledge?

Various explanations are offered. Some blame the Mongols, some the colonisation by the West, some the lack of education and some attribute the decline to the Muslims having deviated from the ‘true path’. There are conspiracy theories, too. While the ‘true path’ is difficult to define and conspiracy theories are an excuse for avoiding the truth, the other factors, however, are not the cause but the consequence of the decline that had already set in. So, the question is, why the decline?

One thought provoking explanation comes from Professor Norman F. Cantor (died 2004), a specialist in the medieval history at NYU. He discusses the question, at some length, in his classic book, The Civilization of the Middle Ages. According to him, Islam, in the early centuries, maintained a separation between the religious authorities on the one hand and philosophers and scientists, or speculative thinkers, on the other. The former derived their knowledge of theology and ethics from the Holy Quran and the traditions of the Holy Prophet (Pbuh), without having the compulsion to conform to the scientific beliefs. On the other side, “the speculative thinkers did not have to worry immediately about the compatibility of reason and revelation or whether they would lose their jobs for preaching heresy. Therefore, they could afford to be especially bold”.

While this was the golden age of the Muslim world, the West was going through the Dark Ages. It did not have this separation between the clergy and temporal scholars; learning and research was carried out under the umbrella of the church. And it was difficult to question the established beliefs.

However, towards the latter part of the 12^th century, things began to change. The religious leaders in the Muslim world felt that the traditional religion was in danger of subversion by the speculative thinkers. They, with the cooperation of the state, proceeded to silence the expression of rational thought. And, in the words of Cantor, “after 1200, scientific thought in the Islamic world was dead”. If the Muslim world hopes to revive scientific thought and produce great scholars and scientists — and Nobel laureates — it will have to create a learning environment free of fear and fatwas, where one could think speculatively and question freely.

Published in The Express Tribune, October 7^th, 2011.

The Islamia College Peshawar (ICP) is to celebrate its first centenary in 2013. Among the many suggestions generated so far, by the college alumni to celebrate the anniversary, one is to build a mausoleum for Sahibzada Abdul Qayum, one of its two founders, where he is buried in his village.

The college, now a university, was the brainchild of George Roos-Keppel — the then British chief commissioner of the province, and Sahibzadah Abddul Qayyum, a son of the soil, a civil servant and, later, a politician — and was conceived as a liberal arts college, emulating the Aligarh model. It has served the people of Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa well, in producing generations of successful professionals, civil servants, diplomats, judges, generals, politicians and businessmen.

Among other things, the college was also known for its magnificent buildings, vast green spaces and playing fields and its roads lined with bitter-orange trees, which, when in blossom, would fill the air with exhilarating fragrance. Whenever I think of the college, I think of the fragrance-filled air in the evenings. (The college building also appears on the Rs100 currency note.)

The ICP students, in the pre-1970 era, stood out anywhere in the city because of their black sherwani, tailored in a standard style and length, white shalwar and, I like to think, their neat and tidy looks — hair dabbed with Brylcreem and combed in the glistening styles of the Hollywood icons of the time. No gel those days, and rarely a beard. In January this year, a meeting of the alumni association at the college offered me an opportunity, after many years, to visit the campus. Visiting one’s college always brings back old and happy memories. But I must confess my visit was a disappointment. It erased some of the beautiful images preserved in my mind for all these years. Many of the green spaces are gone. The lawn-tennis courts in front of our hostel have been taken over by a concrete monstrosity, blocking the view of the college building.

I went to look up Hardinge Hostel, along with my friend and roommate, Mian Jameel, where we had spent two of the happiest years of our lives. It looked distressed, as if crying for help.

Some renovations, spotty and out-of-character, were conspicuous: the brick-paved pathway at the entrance replaced with unattractive terrazzo; brick walls painted dull red to hide the marks of dampness; the columns lining the arched verandahs, each painted with an attribute of God. (I am not sure if this misplaced show of religiosity would please God, but it sure will make the architect of this beautiful building turn in his grave.) The hedge, lining the path in the courtyard, was covered with laundry — shirts, shalwars and towels — hung to dry in the sun, like in a dhobi ghat.

