Blasphemy of the Highest Order

World citizens of all persuasions and backgrounds have decried the barbarism witnessed in the attack on the satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo in France. The cold blooded murder of twelve journalists and cartoonists has been declared an affront to democracy and freedom of expression. While France and the world go through another bout of disgust and rage at the unfathomable motivation to massacre for the pleasure of God, many are raising a call to reason to keep the event from flaring into ethnic confrontation across the continent. Muslims in Europe and the world over have distanced themselves and Islam from the event through unequivocal condemnations. Others are churning their preferred positions on the causes of terrorism motivated by extremism. The perspectives on offer range from Europe’s failure to integrate its Muslim migrant community into secular societies to the intrinsic theological connection of Islam with a philosophy of violence. Some prefer the term ‘failed multiculturalism’. Others are quick to narrate the history of European imperial intervention at various junctures of history to explain the causes of political dissatisfaction, frustration and vengeance that is ever ready to simmer at the slightest instigation, across the Muslim world. Yet others still attempt to prove foregone theories such as the ‘clash of civilisations’ with recent examples. What is glaringly absent in the discourse though, in the aftermath of both Peshawar and Paris, is the recognition of the fact that for one reason or another, the ideology of barbaric terror based on a fanatic interpretation of Islam has now pervaded all our societies. We have all actively or complicity allowed it to flourish right under our watch. It is now high time that we confront this ideology with the full intellectual, spiritual and cultural vigour of our civilizations in the east and the west.

The attack itself could not have come at a more trying time for the Muslims of Europe. Germany has witnessed thousands marching in its cities in the name of resisting the Islamisation of Europe over the past few weeks. A significant percentage of Germans pledge support for the marches if they were to come to their cities. Progressive forces rejecting such trends as racist fringe elements have now lost control of the discourse to middle-class majorities across Europe. Electorates are being led by right-wing parties to challenge not only the religion but also the culture and economic contributions through immigration of Muslims as incompatible with their western way of life. How have we allowed a post-colonial stream in our religion and post-cold war mercenaries to take charge of defining the way of life of 1.6 billion Muslims living across six continents? When did Allama Iqbal’s Muslims, who called the world their home, allow the warm hearts of our neighbours around the world turn cold to our very presence? Why did we abdicate the faith of the greatest voice of the oppressed, Imam Hussein (RA), to the control of beasts who wreak tyranny of the worst order on the hapless and innocent around the world?      

All political and historic causation of our suffering aside, we must once again stand for justice. We must put an end to this ideology of terror, its propagation and dissemination through cutting its accessibility and reach. We must do this by reaching out to those most vulnerable to it, either because of their socio-political exclusion from our societies or their economic disenfranchisement at the hands of our own home-grown masters. But most importantly, we must lay bare the hollow and disgusting reality that this ideology is and suffocate it by creating the dominant intellectual narrative to reclaim our humanity and religion. No matter how many terrorists we may bomb or hang, it is the venomous ideology of mutilated Islamism that we must extinguish. Without it, its proponents are as good as dead and while it lasts, they would continue to haunt us from beyond the grave by poisoning the stream of our future, the world over. Europe may have liberty, fraternity and secularism to fight this disease in their societies but the task to wrest free our faith from their poisonous fangs falls upon us.

Let us reach out to our youth, children, women, oppressed, excluded and hurt with a hand that extends socio-economic justice, political enfranchisement, constitutional governance, social welfare, dignity of life and preservation of property, access to universal education and healthcare and then bring them into participative democracies the world over. As the first act of reclamation of our religion, let us say to the perpetrators of the horrors at Charlie Hebdo that it is your actions that are the blasphemy of the highest order against the great universal message of Allah’s Messenger of submission in peace. Let us declare to them and their ideology the words of God: “And the servants of (Allah) Most Gracious are those who walk on the earth in humility, and when the ignorant address them, they say, ‘Peace’!” (25:63). We do not know what prophet you claim to have avenged for, for we only know of our prophet Muhammad (PBUH) who prayed for the guidance of the people of Taif when his shoes were drenched with blood by their pelting stones; who nursed the sick, old woman when she failed to throw her garbage in his path one day; who forgave all enemies of crimes committed against him when he reigned victorious over them and who was not sent but as mercy for all creatures (Quran 21:107).

