Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
The day BB died
I first heard the news when i sat down at the dinner table to break my fast having just returned from a swim. My father sat twitching at the head of the table, his fingers clutching his mobile phone willing it to ring. The television had been left on and his ears strained to tune in to it over the clatter of tableware and cutlery.
I asked if i could switch it off and his eyes almost popped out of his head. 'Benazir has been shot'
'What?!' i couldn't believe it. Benazir? Shot? I had never heard of such a thing.
'Is she alive?' I rushed towards the television. One of the local news channels was broadcasting live. The ticker running below proclaimed in BIG BLOCK LETTERS Benazir Bhutto shot at rally in Rawalpindi. 10 minutes later she had been proclaimed dead.
I sat glued to the television, my family around me, stunned. My father's mobile rang continuously as he tried to get through to a friend in the PPP to press for further information.
There would be riots.
At times of crisis, us Karachiites follow one simple code. Get home as fast as you can and stay there until the smoke clears. We were safe, but it was just after 6 and there were several people on the streets trying to find their way home. My sister was one of them. Several frantic attempts to call her later, we realised that the phone lines were jammed, possibly due to an unexpected influx of traffic.
I felt tears prick my eyes as i watched footage of Bhutto walking from the rally into her bullet proof car, followed by an aggressive Naheed Khan. The footage of the actual moment when she was shot could not be broadcast due to PEMRA regulations. So we watched as she walked towards her godforsaken car time after time: an instant replay of the moment JUST before Ms Bhutto was attacked followed by footage of static ambulances and bleeding bodies amidst smoke and flames. The imagery shifted to feature throngs of grief stricken people within the hospital walls.
No one deserved to die like this, regardless of how corrupt or power hungry they may be, without any family or loved ones about, amidst strangers and opportunists. I wept for the loss of her life and of those that were lost, swept away by the forces of hatred and anger.
A few minutes after, i felt a sense of calm descend, unlike any i had felt since i heard of her arrival on Pakistani soil and certainly in opposition to the fear that clung to my heart as i watched her step out of her aeroplane at the airport. I am ashamed to say that i actually heard the lyrics 'Ding Dong! The witch is dead' resound in my ears. Finally, the situation had reached a moment of climax, some great evil had been averted signalling a change to an old decrepit system. The extremist elements in the country will now come head to head with the true spirit of democracy, not the sham the nation had been dreading.
My father picked up his walking stick. It was time for commiseration, conjecture and heated politcal debate. It was time to go visit Chacha Dada (his uncle). Being quite fond of Chacha Dada myself, and eager to hear his opinion on the matter, i slipped on my walking shoes and we stepped out. The street outside our house was still, our chowkidar advised us to return early and to be careful, his brows furrowed under his white prayer cap as he slowly shut the door behind us. We walked towards the market, past a dark petrol station that had hastily been closed down, and a main road jammed by slow moving loudly beeping traffic.
'You see beta! we couldn't have gotten anywhere with our car. This is why i Knew walking is the best solution!' my father's eyes were bright with excitement.
The cars lined up as far as the eyes could see. Perhaps if i looked hard enough i'd spot Rabia. But my father was pulling at my arm as we wound our way across the street.
We arrived at Chacha Dada's. The televison blared in the living room, in several of the bedrooms and upstairs, in his annexe, remote in hand, sat Chacha dada. His face lit up as we entered and my father and him plunged headlong into their discussion.
I watched the television, watched their faces, numb with the rapidly unfolding sequence of events.
Rabia rang to inform us of her arrival and my father breathed a sigh of relief. Having decided that the Bhutto dynasty had finally come to an end, that the elections would now have to be postponed and some names of possible party leaders to take her place thrown up in the air, my father decides it is time to return home.
The streets are now quiet. The traffic had magically disappeared. My father holds me back and we stop to watch a throng of men cross our path, laughing at our fear. A lone stranger asks if we can direct him to Khayaban e Badban, public transport having come to a standstill and him now having to walk his way home.
At home we learn that cars have been burnt, my aunt in fear for her safety has switched off all the lights in her home. Some friends and acquaintances have chosen to spend the night at the office for fear of facing an angry mob on their way home. A cousin's car gets attacked. A petrol station, a car dealership, a hospital has been set aflame.