We found three students standing at the gates of the hostel, basking in the sun. All three wore beards and woolen shawls. It was a cold morning. They readily escorted us inside. Of the three, one assumed the leadership role in showing us around and asked intelligent and engaging questions about our time in the college. The other two remained uninterested. Our visit didn’t seem to prick their curiosity.

I wanted a picture taken of myself with my friend and roommate with our old room in the background. I asked the escorts, not anyone in particular, if they would take our picture. The ‘leader’ readily offered his services and asked me to show him how to operate my digital camera. The other two showed no interest, probably the job was too complicated for them.

Pictures taken, we walked back to the gate. Just then, out of curiosity, I asked the ‘leader’ what class was he in. He said he was the chowkidar (the gatekeeper) but the other two were students!

My suggestion to the alumni association will be to focus their efforts on maintaining and enhancing not only the physical beauty and the environment of the college but also bringing the content and quality of its education to meet the requirements of the times. If we do that, it will be the biggest monument to the services of both its founders, George Roos-Keppel and Sahibzada Abdul Qayum. Let’s work on the college.

End-piece: The university’s vice-chancellor, Ajmal Khan, was abducted by militants more than a years ago. He is still in captivity.

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

I have a large framed photograph of M A Jinnah, our Quaid-i-Azam, on a wall of my home office here in New York. It is an old photograph in sepia tones, showing the man dressed immaculately, as always, in a dark suit, striped tie, white straight-collared shirt with double cuffs that protrude a little from underneath his coat sleeves, revealing a cufflink and wearing two-tone shoes.

Jinnah is squatting on the lawn of what appears to be an elegant red-brick house lined with shrubs and greenery. He has a cigarette between his lips, while both his hands are occupied holding a small, white, long-haired dog, a West Highland terrier, or Westie, as the breed is called. Sitting next to the Westie is a big, black Doberman, wearing a studded leather collar, his ears pricked warily. All three — the man and the dogs — are looking straight into the camera.

Jinnah has an amused expression on his face, which, it seems, would break into a grin were it not for the cigarette between his lips. He looks about 60 and dashingly handsome with fine features, a full head of hair with generous splashes of gray carefully combed back.

It’s a shame that the official Pakistan does not display pictures of Jinnah like this one more often — and there are numerous such charming pictures of him in the archives: Jinnah in a chair with his young and beautiful daughter, Dina, standing by, both with a big smile; Jinnah laughing with Gandhi; Jinnah sitting on the arm of a park bench, posing with his sister and other friends; and many more. These pictures reveal the human side of Jinnah, almost a flamboyant side.

Ironically, most Pakistanis have grown up seeing their Quaid-i-Azam, in textbooks, on the covers of their notebooks and currency notes, as an unsmiling, humourless and a somber man, clad in a sherwani and a boat-shaped karakul cap that came to be called the Jinnah cap.

True, Jinnah did start wearing a sherwani and chooridar pyjama or shalwar and a karakul cap — in the last 10 or 12 years of his life — in public gatherings. But he never gave up wearing western clothes. Nor did he give up his love for dogs, nor, unfortunately, his addiction to cigarettes.

Jinnah was a modern man, a westernised man. Whatever his personal beliefs, he never wore religion on his sleeves. No photographer has ever been able to capture him clad in an ahram performing umrah or Hajj, or at an iftar party, or visiting and praying at shrines.

Not only have we ‘doctored’ an official image of Jinnah, we even insist on misspelling his name. Jinnah would spell his first name as Mohamed, as evident in his passport, issued in November 1946. The picture in the passport shows Jinnah wearing a western jacket, a tie and a Jinnah cap. I suspect this is the same picture that appears on our currency notes, but with the tie and jacket replaced with a sherwani collar. Obviously, we have been trying to clad Jinnah in an identity we wish to assume for ourselves — an overt religious identity.

We even rearranged the famous phrase “Unity, faith and discipline” from one of his speeches to “Faith, unity and discipline” and translated faith to mean religion, which, in the context of the speech, meant confidence or conviction.

Published in The Express Tribune, September 14^th,  2011.