تلاش

قلبِ مضطرب کو تیری یاد ترساتی ہے

روحِ بیچین کو تیری آس تڑپاتی ہے

تیرے تذکرے سے نم ہوتی ہیں آنکھیں

تیرے ذکر سے کٹ جاتی ہیں راتیں

حضور تیرے کھڑے رہیں شب بھر

پر جبیں یہ تیرے قدم کو ڈھنڈلاتی ہے

اس کیفیتِ خود فراموشی میں اِک لذتِ آشنائی ہے

تیری ذات کے رنگوں میں ہر سمت رنگ آئی ہے

زباں کثرتِ ندأِ یارسے تھک جاتی ہے

پر سانس تیرے نام کو دھراتی جاتی ہے

تیرے رخِ روشن کی چمک رنگ دیتی ہے روح میری

تیری صوتِ کرم کر دیتی ہے نشورِ خشوع میری

اس نشیمنِ ویراں کی اجنبیت کی خاک چھانتے

میرے وطنِ اصل کی خوشبو کی داستاں دی تو نے

کہاں میں جذبِ محویتِ افلاکِ لامتناہی تھا

تو نے مجھے غرقِ حقیقتِ نفسانی کر ڈالا

جہاں میں ماورائیتِ قیدِ حدود کا متلاشی تھا

تو نے مجھے متصفِ لا مکانی کر ڈالا

تیری ذات کے تعقب میں خود کو کھو لینے دے

تیری یاد کی رفعت میں سب رنگ بھرنے دے

سو لینے دے اس خواب گاہِ پرکشش میں

پر بیدار کر پوشاکِ عاشقاں کے تلے

Pakistani Secularism and Religious Intolerance

In the various forms of government that exist in the world today or have existed in the past, the answer to where sovereignty lies and who represents and exercices it differs. In ancient China, the Emperor had the Divinely Ordained Right to rule in the name of the Heavens. In a modern Monarchy, the monarch is the vestige of the sovereignty of God, while often to be exercised by another (the people eg), as is in the UK (the Queen represents the Sovereignty of God, "Dieu et mon Droit" while it is exrercised by the people. In a theocracy (Theo-God kratos-rule) sovereignty rests in God but is exercised by a group of men somehow divinely ordained to do so (as in Iran) by virtue of a class of priesthood. A democracy (Greek for demo-people kratos-rule) holds that each and every individual is the sovereign (we are all god), where they choose (legal fiction kicking in here) to delegate such sovereignty by a democratic process such as a vote to certain individuals who then exercise it in their name of their behalf.

Also, where a state acts as a legal person, it does so in the name of the Sovereign. So when you go to court in the UK for a criminal offence, the Queen/King (Regina/Rex) is the opposing party. And when you accidentally hit an Iranian government car, you've just hit... Oh wait, this can't be right now.

The question is: What about Pakistan? The Objectives Resolution which was adopted into the constitution clearly states Allah Almighty is the Sovereign. Okay. So what about the elections then? hm. God is the sovereign, thats for sure. But who gets to represent that said sovereignty? In a classic example of Pakistani originality (will write some other day of how this is a consistent example with every other facet of what Pakistan is all about), the answer to this question is as nowhere else to be found: every single citizen of the Republic expresses the sovereignty of Allah. It is not a clergy or a mullah or a group thereof, it is me and you who are empowered by the Constitution to do so. Thus explaining universal suffrage. Which is where democracy steps in. The people delegate not the right to make laws in their names, but in the name of Allah to the state. The state and the parliament are therefore BOUND by the interpretations which represent the will of the people. Sure the constitution binds us by having to follow the Shariah, but not as defined by a clergy (meant to be non-existant) but the bare will of the people. It is in our great country that the proverb comes to life:

"Zubaan-e Khalq ko naqqara-e khuda jano"

Everytime one does not vote, he contributes to not only evading a moral obligation but a violation of the trust of God. The religion of the state is nothing more than the will of the people. As I see it, Democracy is the state religion of Pakistan, and any mullah who wishes the will of the people to be undone should be held on charges of blasphemy against the voice of God speaking through the will of the people. If you find my political intrerpretation absurd, heres my religious take on it:

I recently explained this in great detail in a lecture I delivered at the 3rd Creatvie Leaders' Conference. To summarise: Islam was brought to our part of the world by a mystic strain of Islam called Sufism. Among many other themes, one of the central focuses of this ideology is the realisation of the perfection of humanity in every single one of us. And that is, to become a mirror so pure that we become the reflections of the image of God. As Waris Shah speaks through the words of Heer:

Ranjha Ranjha kardi nee mein aapay Ranjha hoi. Saddo nee menu dheedo Ranjha, Heer na akho koi.

And for each and every one of us to actualise the stage where, as in the words of the Hadith-e-Qudsi, "al-Lisaano maen Yatakalamo biha" to become the tongue through which HE speaks.

The religious identity of Islam when seen through this specter fits perfectly with our special expression of democracy as I expressed above but raises a fundamental question: What of the white on our flag, the status of minorities?

To rephrase, how does Seculrism fit in if at all. We have been very unfortunate that the Urdu press in the post-socialist post-Taraqqi pasand era has been dominated by our own home grown, green-is-all-I-see-Nationalist-Conservatives who have always translated the term Secular as La Deeniat, which brings back the sentiments associated with the Atheism of Communists (the dreaded reds we waged the Jihad against).

Sadly, secularism does not mean La Deeniyat. Further, there is no singular definition of what it enatils simply because of the diverse ways in which it has manifested itself around the world. Indian Secularism can surely not be squarely bunched with the la:icité of France or the anti-Religious Nationastic Identity of Turkish Secularism brought forth by Mustafa Kemal.

What then does Secularism meant for us when our dear (Ismaili converted Isna Ashari Shia) founding father Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah spoke of it so commonly? Perhaps it is best to let him answer that for himself. A look at Jinnah's innumerable addresses show us how he envisaged a country where the state had no role in the practice or support, in negative or positive terms, of religion and where each citizen had the right to practice it as he will. His adamant determination to get ALL of the Punab and the Bengal was proof of his scheme to retain large areas of non-Muslims to balance off the presence of Muslims in India (the number one claim of the Islamist Parties against the creation of Pakistan).

Secularism in Pakistan is thus just that:
For the state to distance itself from matters of religion. To not encourage or deprive one of the right to follow a certain creed. To remove it as a consideration while treating all those bearing its citizenship with equality before the law (as still upheld by our constitution) and to not hinder or create let in the process of free speech and freedom of association or expression, qualified against those who use this right to harm others. Jinnah was religiously persecuted himself by the religious parties who now claim the country was created for the fullfillment of their dreams. He was an Ismaili forced to convert to something more USUAL.

This argument is over rated though. What if Jinnah supported Secularism? We're not going to be bound by the notions of a man who died 60 years ago, no matter how great he may have been. Or will we? I'm not going to build upon this argument just to avoid raising a few obvious contradictions that I do not wish to address. We are a democratic people after all. We can decide what kind of a country we wish to lie in.

But heres another of our great leader's thoughts nevertheless. Everyone, read 'The Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam' by Dr Allama Muhammad Iqbal if you ever want to get a clue about what Islam was all about for our founding fathers. The Shair-e-Mashriq writes:

"All that is secular is deeply sacred in the roots of its din."