Who are these people? It is as if whenever the country faces some crisis, a self motivated, self directed, made to order, angry, violent mob hones in on banks, petrol stations, cars and unleashes its fury. Are these the very people that get stepped on year after year by a self serving government that makes empty promises, in or out of uniform? Benazir offered no democratic solutions, she was as power hungry as the rest of the feuding feudals, politicians and military personnel clambering to the very top of a crumbling, shattered, broken nation. Perhaps disappointment and resentment runs so deep, that this is the only time these people can express their dissatisfaction.
In their self expression lies the true voice of the people and the tragedy that is Pakistan today.
I asked if i could switch it off and his eyes almost popped out of his head. 'Benazir has been shot'
'What?!' i couldn't believe it. Benazir? Shot? I had never heard of such a thing.
'Is she alive?' I rushed towards the television. One of the local news channels was broadcasting live. The ticker running below proclaimed in BIG BLOCK LETTERS Benazir Bhutto shot at rally in Rawalpindi. 10 minutes later she had been proclaimed dead.
I sat glued to the television, my family around me, stunned. My father's mobile rang continuously as he tried to get through to a friend in the PPP to press for further information.
There would be riots.
At times of crisis, us Karachiites follow one simple code. Get home as fast as you can and stay there until the smoke clears. We were safe, but it was just after 6 and there were several people on the streets trying to find their way home. My sister was one of them. Several frantic attempts to call her later, we realised that the phone lines were jammed, possibly due to an unexpected influx of traffic.
I felt tears prick my eyes as i watched footage of Bhutto walking from the rally into her bullet proof car, followed by an aggressive Naheed Khan. The footage of the actual moment when she was shot could not be broadcast due to PEMRA regulations. So we watched as she walked towards her godforsaken car time after time: an instant replay of the moment JUST before Ms Bhutto was attacked followed by footage of static ambulances and bleeding bodies amidst smoke and flames. The imagery shifted to feature throngs of grief stricken people within the hospital walls.
No one deserved to die like this, regardless of how corrupt or power hungry they may be, without any family or loved ones about, amidst strangers and opportunists. I wept for the loss of her life and of those that were lost, swept away by the forces of hatred and anger.
A few minutes after, i felt a sense of calm descend, unlike any i had felt since i heard of her arrival on Pakistani soil and certainly in opposition to the fear that clung to my heart as i watched her step out of her aeroplane at the airport. I am ashamed to say that i actually heard the lyrics 'Ding Dong! The witch is dead' resound in my ears. Finally, the situation had reached a moment of climax, some great evil had been averted signalling a change to an old decrepit system. The extremist elements in the country will now come head to head with the true spirit of democracy, not the sham the nation had been dreading.
My father picked up his walking stick. It was time for commiseration, conjecture and heated politcal debate. It was time to go visit Chacha Dada (his uncle). Being quite fond of Chacha Dada myself, and eager to hear his opinion on the matter, i slipped on my walking shoes and we stepped out. The street outside our house was still, our chowkidar advised us to return early and to be careful, his brows furrowed under his white prayer cap as he slowly shut the door behind us. We walked towards the market, past a dark petrol station that had hastily been closed down, and a main road jammed by slow moving loudly beeping traffic.
'You see beta! we couldn't have gotten anywhere with our car. This is why i Knew walking is the best solution!' my father's eyes were bright with excitement.
The cars lined up as far as the eyes could see. Perhaps if i looked hard enough i'd spot Rabia. But my father was pulling at my arm as we wound our way across the street.
We arrived at Chacha Dada's. The televison blared in the living room, in several of the bedrooms and upstairs, in his annexe, remote in hand, sat Chacha dada. His face lit up as we entered and my father and him plunged headlong into their discussion.
I watched the television, watched their faces, numb with the rapidly unfolding sequence of events.
Rabia rang to inform us of her arrival and my father breathed a sigh of relief. Having decided that the Bhutto dynasty had finally come to an end, that the elections would now have to be postponed and some names of possible party leaders to take her place thrown up in the air, my father decides it is time to return home.
The streets are now quiet. The traffic had magically disappeared. My father holds me back and we stop to watch a throng of men cross our path, laughing at our fear. A lone stranger asks if we can direct him to Khayaban e Badban, public transport having come to a standstill and him now having to walk his way home.
At home we learn that cars have been burnt, my aunt in fear for her safety has switched off all the lights in her home. Some friends and acquaintances have chosen to spend the night at the office for fear of facing an angry mob on their way home. A cousin's car gets attacked. A petrol station, a car dealership, a hospital has been set aflame.