Nawaz Sharif kicked off what could have been potentially an interesting and educative debate when he spoke at a meeting of the South Asia Free Media Association (safma) in Lahore a few weeks ago. But unfortunately, the debate was not carried forward and, barring one or two exceptions, was largely ignored by the electronic media.

Essentially what Nawaz Sharif had said was: (a) Since Pakistan is now an independent country, accepted and recognised by India, the Two-Nation Theory or TNT for short, which was used as a tool to achieve Pakistan, has now become irrelevant; (b) India and Pakistan cannot afford to live perpetually in a state of war, engaged in an arms race; (c) Both countries need to open their borders for trade.

Of the few exceptions, Express News carried an interesting discussion on the subject between Marvi Sirmed, a journalist and political commentator, and Zaid Hamid who has become known for his red cap and his speech that drips profusely with rhetoric and religiosity. In fact, it drips so profusely that if one shows a match to it, it would catch fire. In fact, it would be helpful if Zaid Hamid wore the danger symbol of skull and crossbones on his cap. At least people who debate him will be forewarned.

Incidentally, talking of red caps, Ghazi Abdul Rashid of the Lal Masjid also wore a red cap before he died fighting the ‘forces of evil’, and so do his followers today. One wonders since when did the color of Islam change from white or black or green to red? Didn’t we, during the ‘great jihad’, fight anyone or anything that wore red?

Anyway, the debate between Marvi and Zaid Hamid did allow viewers a peek into what was actually underneath the red cap — the mindset. There were two things, basically. One, we need a system modelled after Khilafat-e-Rashida, and not democracy. It is the same objective that was pursued by people like Sufi Mohammad of Swat, Mullah Omar of Kandhar, the Ghazi brothers of Lal Masjid and Bin Laden, and we all know with what results. Obviously, the irony is lost on the red caps and black turbans that the actual Khilafat-e-Rashida did not last for more than 30 years, ending in insurgencies, murder and mayhem, and giving way to dynastic monarchies. The other point Zaid Hamid fiercely argued was that the Two-Nation Theory or TNT was the raison d’etre of Pakistan — it’s foundation. We simply cannot let it go.

This argument on TNT reminds me of an interesting and reasonable explanation of the theory given by an eminent professor of political science, some years ago at the Administrative Staff College, Lahore. He said the TNT could best be compared to scaffolding that is used to raise a building. Once the building is complete, you dismantle the scaffolding and start taking care of the building. Using another analogy, he said that the TNT could also be compared to a midwife whose services are required to deliver a baby. Once the baby is born, you thank the midwife, pay her, give her a gift or two, say goodbye to her and start looking after the newborn. In our case, the professor said we are neither prepared to dismantle the scaffolding or say goodbye to the midwife.

To the above, I may add another analogy. TNT, as you may know, is also an acronym for a highly explosive chemical substance — trinitrotoluene — which is used in explosive devices. Once the device has accomplished its purpose, it is always advisable to safely dispose off the empty shell or canister and not to play with it. It may still contain traces of TNT that could explode in your face.

Published in The Express Tribune, September 8^th,  2011.

I sat among the audience in the courtroom of federal judge Richard Berman, in Lower Manhattan, watching the sentencing proceedings of Aafia Siddiqui, on September 23.

Before Aafia Siddiqui spoke, her lawyer made what sounded, at least to me, a compassionate plea for a minimum sentence. She argued that Aafia Siddiqui was not mentally stable, or words to that effect, because of the impossible circumstances she had been through. That she needed professional care and compassion rather than a long term in prison. The lawyer concluded her plea by asking for a sentence not more than 12 years.

All this time, Afia Sidddiqui sat quietly, clad in a beige niqab, only her eyes visible. At times she would place her head on the table in front of her, as if not interested in what her lawyer was saying, or would stretch back into the chair clasping her head in both hands, as if exasperated. Soon after her lawyer finished, she stood up and asked the judge if she could say something. The judge said yes.