But then what would he know about Islam. We want a nanny state because we love it so much and we don't want to grow up, lest it shall let us be and treat us as a bird does when its little pecker is old enough to go fend for itself.

The recent action against the Ahmedis raised a question for me afresh, which no one seems to ask. I for one believe that Ahmedis are not Muslim, because they do not qualify my characterisation of what it means to be so. On the other hand, a religion is essentially a self-identifying group. The fact that one calls oneself to be something is enough in its own right. No one goes to the west to those newly found Rumi followers declaring themseles to be Sufi telling them they can't call themseles that. The Roman Catholic Church has never told the Mormons they can't call themsevles Christian as weird as they may be. (Though some Muslims have, saying they mis-represent the teachings of Jesus Christ). The Question is, as I had raised last week when FB was banned, is of the relationship between the individual and the state.

What right does the state have to decide for others what names they may or may not give themselves? Ahmedis, under Pakistani law, cannot call themselves Muslim, or call their places of worship Mosques or even display verses of the Quran in them. As much as I may disagree with them personally (and I find them absolutely mis-guided), its no job of the state to go and regulate others' faiths. And what difference does it make in my responsibilities, duties and rights a s a citizen what I do or do not believe? Why does the state want me to sign a declaration of faith for a travel document? If Hindus and Christians have rights to propagate their faith why don't Ahmedis (and no the answer is not that they just can't all themselves Muslim). Since when has nomenclature become a domain of the state? Let it name your babies next for lack of ingenuity. And that too in a country that has just spent 90 million Rupees renaming a province.

The state has failed once again in protecting its citizens. Just as it has many a times before when similar elements lashed out against citizens calling themseles Shia, Christian, Sufi or just Pakistanis. I adhere to a strain of Sufism and I find it consistently difficult to believe that with each passing day I find it harder to practice and profess my faith, and I represent the tradition of the majority. What makes it even more difficult is when terrorist organisations like the Sipah-Sahaba rename themselves Ahl-s-Sunnah wal Jamah (like the Irish Republican Army renaming itself the Roman Catholic Church) and then campaigning for a senior provincial minister's election campaign (Rana Sanaullah) and going around killing minorities while being afforded the protection of the State's blind eye. What was found to be a safe inroad to revenue during the 1980s by supporting Wahabism has now become a state-funded suffocation of our religious identities. The tide was strong and its tearing out lots on its way back, but we're doing nothing in comparison to the ruthlessness of the counter-ideologies of hatred, as the times demand of us. We must wage a Jihad to take back our identities, to put the state back to its business of governing for and by the people. And giving these extremists all the right to practice their beliefs in closed confines or letting them move to Saudi Arabia or Iran with passports that do not state their religion.

Pakistan Paindabad.

Our Response To Censorship

When petitioned for a ban, the court was told that a website of the name FB has posted blasphemous content. This assertion is incorrect. FB is a public forum and is not responsible for individual's postings. Pakistanis fail to recognise how FB is not posting anything. Its open to offence jut as it is to criticism. There are three issues here.

One is this separation which the Pakistanis failed to recognise when protesting the Danish cartoons. Then the problem was not realising that a government cannot go and censor a free newspaper (Jylland Posten in that case). Same for FB today. The entire argument at its heart demands intervention by an authority to curtail actions OUTSIDE the recourse to law and regulation (the Danish constitution back then) and FB privacy policy today. We are so accustomed to illegal violations of the individual liberty that it has become a part of the solutions that we think to our problems. We are effectively demanding the rule of law to be violated for another.

