Not through Manto’s eyes
The theory of the ‘clash of civilisations’ did not start with Samuel Huntington, but with Hijazi
The writer is an independent social scientist and author of Military Inc. She tweets @iamthedrifter
The question of whether Pakistan was born as an Islamic state and is destined to radicalise has intrigued many. Renowned historian Ayesha Jalal recently added to the debate in her book The Struggle for Pakistan: A Muslim Homeland and Global Politics. She argues that Pakistan was not created as a religious state nor will it get radicalised. This is because Jinnah meant it to operate like a secular state where everyone could pursue his or her respective faiths. Subsequently, leaders used religion mainly for political gains and geo-political pragmatism to suit American strategic interests, and because of the rivalry with India. Therefore, she concludes that there is enough resilience in society to not allow the country to drift towards extremism. “There are many Pakistanis who object to the state’s projection of an imported Saudi variant of Islam … this is simply evident in the musical, artistic, literary and dramatic productions coming out of Pakistan.”
But the world of Coke Studio and the artists, writers and painters, Jalal points out, is very different from the space in which ordinary folk live. The discourse of this other world is quite different. The suicide bomber who blew 61 Shias to death in Shikarpur, Sindh, belonged in the latter space. Abida Parveen, Allan Fakir, Sheikh Ayaz and many luminaries also come from Sindh. This fact does not negate the other reality of gradual radicalisation of Sindhi society in the past couple of decades or more. There has been an emergence of a network of madrassas in Sindh funded from the Gulf or people influenced by retrogressive thinking, which they believe is religion. In fact, businessmen from Karachi finance madrassas in sectarian hotbeds in south Punjab. The slogans scribbled on the carcass of burnt Nato tankers outside Shikarpur announce victory of both the Islamic system and the PTI in Pakistan. The jihadi graffiti on walls all over Sindh is another reminder of the change. People still go to Shahbaz Qalandar’s shrine but this does not stop the emergence of radicalism in society.
The absence of a counter-narrative to feudalism, emergence of a new rural and urban middle class that desires power, and a myopic ‘pragmatism’ of Sindhi politicians has contributed tremendously to such change. Not to forget the state’s strategic objectives. The Sindh chief minister’s hometown has madrassas that market a rabid ideology and have been the source of violence in the past. Notwithstanding Bilawal Bhutto’s challenge to the Taliban or a few gestures here and there, the PPP government has watched over the change. The friends and supporters of militants lie in its ranks as they do in other parties in the province.
The emergent violence and growing radicalism cannot be brushed aside simply as being driven by personal greed and resultant extortion, which is how fiction writer Saadat Hasan Manto described the 1947 carnage. For him, religion was not the source of Partition violence. However, the massacre in Shikarpur was driven by a skewed religious perception, as is the bloodshed of Hazaras, Ahmadis and even Sunnis. Such transformation of society was inevitable from the time we silently endorsed the killings of people in 1971 in the then-East Pakistan. Ordinary Bengalis were seen as conduits of Indian conspiracy and hence the need for violence. Ever since then, school textbooks blame the dominance of Hindu teachers as the cause of Pakistan’s partition.
Can we admit that the problem is not simply one of re-imagining Pakistan, but a more fundamental one of the dominant narrative being that of a clash of civilisations? Since a country’s literature maps socio-political ethos of its people, do we realise that it is not Manto but Naseem Hijazi who played a greater role in shaping people’s imagination? Literary critic Ajmal Kamal has often written about the difference between “internationalised” literature festivals in Pakistan and those that ordinary folks go to. The two worlds are worlds apart. While the former struggles to appear hip and politically correct, the latter is comfortable with its political incorrectness. Most importantly, the two market different types of literature and cater to different audiences.
This is not something new. The world of literature was always divided between writers which the literary community thought ‘should be taken seriously’ and writers rated as ‘B-class’ ones. It is the latter that shaped public imagination and were in greater circulation. Hijazi fictionalised history that went on to shape people’s minds. The theory of the ‘clash of civilisations’ did not start with Samuel Huntington, but with Hijazi who, in novel after novel, talks about militant and powerful Muslim warriors fighting against Jews, Christians and Hindus. Other writers from this genre, like Tariq Ismail Saghar, glamourised battles against foreign threats, essentially modern inter-religious conflicts played out in the form of Pakistan versus the CIA and RAW. Ashfaq Ahmed, who was initially not in this category, joined with his post-Zia reincarnation to market subservience to authoritarianism in the name of Sufism. Similarly, Bushra Rehman, who is for women what Hijazi is for men, laid out the characteristics of an ideal Muslim woman. And while Manto was ignored and abused by the state, his contemporary Hijazi told tales of mujahids. His novel Dastan-e-Mujahid (Mujahid’s Tale), for instance, makes jihad and martyrdom look normal, something that every Muslim household must desire. In any case, parents and teachers object to the youth reading Manto, a problem they don’t have with Hijazi, whose novels are found in the libraries of every school and college. For this category of readers, the Faiz and Manto brand does not matter. This crowd will not ban what they don’t agree with but they are mindful of the barriers that separate the world of friends from foes.