Then Aafia spoke. It was as if a dam had been breached; the words came gushing out of her mouth like a torrent. She spoke in a sharp voice and flawless English. Every once in a while she would pause and ask the audience, like a teacher in a classroom: “Do you understand what I am saying?” At one point the judge had to say, yes, we all understand you very clearly. Sometimes during the course of her speech she would break into a short, agitated laughter. Once, she even made a humorous comment about her trial referring to the court as Manhattan Institute of Theatrics, a pun on MIT, her alma mater.

She declared at the outset that she was not tortured or mistreated in jail (in Texas). She said if you hear people saying otherwise don’t believe them. She then quoted a verse from the Quran to the effect that when you hear something, verify it before you believe it. She said she was not mentally unbalanced, as her defence lawyers had tried to make out and that she did not trust them.

Several times she said she loved America and had no hostility against Americans or anyone. She also thanked the soldiers who, she said, did not harm or mistreated her daughter in captivity (in Afghanistan?).

Until this moment in her speech, Aafia sounded fairly coherent, but then she said something about dreams she had been seeing. She said she saw the Prophet (pbuh), in a dream. The Prophet, (pbuh) she said, came to a room full of American soldiers who were standing with their hands behind their backs; he went from one room to another, all full of soldiers. She said the Prophet (pbuh) then turned to her and said: all these soldiers are innocent and I forgive them. At another point she said, she also saw Jesus in a dream. Frankly, at this point I began to wonder about her state of mind.

After the judge announced the sentence, he told Aafia she could appeal against his decision. Her response was: no, she would not appeal. She would appeal only to God. Only He could help him.

Miracles do happen, but you cannot totally rely upon them. Therefore, wouldn’t it be better if, simultaneously, Siddiqui’s family finds a good lawyer of their choice and appeal in the appropriate US appellate court?

Published in The Express Tribune, October 3^rd, 2010.

The other day I rang up my old college friend and roommate in Peshawar, Mian Jameel, and asked him how they were coping with the aftermath of the floods. His answer was brief but telling. He said, in Pahsto: “sailaab munga barbanda karru”, meaning the flood has stripped us naked, or exposed our nakedness. Other than washing away lives, houses, crops, roads and bridges, the flood has also peeled away the many layers of camouflage we have used for so many years to cover our nakedness: the poverty, inequity, administrative incompetence, greed and, of course, bigotry.

The flood brought to the surface widespread poverty that exists in the country. Until now, poverty was seen largely as a statistic in the various reports by the government or NGOs, a statistic that increased or decreased marginally without making a real impression on the consciousness of the urban elite. The people of Karachi, Lahore, Islamabad and other large cities had not seen the face of real poverty in Pakistan. They have now, and they are surprised. The thousands of people they have been seeing on their TV screens for the last two months, wading through waist-deep waters, carrying their meagre belongings on their heads, or running after a food package callously tossed from a charity truck, have been there all along, tied to the land they did not own. The flood did not create them. It merely put them on display, so to speak, in our living rooms.

Also, the flood laid bare the chronic negligence and incompetence of successive governments in handling natural disasters. True, this particular disaster was huge, which would have been difficult for any government to handle, but this is not the first time Pakistan has experienced a flood. The first major flood hit Pakistan in 1950, reportedly killing 2,910 people. Considering that the population of Punjab then was only 20 million that was the deadliest flood in our history. Two more large-scale floods hit the country in 1973 and 1976, respectively. After each of these calamities, reports were written, recommendations were made, flood commissions were set up and enormous amounts of money were allocated and spent to control the damage the next time. But when the next time came, nothing seemed to work. In fact, nothing was in place.

Then there were reports from Punjab and Sindh of influential people breaching embankments to save their lands at the cost of drowning other villages and displacing their poor inhabitants. If true, this is not only callous but also criminal.

The floods also laid bare the increasing incidence of bigotry prevalent in our society. There were reports that different religious minority groups in Thatta, Muzaffargarh and some other places were denied shelter and relief. This was shameful, to say the least.

While heart-wrenching images of flood-affected people were shown on the TV screens across the country, a TV channel ran a crawl (patti) posing a multiple choice question to its viewers: Which one of the prophets was swallowed by a whale? Prophet Younas, Saleh or Yahya? The viewers were asked to text their answers and win a prize.