Secondly, we fail to use the system in place to solve the problem rather than crying about it (or burning tyres, more accurately). In this case that could have meant two things. One, to use FB to achieve a greater understanding of HOW Muslims view freedom of Speech and hate Speech in relation to each other. Explain to others what our non-eurocentric view of the qualification of rights is. Secondly, we could've followed Austria and Germany (Holocaust Denial FB pages are inaccessible there) and made the pages unavailable in Muslim countries. Every time we react so belligerently, all we achieve is to re enforce the views which caused such criticisms of us in the first place and absolutely fail to solve the primary problem by convincing others to our views. (What assurance is their that many in the west will not be encouraged to further their politically incorrect criticisms of our religion if all we do is cry and burn ourselves to censorship).

Thridly, the very idea that we are happy about the ban is disturbing. This has nothing to do with free-speech or hate-speech (which ironically are two different reasons either side is accusing the other of its actions failing to even recognise what the other's actions are all about). In the censorship context it has more to do with our unanswered questions about the relationship between the citizen and the state. Ive heard many older people say this before, "we as a people are slave-minded". Now it seems to be rather accurate. We wish to be collectively dictated to, not asked. Do be ordered so as not to have to initiate. This substantiates for many who, although incorrectly, saw elements of Fascism in how we practice our religion. Is it not fascist that we expect the government to decide how who when where to tax. What to be taught. What to watch and listen to. How to pray and behave? What laws and acts to support. And above all to restrict the answer of all these questions to be decided by the government. The parliament is run by a few handful in the government, so when I say government I dont mean parliament. We're a strange mix of aspiring to be economically socialist (the great joy we displayed at the ridiculous economic policies of the Punjab government simply exploiting our poverty e.g. the indirected subsidies of the roti and the new luxury car tax) and socially fascist at the same time (compare these days with the NSDP's censorship and publicity and the control of the reichstag by a few of Hitller's cronies. What a strange mess of a mix, SOCIO-Fascist. Somebody call the tea partiers and tell them that Barack Obama is not the Socialist Fascist (an ironic word considering they are both extreme of right or of left), its the Pakistani mentality that is.

A disclaimer:
Nothing I've said has anything to do with Religious intolerance or freedom of speech and ridiculing religious symbols. Ive only talked about our responses. So, please save yourself the breath and dont reply with a: "how would you feel if I insulted you mother" or a " We respect their prophets why don't they ours" Its about time we learn the importance of RELEVANCE.

A Letter to Bologna

I am ashamed. 

Shame for me is to fall in my own eyes. No one else has the right to set that standard for me but myself. 

I have always told myself: Don't do something if you're not proud of it. If you're doing something you're not proud of, stop doing it. If you're not doing something worth being proud of, then do it.

I cherish you and I thank God for a companion who can understand me. I feel challenged all day in and day out. As if my life were an illusion. Or no, rather as if my life were real and everyone else were in an illusion. Like the matrix (alas you haven't seen it)! And in a world of ideals and euphemisms and confusions and frustration, I hide myself from myself, shifting through a deck of cards, each card with a new façade for every occasion. But with you, I am myself. The self that refuses to hide and amazes me myself by coming up with such strength and confidence when it sees your sweet face. 

Now I'm crying.

My God has shown me miracles and testaments to hold my faith strong with them. You are the greatest one of them.

I would have shriveled into my own little realm of existence. The grain of sand on the palm of his hand with the universe inside, at the end of the day, is still a grain of sand. You give me the strength to believe in myself, to be able to see the universe within that grain. And not feel stupid, or ridiculous. And not think of what others might have to say. 

I can feel nature. I can feel God. In my veins. In the wind blowing in my face. He is my nature. And you are the most natural thing I have seen. When I first saw you, it wasn't you who did anything to me. It was God all around me conspiring to make me fall in love with my better half. Amaar, he said, this is it, find yourself, and me, here. Look into those eyes, they are as incomprehensible yet real as your own subtle realities. But thats the beautiful thing about nature you see. Its the Truth. The Truth is not against nature. So if we stop lying to ourselves in all the ways that we do, it is all that is left.

You are my Truth.

God says in His Book that He has created everything in pairs.

We know that.

I am ashamed. 

