Pakistan… mine, yours, ours

Growing up in a small town, the most memorable part of my otherwise almost mundane existence was the childhood and the part of my teens that I spent in my school. A simple, graceful structure, I spent some of the happiest moments of my life there, as I learnt the values of sharing, giving, generosity of spirit, acceptance of defeat and the strength of friendship. Many faces stand out, but there is one that I think of the most whenever my mind wanders to my beloved school (a Presentation Convent). Her smiles, her gentle eyes, and her firm but lovely voice narrow into that one face that came to symbolise the best of my school life…and humanity. We knew her as Sister Martha, an Irish nun living in Pakistan for a long time, despite being the principal of the school, no student had anything but love for her. That was the power of who she was, what she represented.

My childhood was specked with long hours at school, endless extracurricular activities, a passion for sports, and teachers, some of whom I loved and some I feared. My heroine was Ms Norma Massey, my one English teacher, and I beamed in her presence as one of her favourite students. The thing I remember the most about her, other than her sense of fashion — and an occasional bindi; she had relatives in India — was her indomitable sweetness and smiles for all whom she interacted with. It was joyous to watch her play the piano with girls hanging on to every note, and the smiles she shared. Ms Massey remains a memento of my cherished childhood memories.

Outside, General Ziaul Haq’s dictatorial reign, slow and steady, sank its hooks deeper and deeper into the religious, political and sociological sensibilities, as the imperceptible nuances convoluted into blatant distinctions. The weight of the Bhutto government’s Second Amendment (declaring Ahmedis to be non-Muslims) bookmarked the growing intolerance for opposing views in a Muslim-dominated nation. Then came Zia’s addition of the Clause 295-C — calling for a mandatory death sentence for derogating the Prophet Mohammad (pbuh) — in the British-legislated Blasphemy Law. Before 1986, there were only 19 blasphemy cases. Since 1986, over 1,300 cases have been registered. The most frequent “offenders” are the non-Muslims, or the “undesirable” Muslims. Christians of Pakistan are a community that has suffered the most for the exploitative usage and manipulation of a law that was ostensibly created to bring harmony to conflicting opposites.

Along with the war on terror came the bombs of those who being divested of their status of proxy fighters went rogue, and became dangerous before one could categorise them in a lashkar, sipah or as the Taliban. Enraged, empowered with the notion of fighting the “bad”, seeking vengeance for real and imagined “injustices” (the army’s avowal of elimination of all terrorist activities in Pakistan), and the imposition of their own version of religious faith, their remote-detonated, suicide-vested, planted-in-vehicles bombs have wreaked havoc in Pakistan. Far and wide. They kill all. Children, women, men, doctors, polio workers, social workers, teachers, journalists, security personnel. They target all.

And to deepen their bloodbath, they target mosques, imambargahs, churches and temples. As the devotees kneel in prayer, hands folded, bombs rip through their religious sanctuaries, their bodies in repose, their souls in peace. Their places of prayer, the centuries-old icon of shelter from violence, and one place where there is no differentiation of background and class. One bomb after the other, one maimed body after the other, the blackness of terror in its myriad manifestations adds to the bleakness engulfing my homeland, my homeland that watches in fear and uncertainty as its non-Muslims, its “undesirables”, become statistics in another bomb attack.

To me they are all Pakistanis. My Pakistanis. Those 16 who were killed in two suicide-bomb attacks in the Catholic Church and Church of Pakistan in Youhanabad on March 15. Those who were victims of enraged lynching. The condemnation seems ceremonial, the words of outrage insufficient, and the vows to make amends hollow. When did it start? When the flag was colour-divided? When Pakistanis were put into boxes of religion? When the majority connoted the others as the “minority?”

I do not have any answer. Or explanation. All I have is a quiet…Rest in peace. Your Pakistan has failed you.

Published in The Express Tribune, March  27^th,  2015.

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