Erasing identities

A recent debate, led by an elected member in the Sindh assembly, called for expulsion of all illegal aliens from the province. This particular member of the assembly was not simply talking about Afghans, but also specifically mentioned Biharis, Bengalis and Burmese community members. She then went on to say that these 'illegal people' are considering Sindh as alami yateem khana - a global orphanage - and hence depriving the legitimate folks of the resources of the province. The tragedy here lies not only in deep prejudice, but also in deep ignorance. The tragedy that envelopes the daily lives of stateless Bengalis, Biharis and Burmese community in Karachi, and elsewhere, is rooted in neglect, apathy, denial of rights and xenophobia. As a matter of fact, I actually agree with the elected representative that law is not being upheld. But it is not these community members who have broken the law. In fact, it is the organs of the state, provincial and local authorities, that fail to uphold the law recognising birthright citizenship as enshrined in the Constitution.

The prejudice that we see against others is not simply a notion that rears its head from time to time in the parliament. It is integrated in the language through deliberate choice of words we use to identify others. The powerful get to define the identity of the weak - and have no problem revising that identity based on their self-interest. For example, newspaper stories from the 1980s described a group as righteous people fighting a holy battle against tyrannical forces. After mujahideen, came the word panah guzeen - those who seek safety, shelter and refuge because they are forcibly displaced from their homes due to no fault of their own. These days the formal term for the same people, or their children who were born in the country, is ghair mulki tarakeen-e-watan i.e. illegal aliens. As the titles change, so does the public perception. As the public perception changes, so does the treatment.

The issue of defining others through language is not limited to the refugees or stateless persons. Among the most common words used for someone who is without power or privilege is aam aadmi or ordinary people. Increasingly, I find that term deeply disturbing. In a society with hyper-inflation, rampant corruption, an ever-increasing disregard for the rights of people, deep misogyny, and law that deliberately favours the rich, trying to make ends meet with dignity is not ordinary. It is far more extraordinary than being born with power and privilege that protects you from any consequences of your actions. The people - who are termed aam and increasingly viewed by elected officials as illegal - in Machhar Colony fight the battles of economic and social injustice, xenophobia and social apathy and still retain hope for a different tomorrow. Living on land that may one day disappear with a rising tide, hoping that they would not catch a disease for which they will be denied treatment at the hospital, their struggle to survive every day is not ordinary.

When we confer titles upon people - calling someone a VIP (by virtue of their inherited privilege) or an ordinary person (as a consequence of having no inherited privilege) - our actions and attitudes soon follow on how that person should be treated. Should we be deferential and forgiving? Or should we consider them as someone with limited intelligence and a shaky moral compass? This process inevitably erases the individuality and identity - replacing ideas, characters and actions with preconceived notions of importance or lack thereof. A fairer and kinder society needs actions - lots of them - but too often our actions are shaped by our imagination, and our imagination by the words we use to describe someone. Actions matter - but so do the words that trigger that action.