The imaginary world of Hijazi and the like is constantly uncomfortable and in conflict with everyone considered as part of the ‘other’. Thus, the intellectual ground is furrowed for mullahs and militants to sow their seeds in. Violence is part of the harvest. The rest goes in constructing religious nationalism.
Published in The Express Tribune, February 5th, 2015.
But the world of Coke Studio and the artists, writers and painters, Jalal points out, is very different from the space in which ordinary folk live. The discourse of this other world is quite different. The suicide bomber who blew 61 Shias to death in Shikarpur, Sindh, belonged in the latter space. Abida Parveen, Allan Fakir, Sheikh Ayaz and many luminaries also come from Sindh. This fact does not negate the other reality of gradual radicalisation of Sindhi society in the past couple of decades or more. There has been an emergence of a network of madrassas in Sindh funded from the Gulf or people influenced by retrogressive thinking, which they believe is religion. In fact, businessmen from Karachi finance madrassas in sectarian hotbeds in south Punjab. The slogans scribbled on the carcass of burnt Nato tankers outside Shikarpur announce victory of both the Islamic system and the PTI in Pakistan. The jihadi graffiti on walls all over Sindh is another reminder of the change. People still go to Shahbaz Qalandar’s shrine but this does not stop the emergence of radicalism in society.
The absence of a counter-narrative to feudalism, emergence of a new rural and urban middle class that desires power, and a myopic ‘pragmatism’ of Sindhi politicians has contributed tremendously to such change. Not to forget the state’s strategic objectives. The Sindh chief minister’s hometown has madrassas that market a rabid ideology and have been the source of violence in the past. Notwithstanding Bilawal Bhutto’s challenge to the Taliban or a few gestures here and there, the PPP government has watched over the change. The friends and supporters of militants lie in its ranks as they do in other parties in the province.
The emergent violence and growing radicalism cannot be brushed aside simply as being driven by personal greed and resultant extortion, which is how fiction writer Saadat Hasan Manto described the 1947 carnage. For him, religion was not the source of Partition violence. However, the massacre in Shikarpur was driven by a skewed religious perception, as is the bloodshed of Hazaras, Ahmadis and even Sunnis. Such transformation of society was inevitable from the time we silently endorsed the killings of people in 1971 in the then-East Pakistan. Ordinary Bengalis were seen as conduits of Indian conspiracy and hence the need for violence. Ever since then, school textbooks blame the dominance of Hindu teachers as the cause of Pakistan’s partition.
Can we admit that the problem is not simply one of re-imagining Pakistan, but a more fundamental one of the dominant narrative being that of a clash of civilisations? Since a country’s literature maps socio-political ethos of its people, do we realise that it is not Manto but Naseem Hijazi who played a greater role in shaping people’s imagination? Literary critic Ajmal Kamal has often written about the difference between “internationalised” literature festivals in Pakistan and those that ordinary folks go to. The two worlds are worlds apart. While the former struggles to appear hip and politically correct, the latter is comfortable with its political incorrectness. Most importantly, the two market different types of literature and cater to different audiences.
This is not something new. The world of literature was always divided between writers which the literary community thought ‘should be taken seriously’ and writers rated as ‘B-class’ ones. It is the latter that shaped public imagination and were in greater circulation. Hijazi fictionalised history that went on to shape people’s minds. The theory of the ‘clash of civilisations’ did not start with Samuel Huntington, but with Hijazi who, in novel after novel, talks about militant and powerful Muslim warriors fighting against Jews, Christians and Hindus. Other writers from this genre, like Tariq Ismail Saghar, glamourised battles against foreign threats, essentially modern inter-religious conflicts played out in the form of Pakistan versus the CIA and RAW. Ashfaq Ahmed, who was initially not in this category, joined with his post-Zia reincarnation to market subservience to authoritarianism in the name of Sufism. Similarly, Bushra Rehman, who is for women what Hijazi is for men, laid out the characteristics of an ideal Muslim woman. And while Manto was ignored and abused by the state, his contemporary Hijazi told tales of mujahids. His novel Dastan-e-Mujahid (Mujahid’s Tale), for instance, makes jihad and martyrdom look normal, something that every Muslim household must desire. In any case, parents and teachers object to the youth reading Manto, a problem they don’t have with Hijazi, whose novels are found in the libraries of every school and college. For this category of readers, the Faiz and Manto brand does not matter. This crowd will not ban what they don’t agree with but they are mindful of the barriers that separate the world of friends from foes.
The imaginary world of Hijazi and the like is constantly uncomfortable and in conflict with everyone considered as part of the ‘other’. Thus, the intellectual ground is furrowed for mullahs and militants to sow their seeds in. Violence is part of the harvest. The rest goes in constructing religious nationalism.
Published in The Express Tribune, February 5th, 2015.