Come to think of it, there is a symbolic connection between the scriptural incident and the floods, and whatever else is happening in the country — theories being bandied to topple the government etc. Hazrat Younas survived the drowning and came out of it whole, will Pakistan, too? T

Published in The Express Tribune, September 26^th, 2010.

Let me state at the outset: given a choice between a state-controlled media and a media that is free but may lack sophistication and, at times, even act irresponsibly, I would opt for the latter: the free media. Because one can expect and hope that a free media may, through experience, training, feedback, and competition, evolve into a sophisticated and responsible institution. A state-controlled media, on the other hand, offers no such hope.

Having said that, I must also say that the Pakistani media, particularly the TV talk shows, have a steep learning curve to climb. Specifically, the hosts are openly partisan, often divisive and sometime insensitive and thoughtless. They talk too much and listen very little. They ask leading questions to elicit answers that are consistent with their own views. Of course, there are exceptions, but they are few.

The other day, I did a little exercise. I timed a talk show with a stopwatch to see how much everyone talks. The show was hosted by one of the several doctors-turned-talk show personalities. Not the one that you might be thinking of. This one wears an educated look. There were three panelists, two men and a woman, all professionals who came across as well informed and articulate. The subject of the discussion, although not put in these words, boiled down to: how to boot out the current government?

Here is the result of my exercise: The total duration of the show, excluding the commercial breaks, was a little over 37 minutes. Out of that, 17 minutes, or 46 per cent, were taken by the host, the remaining 20 minutes, or 54 per cent, were roughly divided between the three panelists. The host interrupted the panelists 13 times, often not letting them finish their answers and diverting the discussion to a new question.

It is legitimate for a talk show host to interrupt when a panelist digresses, or is being long-winded, or indulges in empty rhetoric, or to seek clarification of a point, but the interruptions in this particular case were mostly because the panelist had different points of view.

Those in the media often forget that the source of wisdom or education, if any, in a talk show is supposed to be the panelists, not the host. A skilful host draws out that information and knowledge by asking intelligent, incisive and open-ended questions.

Then there is the dangerously divisive media, which was on display during the current floods. There was a clear attempt by a section of the media to show the army’s rescue and relief efforts as parallel to and independent of the civilian government. One Urdu columnist went to the extent of asking his readers to donate money only to the army in a bank account created for this purpose, and even gave the bank’s name and the account number. By the same token, would the army collect donations independently for fighting a war, too? (Strangely, though, the army did not seem to be uncomfortable with the impression created by the media.)

Then we have examples of insensitive media. A well-known talk show host, wearing a green T-shirt (it was August 14) and armed with a microphone and middle-class morality descended upon a group of villagers, marooned on a high ground somewhere in Sindh. Trapped by floodwater for several days and living under the open sky, they had hardly anything to eat or drink. But the first question they are asked is: “Are you fasting?” Sindhis happen to be polite by nature. The man didn’t answer yes or no. He simply said, “Saeen, we don’t have even a glassful of water to drink”.

Published in The Express Tribune, September 1^st, 2010.

There was a time, not too long ago, when Pakistani visitors or residents in the US wore Pakistan on their sleeves, so to speak. They would love to be asked where they are from and, in reply, gave an enthusiastic discourse on Pakistan — its history and geography, the Mohenjodaros and the mountains.  They felt good talking about their country. Not anymore.

Now they would rather no one ask them where they are from. They are guarded and self-conscious of their identity especially after the May 1 incident when Faisal Shahzad, a self-confessed “soldier of Islam”, attempted to blow up Times Square in the heart of New York City.

The reticence of Pakistanis can be gauged from this incident: A friend of mine, a doctor, who has been in the US for over 20 years, was sitting at a bar in a restaurant. The bartender, during the usual chitchat bartenders have with their customers, asked the doctor where he was from. “Do you really want to know?” the doctor responded, half-jokingly.  “Pakistan?” the bartender guessed.

The reluctance of the doctor to readily disclose his origin and the ease with which the bartender guessed the answer is a sad commentary on the reputation Pakistan has built for itself in the last decade or so.