I never expect to be able to thank or return a single blessing in life or even to live up to them. To even pretend to deserve or achieve or return them would be to mock his Infinite Mercy and to fool myself.

You help me soar. Discover myself. Paint me on your canvas with your colours.

You have never let me feel deprived.

Yet, I failed miserably.

In one short minute, I undermined our balance. I upset the nature. I upset the Truth. I upset you. 

And I am ashamed.

I was not your greatest support in doing something so dear to you. 

I am ashamed.

Instead of becoming your wings, I became the clippers.

I am ashamed.

Instead of appreciating your splendor and beauty and testifying that nature shines through you, I criticised.

And not rightly so.

I am ashamed.

Where I should have been your front runner, I fell behind.

I do not forgive myself.

I lied. To myself. I used words and reasons to shadow a soul. How can darkness cover the light? It can't. It can't but only deceive itself. I am sorry for not being the one to hold you out and say this is my better half. I wouldnt be without her. This isnt her pride. Its mine.

I disappointed myself. Deeply.

I don't know why. 

I spent hours on that page of yours today, wondering why I reacted the way I did.

Yet the feeling still lingers. Saying, this is my temple, my place of worship. Don't disrespect my divinity. Not even unconsciously. Maybe its that cultural dogma of mine that I carry with me unknowingly. Of humility and secrecy of the body. Yet while I am ashamed of how i failed to be your champion when it was high time for me to carry you through, it scares me even more to experience these feelings of jealous protectiveness and possession that are simply unjustified. Such passionate love even when its sharp edge is aimed against you, scares me. 

I am ashamed to be inadequate here. 

I know He deconstructs me, breaks my ego with the sharp edged knife of your love. It sinks right through, cuts me open and leaves me to heal behind. 

Its like operating on a tumour.

I don't know how to cry.

My ignorance is what silences your wisdom. And I make you think something is wrong with you.

I am ashamed of all those times when my anger gets the better of me.

"Anger is disbelief"

I am ashamed.

I stand with my eyes down; head bent. Standing alone, crying before myself. Looking down at my own reflection, so disgusted.

Waiting for you to open your arms and hug me.

Not because I deserve it. Not least. 

But because I know that like the God who created you, you will show love regardless of how much i dont deserve it.

Yours only,

In joy and sorrow,

Forever and a day.

Islamabad

A Letter to Langkawi

God created everything. The books say it took him six days. I believe in that too. But don't you think that's kind of slow? God said be, and it was... six days later? 

God has created us all by his order. A human woman gestates for nine months, other animals take their time. 3 months to 24, be it a cat or an elephant. 

Slow still for God, though.

What' up with the creation thing? The only way I can answer that is by saying that God does not work on a baby for 9 months to create him. It took a fraction of time to say BE!, which created mother nature, the laws of physics and natural sciences. He decreed all in the universe to unfold as he created it at its own pace. The sun blew up, the planets rotated. The first set-up might have taken 6 days to complete, the rest of creation is still under way.

That's my belief too. 

This universe is not passive, its active. It creates and destroys.

He. God; She, I mean is not passive. The nature of his decree to unfold demands time. The creator of a domino topple knows what the final image will be like because he saw it before it unfolded. But the nature of how dominoes work demands him that there be a time gap between him toppling the first domino to the last one toppling and showing the whole image. And that's the moment in the history of creation when I saw you outside that gate, sitting on a bench that the creator had created months ago so I could sit there when I see you. Outside a school built years ago of a movement started decades ago in a city built centuries ago so that in that fraction of a second SHE who created it all could finally bend down and whisper in my ear:

YE KAINAAT ABHI NA-TAMAAM HAI SHAYAD 

KEH DAMADAM AA RAHI HAI SADA-E KUN FAYAKOON!

This universe is perhaps yet incomplete

For the sound of be and it is, is still coming forth!

I remember an image of the past. 

I live the intensity of the present. 

