A growl in the undergrowth

While the world reeled from the impact of a ‘recently radicalised’ psychopath in Nice, the military in Turkey decided it needed an invasion. Neither Greece nor Cyprus appeared to be a realistic prospect and they opted instead for an internal conquest. Communication technology sprang into action bringing out young supporters and preventing the botched effort. Young Turks lay down their lives in defence of Western-style democracy amidst sighs of relief and general applause across the globe. Then as the audience rubbed their eyes emerging from two days of relentless media onslaught someone decided to strangle a young girl who wanted to be rich and famous. Just like the rest of us.

Once again social media and TV shook at earthquake scales reminding us of our religion, culture, honour and national pride; all of which are closely associated with women in general and young girls in particular. It was reiterated that poverty combined with ambition is a dangerous combination for ill-educated girls from the backwaters seeking a reversal of fortune.

Nice, Turkey, Theresa May and Brexit all seemed distant as the news of the brutal murder repetitively played on the Idiot Box; it even made headlines on BBC and CNN. Honour killing they shouted, shaming the family. She had it coming, human rights, women’s protection and all spiced with fuzzy photographs of a corpse. We must ensure dignity of the dead - followed by recent photographs of the late model with blurred cleavage. Ensure dignity of the living. Anchors that spent the better part of the last six weeks humiliating and poking fun at her antics from high shrieking pedestals continued tutting with the same vigour. The candle mafia and NGOs promptly activated to condemn dogma, culture, media, government and men with beards. But not in that order.

Who did she represent? Neither me nor you and certainly not the readers of upmarket English op-eds. Or disciples of democratic notions of equality, liberty and justice. The ones who are now  jumping to her defence. As entitled ones we were often diverted by her attempts to reach the same inaccessible heights as perhaps Ayaan Ali. She was speaking her mind and was very amusing – though perhaps not for Hamza Abbasi types. But she was speaking her mind in candid conversations, sharing naughty thoughts and bringing smiles to thousands. She wanted to enter our world and live our life. The absurdity of her fantasy made her interesting. She wanted to belong to our tribe, our high sounding alumni associations, our own networks, our power houses of military, government, parliament, judiciary, lawyers, young doctors, NGOs, property developers and the rest. Yet how was she meant to transcend established boundaries of poverty, class, social structure and background? And why then does it hurt that she is dead? Who can relate to her?

More sympathy more judgments and more speculation. Now that she is dead millions of young, aspiring ill-educated girls must be reduced to convention. They must seek jobs as maids, bus hostesses, child minders or pink rickshaw drivers. So many opportunities for the downtrodden. Marriage, motherhood, family: sisters, wives, daughters, mothers. All reasonably respectable titles. What else can one want? Why then did she prefer to be this Marilyn Monroe? Why did she want to be spectacularly enticing and clownish with nearly a million followers on Facebook?

I am reminded of a long-ago visit to the famous Kukoos in Lahore. The thrill attached to eating in the middle of the forbidden Red Light District. How exciting to be among untouchables, close enough to breathe the same air. And if you are covering your face you can drive through the street where you see the girls hanging out of balconies inviting clients. How terribly exciting! The sole proprietor’s mother belonged to the wrong side of the fence? Look at the stark visuals and paintings. Does anyone know what happens to little girls when the client turns up and doors are locked? Do you?

Perhaps the analogy is entirely wrong. Where did this one fit in? She was not from the wrong side of the fence. She was not a star either. She had a head-on collision with one holy type. She refused to budge. She kept turning up on social media and refused to change that polka dot dress. Watch this space and wait for the next victim please. Goodbye shooting star. Wrong place wrong time. You will be missed.

Published in The Express Tribune, July 20^th, 2016.

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