Therefore, it was a rare sight, last week, to see hundreds of Pakistanis living in New York City and surrounding areas gather in Union Square Park singing, swaying, waving their flags, happily showing off their identity.  An organisation called Pakistani Peace Builders, encouraged and assisted by Pakistan’s ambassador to the UN, Abdullah Hussain Haroon, had set up a show of Sufi music. The idea was to tell New Yorkers, and through them the rest of America, that people like Faisal Shahzad do not define Pakistan and that a vast majority of Pakistanis believe in tolerance, respect and a commitment to universal human rights.

It was an open-air event held in Union Square, a busy and happening place in New York City. More than 2,000 people turned up to watch the three hour long show. The crowd included, other than Pakistanis, several ethnicities including Indians and “local” Americans.

The music troupe included performers from all provinces of Pakistan. However, the main attraction was Abida Parveen, the reigning queen of Sufi music in Pakistan. The Daily Telegraph rightly described her as “one of the greatest singers of the world — even if you can’t understand her”.  Everyone seemed to be enjoying the show, clapping and swaying to the beat. However, when Abida came on stage as the last performer and began with what has become her signature Sufi song, “Damadam mast qalandar”, the crowd was electrified.  The two drummers (on dhols), in accompaniment, sent additional voltage into the crowd. One couldn’t see a single person standing still. Even an American woman, not too far from me, whom I had noticed earlier sitting still in a folding chair she had brought with her because of an apparent leg problem, stood up and started dancing. A distinguished looking tall, middle-aged Sikh, in a scarlet red turban, who sat inscrutably throughout the show, broke into bhangra. Music does cast a spell over people.  Iqbal was right when he said: Rahay na Aibak-o-Ghauri kay ma’rkay baaqi/Hamaisha taza-o-sheerin hai naghma-I-Khusro. (No one remembers the battles of Aibak and Ghauri/But music of Khusro lives sweet and fresh forever.)

Published in The Express Tribune, July 25^th, 2010.

In 1916 when the first Jewish judge of the US Supreme Court, Louis Brandeis, was nominated, the ruling establishment bitterly contested his nomination mainly because he was a Jew. He did get appointed but one of the judges, James McReynolds, refused to sit next to him. (Brandeis ended up being one of the most celebrated judges known for case opinions on freedom of speech and the right to privacy.) Anti-Semitism was rife in America, as was discrimination against blacks and other minorities.  The ruling America, including Congress, was predominantly made up of white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant males.

Today, US President Barack Obama, a black president, has nominated a Jewish Harvard Law professor, Elena Kagan, a woman, to the Supreme Court to replace a retiring judge. If confirmed, which seems likely, Kagan will be the third Jewish judge on the present Supreme Court. For the first time in US history there will not be a single Protestant on the bench. The remaining six judges are all Catholic, including a black judge. This does not mean racism or discrimination is dead in America. But it does mean it no longer rules.

The point is that a nation’s progress depends on more than an increase in wealth. It also depends on how much the society moves towards inclusion and away from racial, religious and sexual discrimination. In fact, the enormous economic progress the US has made since World War II is attributed to the diversity of its population and the freedoms guaranteed to it in the constitution, and, of course, to education.

Other developed countries have also moved in the same general direction — forward. Even India, with whom we love to compare and compete, abolished the centuries old practice of ‘untouchability’ through its constitution in 1950. Pakistan, however, has moved backward.

Unbelievable as it may sound, Pakistan was a non-discriminatory society for the first two or three decades of its life, at least at the legal and official level. Muhammad Ali Jinnah had given the nation a vision of an all-inclusive society (his speech of August 11, 1947); the country had a 15-20 per cent non-Muslim population; the first federal cabinet included a Hindu, Jogendra Nath Mandal, as law minister and an Ahmadi, Zafrullah Khan, as foreign minister. Many Christians joined the air force; Christian missionaries ran some of the best schools and hospitals in the country. The anti-Ahmadi noises, emanating from the usual quarters, were either ignored or, when necessary, treated as a law and order problem.