I believe in Her who saw the future before the last domino topples and it is for that faith and love in Her that I'll let Her make me wait and see how she set it all up over a couple trillion of years. 

In a story with no end. Which doesn't end with me loving you, or marrying you, or having your children, or growing old together, or dying together, or spending eternity in the heavens above, or becoming one in essence with HER. This is an eternal story written before there were pens.

And in the beginning was God, and the pen...

Time is too subjective for those who have grown outside it.

I Love You.

Rana Amaar Faaruq

Thursday, 13th March 2008

Hong Kong

A Human Story

I have always had a very bad memory. It’s usually quite a curse when one can’t remember the subtle details. But that isn’t what has haunted me on my lonely bed for the last 952 sleepless nights of my life. It’s the great accuracy and sharpness of the images from the day that seem to have acquired a permanent presence behind my eye lids. I wish I could have said that I remember it all like it happened yesterday. Not quite my prerogative. I live it every day. I see it happen all over again, time and time again. My eyes flash with the red, yellow and orange light that managed to enter them through the thick grey smoke. My lungs still endure the strength with which the fumes had filled them. My nose struggles to overcome the scent of burning blood and skin every time it sees a flower or kebab on the roadside. My skin sweats from the heat everyday that it had felt almost three years ago. My ears yearn for a silent moment devoid of my six year old daughter’s shrieks, calling for her mother, whose scent she could still follow through the flames that she walked into. Every part of my body, of my existence – my mind body and soul, are tormented every second. I am entrapped by my destiny to relive a day as if it repeated itself.

The days when the three of us sat in the village courtyard pass before my eyes like a rusty film-strip. I can still feel the excitement surge through me that I always felt while talking to my daughter. Her glistening eyes told me she would live a bright future. I always told my wife that I know we have a very special daughter. My father had sold 70 sheep so I could finish my secondary school. And I was a hopelessly stupid character throughout my primary years. It’s a shame that that’s all he had then. I promised myself the day my daughter was born that I’d sell myself and the land my mother’s grave was on if it ensured that my daughter could go to the city and become the first girl to get a job in a building in the city, instead of living the rest of her life with cows and chicken. We loved her so much. Her smile was what drove her mother and me through thick and thin. She loved her mother a lot. And of course, why wouldn’t she. I remember the time she fell sick and my wife carried her on her back to her brother’s tribe twenty six miles away on the other side of the mountains, on foot, the closest place where the Greek herbal dispensary was.

My wife collected firewood from daybreak to sunset while I tended to the apple orchids. Life was good. Our daughter already knew how to read the scriptures as we sent her off to the mosque everyday to study with her other friends. I used to give the kind priest a basket of apples at every harvest as he never asked us for repayment.

Our problems began with the coming of the guests. I don’t know where they were from. I met them in the tribal meeting once. The chiefs told us they were Muslim. That’s enough for us. If a Muslim brother comes to the land of our fore-fathers they are our honour and responsibility. Our guests come before us. We starve to death ourselves but never let a guest go hungry. It was a matter of dignity, the chief said, and I understood. But they also told us that they came here running from the infidels, who might follow them into our village. Of course, I was shocked to hear that. Could they dare to do that? I was prepared to give my life just like everyone else if anyone from the outside dared to touch our protected. If they so much as got a scratch, what standing would have remained of us amongst the tribes? I used to see them all the time in the mosque. They were very God-fearing people. I always wanted to go say something but they didn’t understand me. They spoke a strange tongue. I don’t know if it was Arabic or Persian, but the only people who understood them were the students in the mosque or the chiefs. I heard they planned to fight invaders they were awaiting. It began to greatly worry me. The last time we broke into a fight 62 people died from our tribe. I was beginning to think of moving to the city and sending my daughter to a school.

