My view of the dharnas in Islamabad
The only music in the air is that of defeat and the ensuing face saving retreat.
A plane which refused to disappear mid-flight brought me to my favourite city of Pakistan two and a half weeks ago. The sizzle of excitement added to the drive from the airport was the chauffeur’s commentary about the twin protest movements parked five minutes away from the charming villa where I would be residing. With an Indiana Jones mindset I thought proximity would be an advantage. Yet nothing in life had prepared me for the 50 policemen guarding the tiny lane where five double storied brick villas perched. The bedroom where I was led to had a balcony which faced a multi-columned government building. However, this matchless view dotted with patrolling police and others in special black uniforms injected a menace which added a surrealistic touch.
The first week was spent battling a horrendous jet lag of nine hours. The only diversion was to watch television which the house staff seemed to be addicted to. I had been mesmerised by the pristine and exacting speeches of the fire-brand cleric Dr Qadri. Intellectually, I had parted ways with Chairman Khan’s jaded bluster as I did online research from my home in Toronto. Yet, in fairness, I watched both as the deafening loudspeakers rent the night air bludgeoning the Zen charm of the white city of Islamabad. Where the hell is the loudspeaker ordinance which every civilised country has?
The next shock was seeing laundry festooned on the iron picket fence encircling the Supreme Court. I had the privilege of catching a session here on a previous visit and felt a prickle of outrage that this august edifice with its spell binding architecture could be desecrated in this fashion. Where was the prime minister? It would take me two weeks to discover that he was finessing all the travesties with the oldest ploy in the world. Give everyone a long enough rope and eventually they would hang themselves.
Soon, the mob which had gone mad, tried to storm the private residence of the prime minister and was effectively repelled by law enforcement agencies. I had my first crisis of confidence. My acquaintance, Dr Qadri’s utopian dream of the perfect Muslim welfare state which had won my heart and the notion that in a perfect world the PTI may have had another five seats or so in the National Assembly took a backseat. The subsequent seizure of the PTV building, ensuing vandalism and disruption of transmission was the last nail in the coffin of the Twin Protest movement. Privately, I thought, two hundred people should head to the Bani Gala home of Chairman Khan, loll about on his lawns, urinate and defecate wherever they choose and hurl garbage in all directions. After all, a man’s home is his castle?
Now my ire had been provoked I became a protest junkie. This was compounded daily by hearing Chairman Khan’s coarse invective hurled at the sitting Prime Minister of the country, the elected leader of Parliament. He contravened every notion of verbal civility which the Pakistani culture holds close to heart. In a fascinating turn I thought I had entered Oscar Wilde’s searing portrait of Dorian Grey. Khan, the darling of the stout matrons of Lahore, had transformed himself into a thug? His visage showing more lines by the minute, the eyes narrowed in meanness, the coif displaying bald spots on the crown. He chewed gum on the podium swaggered and swayed to DJ Butt’s quaint version of revolution rock. It was a royal tantrum of a child banging his porridge bowl daily. The breakfast he howled for was the prime minister’s gilded seat.
Dr Qadri’s fury emerging in a shower of spittle accompanying the legendary rasp had a Shakespearean flavour. A pound of flesh was required to assuage the Model Town deaths. Nothing less would do. The point of no return seemed to be reached. The government obviously could not find a Portia. Gentle rain did not fall from the heavens to strain the quality of mercy instead it pounded the makeshift tent city into cess pools of hazardous hygine while damp toddlers caught colds.
Clamping my straw hat on my head I descended a long flight of meandering steps and entered the D chawk sprawl. Walking along I peered at the makeshift tents, dodged the garbage littering the broad avenue and held my breath as the stench of sewage was over-powering. Groups of men had gouged open underground water mains and were bathing merrily and washing clothes. Small plastic pouches of yellow coloured rice and a liquid curry were opened and spread over nans. This was the food supply provided. The faces of people were all marked with apathy. Further along the PTI’s area was no better. The same garbage littered the floor and small pockets of people simply lounged about.