But in 1974, Prime Minister Zulfikar Bhutto, falling prey to political expediency, amended the 1973 constitution to excommunicate the Ahmadis and, in his words, “solved the 90-year old problem”. That “problem” is now 126 years old, and doesn’t seem to go away.  The amendment paved the way for more discriminatory legislation, which unleashed intolerance and violence in the society. Laws are made for the well-being of citizens, not to persecute them. Discriminatory laws encourage violence. (Lynching of blacks in America until the early 20th century was also the result of prevailing discriminatory laws.) It is naïve to expect violence to go away while retaining such laws. They must be scrapped in order for the society to move forward.

As someone said, “progress is like toothpaste. You cannot push it back into the tube.”  We tried to, and look at the mess we have made.

Published in The Express Tribune, July 19^th, 2010.

We all know the profile of our current parliament. It does not resemble that of the population of Pakistan. A lot of lawmakers are rich, with a feudal or business background, many are related to each other, many are maulanas or mashaikhs (I never quite understood the meaning of the latter term), and they all are college graduates although many with fake degrees.

I know comparing Pakistan with the US is neither valid nor fair, but a peek into the composition of the US Congress shows an interesting picture, which some readers might also find of interest.

But before the details, some explanations are in order: The term US Congress is used for the Senate and the House of Representatives combined. The Senate has 100 senators, two from each state, elected for a six-year term. The House of Representatives, also called the House, consists of 435 plus members, one or more from each state, based on population, elected for a two-year term. Members of the House are also referred to as congressmen or women, or simply representatives. There are no reserved seats in either House; everyone is elected directly.

Here is the composition, gleaned from a 10-page report prepared by Congressional Research Service on the current Congress:

Education: A vast majority of the members of the House and Senate (95 per cent) hold college or university degrees, many a law degree. Twenty-four representatives have PhD degrees, and 17 representatives and three senators have a medical degree. However, one senator and 27 representatives have nothing but a high school diploma.

Religion: Other than a large number of what can broadly be labelled as Christian, there are 44 Jewish, two Buddhists and two Muslims (both in the House).

Gender and Ethnicity: There are 93 women (76 in the House and 17 in the Senate), mostly Democrats. There are 42 black members in the Congress, all Democrats. Another 40 odd members, again, mostly Democrats, are either Hispanic or of East Asian heritage. There is one set of brothers and one set of sisters in the House, both Hispanic.

Foreign Birth: Several members were born overseas. One representative, Van Hollen, Jr., a Democrat from Maryland, was born in Karachi in 1958, and – as if to equalise – one senator, Michael Bennet, a Democrat from Colorado, was born in New Delhi in 1964.

Occupations: They come from all walks of life, literally. From sciences, there are 16 medical doctors, two dentists, three nurses, two veterinarians, three physicists, one chemist, six engineers, and one microbiologist.

From justice and law, besides many lawyers, there are three state Supreme Court justices, a federal judge, four sheriffs, a deputy sheriff, and four police officers (equivalent of our S.H.O, Sub-Inspector, and Constable, respectively).

From the media, there are two radio talk show hosts, a television broadcaster, a radio newscaster, a television reporter, and a television commentator.

Then there are two professional musicians, a semi-professional musician, a screenwriter, a comedian, a documentary filmmaker, a major league baseball player, and a professional football player.

Also included are three farmers, four ranchers, two wine makers, and a fruit orchard worker; a driving instructor, a cosmetic sales woman, a mountain guide, and a ski instructor; a casino dealer, a night watchman, and a prison guard; three carpenters, two bank tellers, a furniture salesman, an ironworker, an auto worker, a clothing factory worker, a textile worker, an oil field worker, a waitress, a paper mill worker, a cement plant worker, a meat cutter, a taxicab driver, an auctioneer, a toll booth collector, and a hotel clerk.

From the people in uniform, there are 111 members with military service including the commander of an aircraft carrier battle group, an instructor at West Point, and a pilot of Marine One (the president’s helicopter), an astronaut and a naval aviator. (And, yes, there are four clergymen, too.) Surprisingly, there are no generals. In the US, unlike Pakistan, generals usually fade away.