After the carnage: Pakistanis first and foremost
In the aftermath of the carnage, Christians strive to reclaim their national, not religious, identity.
The 700 Christians of the katchi abadi feel jilted not as members of a religious minority but as citizens of a nation. PHOTO: MYRA IQBAL/EXPRESS
ISLAMABAD:
Just a few days ago, returning from Sunday morning mass, the residents of 100-Quarters- a predominantly Christian slum nestled between a girls’ college and a high-walled European country’s embassy - were met with news that hit home: a gathering in Peshawar’s All Saints Church, much like their own church, had been targeted moments ago.
“I am a mother,” said Shabana Aslam, 35, her voice trembling with distress. “It was agonising to watch other mothers holding limp bodies of their babies, wailing for help.”
Today, bereaved Christians struggle to define social identity within a trajectory of fear and uncertainty in the aftermath of the carnage.
‘Our country, too’
For 55-year-old Iqbal Masih, no one religious or political group has claim over Pakistan.
“The idea of a new nation was to chalk out the geography of tolerance,” he said.
While religious violence engages the ideas of segregation and betrayal, reactions in Islamabad have been less polarised. Represented through an elected committee of trusted local leaders, the 700 Christians that inhabit the katchi abadi feel jilted not as members of a religious minority but as citizens of a nation they once helped build.
Iqbal, a retired labourer with a leg injury, is surprisingly not angry. And yet, his wrinkled appearance suggests a lifetime spent in ambivalence.
“Where else can we go?” he asks rhetorically. “This is our country, too.”
Elders within the locality share Iqbal’s anguish. With no jobs to tend to, a small group of men unwind under a small canopy where 75-year-old Dilip Masih rearranges vegetables to sell.
“Yes, we are afraid,” he explains. “But so is the rest of Pakistan.
Perched on a pile of rocks, Nazir Masih lights up a cigarette before jumping into the conversation; a black piece of cloth is tied to his arm to signal a time of mourning. He, like Dilip, remembers better times. “This is not a war against faith; it is a war against humanity. During Musharraf’s time, there was police deployed at every church,” he says.
His words are interrupted as a loudspeaker-sporting man on a motorcycle weaves past. “Show your solidarity with those who lost their lives in Peshawar, join our protest this afternoon.”
Sharif Masih, the man with the booming voice, is one of the leaders of the Sau (100) Quarters committee, who led a small crowd of his supporters outside the National Press Club in F-6/1 for a protest against the Peshawar carnage. Hauling black flags and a cross, they seek protection, and reminds the government that they, too, are Pakistanis.
“There is so much tension here but we must overcome this and fight for our rights, not as a minority group but as citizens of Pakistan. That is our identity,” he stated.
Published in The Express Tribune, September 29th, 2013.
Just a few days ago, returning from Sunday morning mass, the residents of 100-Quarters- a predominantly Christian slum nestled between a girls’ college and a high-walled European country’s embassy - were met with news that hit home: a gathering in Peshawar’s All Saints Church, much like their own church, had been targeted moments ago.
“I am a mother,” said Shabana Aslam, 35, her voice trembling with distress. “It was agonising to watch other mothers holding limp bodies of their babies, wailing for help.”
Today, bereaved Christians struggle to define social identity within a trajectory of fear and uncertainty in the aftermath of the carnage.
‘Our country, too’
For 55-year-old Iqbal Masih, no one religious or political group has claim over Pakistan.
“The idea of a new nation was to chalk out the geography of tolerance,” he said.
While religious violence engages the ideas of segregation and betrayal, reactions in Islamabad have been less polarised. Represented through an elected committee of trusted local leaders, the 700 Christians that inhabit the katchi abadi feel jilted not as members of a religious minority but as citizens of a nation they once helped build.
Iqbal, a retired labourer with a leg injury, is surprisingly not angry. And yet, his wrinkled appearance suggests a lifetime spent in ambivalence.
“Where else can we go?” he asks rhetorically. “This is our country, too.”
Elders within the locality share Iqbal’s anguish. With no jobs to tend to, a small group of men unwind under a small canopy where 75-year-old Dilip Masih rearranges vegetables to sell.
“Yes, we are afraid,” he explains. “But so is the rest of Pakistan.
Perched on a pile of rocks, Nazir Masih lights up a cigarette before jumping into the conversation; a black piece of cloth is tied to his arm to signal a time of mourning. He, like Dilip, remembers better times. “This is not a war against faith; it is a war against humanity. During Musharraf’s time, there was police deployed at every church,” he says.
His words are interrupted as a loudspeaker-sporting man on a motorcycle weaves past. “Show your solidarity with those who lost their lives in Peshawar, join our protest this afternoon.”
Sharif Masih, the man with the booming voice, is one of the leaders of the Sau (100) Quarters committee, who led a small crowd of his supporters outside the National Press Club in F-6/1 for a protest against the Peshawar carnage. Hauling black flags and a cross, they seek protection, and reminds the government that they, too, are Pakistanis.
“There is so much tension here but we must overcome this and fight for our rights, not as a minority group but as citizens of Pakistan. That is our identity,” he stated.
Published in The Express Tribune, September 29th, 2013.