This clump of humanity like wind-up toys are animated each night by the misguided exhortations of two men who suffer not an ounce of deprivation or discomfort in their air-conditioned containers with working toilets and fresh food supplies. As the air is thick with the scandal of rented or compensated attendees culled from the working class of this nation, the only music in the air is that of defeat and the ensuing face saving retreat. Let it be done and quickly! Pakistan Zindabad!
Published in The Express Tribune, September 14th, 2014.
The first week was spent battling a horrendous jet lag of nine hours. The only diversion was to watch television which the house staff seemed to be addicted to. I had been mesmerised by the pristine and exacting speeches of the fire-brand cleric Dr Qadri. Intellectually, I had parted ways with Chairman Khan’s jaded bluster as I did online research from my home in Toronto. Yet, in fairness, I watched both as the deafening loudspeakers rent the night air bludgeoning the Zen charm of the white city of Islamabad. Where the hell is the loudspeaker ordinance which every civilised country has?
The next shock was seeing laundry festooned on the iron picket fence encircling the Supreme Court. I had the privilege of catching a session here on a previous visit and felt a prickle of outrage that this august edifice with its spell binding architecture could be desecrated in this fashion. Where was the prime minister? It would take me two weeks to discover that he was finessing all the travesties with the oldest ploy in the world. Give everyone a long enough rope and eventually they would hang themselves.
Soon, the mob which had gone mad, tried to storm the private residence of the prime minister and was effectively repelled by law enforcement agencies. I had my first crisis of confidence. My acquaintance, Dr Qadri’s utopian dream of the perfect Muslim welfare state which had won my heart and the notion that in a perfect world the PTI may have had another five seats or so in the National Assembly took a backseat. The subsequent seizure of the PTV building, ensuing vandalism and disruption of transmission was the last nail in the coffin of the Twin Protest movement. Privately, I thought, two hundred people should head to the Bani Gala home of Chairman Khan, loll about on his lawns, urinate and defecate wherever they choose and hurl garbage in all directions. After all, a man’s home is his castle?
Now my ire had been provoked I became a protest junkie. This was compounded daily by hearing Chairman Khan’s coarse invective hurled at the sitting Prime Minister of the country, the elected leader of Parliament. He contravened every notion of verbal civility which the Pakistani culture holds close to heart. In a fascinating turn I thought I had entered Oscar Wilde’s searing portrait of Dorian Grey. Khan, the darling of the stout matrons of Lahore, had transformed himself into a thug? His visage showing more lines by the minute, the eyes narrowed in meanness, the coif displaying bald spots on the crown. He chewed gum on the podium swaggered and swayed to DJ Butt’s quaint version of revolution rock. It was a royal tantrum of a child banging his porridge bowl daily. The breakfast he howled for was the prime minister’s gilded seat.
Dr Qadri’s fury emerging in a shower of spittle accompanying the legendary rasp had a Shakespearean flavour. A pound of flesh was required to assuage the Model Town deaths. Nothing less would do. The point of no return seemed to be reached. The government obviously could not find a Portia. Gentle rain did not fall from the heavens to strain the quality of mercy instead it pounded the makeshift tent city into cess pools of hazardous hygine while damp toddlers caught colds.
Clamping my straw hat on my head I descended a long flight of meandering steps and entered the D chawk sprawl. Walking along I peered at the makeshift tents, dodged the garbage littering the broad avenue and held my breath as the stench of sewage was over-powering. Groups of men had gouged open underground water mains and were bathing merrily and washing clothes. Small plastic pouches of yellow coloured rice and a liquid curry were opened and spread over nans. This was the food supply provided. The faces of people were all marked with apathy. Further along the PTI’s area was no better. The same garbage littered the floor and small pockets of people simply lounged about.
This clump of humanity like wind-up toys are animated each night by the misguided exhortations of two men who suffer not an ounce of deprivation or discomfort in their air-conditioned containers with working toilets and fresh food supplies. As the air is thick with the scandal of rented or compensated attendees culled from the working class of this nation, the only music in the air is that of defeat and the ensuing face saving retreat. Let it be done and quickly! Pakistan Zindabad!
Published in The Express Tribune, September 14th, 2014.