Who are these people? It is as if whenever the country faces some crisis, a self motivated, self directed, made to order, angry, violent mob hones in on banks, petrol stations, cars and unleashes its fury. Are these the very people that get stepped on year after year by a self serving government that makes empty promises, in or out of uniform? Benazir offered no democratic solutions, she was as power hungry as the rest of the feuding feudals, politicians and military personnel clambering to the very top of a crumbling, shattered, broken nation. Perhaps disappointment and resentment runs so deep, that this is the only time these people can express their dissatisfaction.
In their self expression lies the true voice of the people and the tragedy that is Pakistan today.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Assisted Suicide
And to the woman He said,
'I will make most severe
Your pangs in childbearing;
In pain shall you bear children.
Yet your urge shall be for your husband,
And he shall rule over you.'
...Genesis 3.16
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
View from the Landseer, Archway, Islington '07
This is the view from the pub near where i lived in my last few months in London. It was a lovely pub that served 'Happiness' tea. It was a few quid for a pot; the perfect complement to a day spent sketching.
The day i sold my things at Brick lane...
...i laid out my wares on a patch of land facing the Truman Brewery; i knew i would be leaving London, had far too many things i didnt need and little to no money.
It was a sunny day; i wore my peach summer hat, a white linen jacket and shared cigarettes with the nice Japanese couple a few stalls down. There was a Palestinian student on my right, a brilliant salesman with a quick quip and a cheeky grin, and to my left a couple of Chilean artists with a great selection of LPs.
The hours flew by, what with the travelling Samba drummers, tourists stopping to make small talk, take pictures, and the nice chap who bought me ice cream.
To speed up sales i had brought along my sketch book and put up a sign stating that i would draw a free sketch for anyone who spent more than a fiver at my stall. (alot to ask for considering i was pretty much selling junk) To emphasize the sales gimmick, i started sketching the brewery in front of me.
Before i could finish it the police turned up and we had to pack up and leave. I left with cash in hand, lighter bags and a poster on the wall stating 'Moving Home Sale! (London is too expensive) Please donate generously'. It had started to curl around the edges and looked like it would crumple into a heap at the foot of the wall any second. (sigh) good times...
It was a sunny day; i wore my peach summer hat, a white linen jacket and shared cigarettes with the nice Japanese couple a few stalls down. There was a Palestinian student on my right, a brilliant salesman with a quick quip and a cheeky grin, and to my left a couple of Chilean artists with a great selection of LPs.
The hours flew by, what with the travelling Samba drummers, tourists stopping to make small talk, take pictures, and the nice chap who bought me ice cream.
To speed up sales i had brought along my sketch book and put up a sign stating that i would draw a free sketch for anyone who spent more than a fiver at my stall. (alot to ask for considering i was pretty much selling junk) To emphasize the sales gimmick, i started sketching the brewery in front of me.
Before i could finish it the police turned up and we had to pack up and leave. I left with cash in hand, lighter bags and a poster on the wall stating 'Moving Home Sale! (London is too expensive) Please donate generously'. It had started to curl around the edges and looked like it would crumple into a heap at the foot of the wall any second. (sigh) good times...
If Musharraf were a projectionist....
This is the projectionist's nightmare:
A bird finds its way into the cinema,
finds the beam, flies down it,
smashes into a screen depicting a garden,
a sunset and two people being nice to each other.
Real blood, real intestines, slither down
the likeness of a tree.
'This is no good,' screams the audience,
'This is not what we came to see.'
Brian Patten
Free the Press
A bird finds its way into the cinema,
finds the beam, flies down it,
smashes into a screen depicting a garden,
a sunset and two people being nice to each other.
Real blood, real intestines, slither down
the likeness of a tree.
'This is no good,' screams the audience,
'This is not what we came to see.'
Brian Patten
Free the Press
Friday, December 14, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
First they came for the Jews
First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.
Pastor Martin Niemöller
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.
Pastor Martin Niemöller
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Birdsong
The birds outside my window sang all of last night.
Their voices rose to a frantic pitch soon after midnight and they are singing still, well after 10:00 am. I can only attempt to explain this by the slight chill in the air. Winter approaches, breeding season for both the birds and all the young Karachiites prepping for another long wedding season...
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