That morning, I was coming back from the field when the sky began to shake. I still remember the green, blue orange lines that split the sky as they flew over the mountains. They were machines that could spit fire and make scary sounds. I had heard of how they threw bombs over the border in Afghanistan, but I never thought it would look so scary. It reminded me of the judgement day that the priest always talked about: The sky splitting with a noise and fire coming down from above.

My heart stopped beating when I saw the balls of fire falling from the sky onto my village. I ran as I had never run before. Our entire neighbourhood was on fire. There were shrieks everywhere. Dust clouds had filled the unpaved streets as dust from the shattered mud houses rose higher into the sky. I heard people firing aimlessly into the sky as I ran towards where I thought my home was supposed to be. The smell, sound and blinding dust or the fact that I couldn’t breathe didn’t stop me running towards the fire where I struggled to find my wife or daughter. I don’t know if it was my brain playing tricks on me or if it ever happened, but I think I saw my daughter walk through the smog into the fire crying for her mother. I wanted to jump into the burning rubble myself but fell unconscious. I don’t remember who saved me.

I was sick of it. The smell, sound, repeating images, the sky split asunder, my world shred into thousands of pieces. I have been sick of seeing everything that had ever mattered to me turn to dust, ash and abstract cries right before my eyes. I wanted to end it. I could not even pray anymore without loosing my breath. I had to bring an end to my suffering. I did not have a place to live. My loving wife had burnt to death and turned into ashes with our little princess who never grew up to become anything while I cried my eyes out, sitting over graves that were as hollow as my soul.

Today was the day I got to the green city – that’s what they liked to call it. They built it in their own nice mountains, not like the desert ones we have, these were filled with trees. There were big roads with even bigger cars. My village told me this was where I could take my revenge. They sat in warm and cold rooms in buildings that talked to the skies above. They speak our language and look like us but they survive on our innocent blood. I had waited for this end for such a long time. Now, my life would at least not go to waste after being robbed of every reason to live. I had never been so calm ever before, how I felt when I stood there in the middle of the tall building with blue glass. Where everyone wore English clothes and spoke with posh accents; where everyone had a full stomach and a broad smile; where no ones children were naked or dirty; where they all had lots of money to waste because they had no worries. I smiled over them and I asked myself how they could deserve all this after leaving me in so much pain. I had seen more then I could understand. Perhaps I could find an answer very soon. I whispered to myself, “there is no god but God”, and I pressed the button.

دوراہا दोराहा

کيا خطا کی يہ بھی نہيں بتاتے
کہاں بھٹک گۓ يہ بھی نہيں دکھاتے

क्या ख़ता की यह भी नहीँ बताते
कहाँ भटक गाए यह भी नहीँ दिखाते

लक्ष्मी !

हम ने दोबारा जनम लिया है !

The Door

The door had been locked up since forever. No one knew what was behind it. The purpose of its existence was unknown. It was there, in the corner of his room. The door had a rusted, golden door knob; untouched for years. His curiosity led him to contemplate for hours and hours on just what was behind that door, if anything at all, that is.

That dull, dark day was probably the lowest point in his life. He felt uncomfortable on the inside. As if his mind and soul had been ploughing an endless rice field for thousands of years and were now exhausted beyond measure. He felt as if his body had been disconnected from the spirit. He felt like his body and mind were being shredded by an invisible force. He felt useless. As if his life didn’t have a purpose or reason for existence. All that there was, was a blunt hollowness.

He heard a voice from behind the door. It was abrupt and sudden, yes – but not at all shocking or surprising. It had a certain calmness about it. Like a harp playing amongst floating clouds. It called his name. He turned all his attention towards it. He heard each and every word the voice said – and he obeyed. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so bad anymore. It was as if the voice had an answer to all of his questions. He found meaning in all that was meaningless before. He became content with what he was. He began to see things in terms of the voice. It changed his life. He felt beautiful inside.

The voice had promised him that one day he shall find out what the door held within and that all the mystery abound shall be unleashed and that he shall be able to see what the voice was.

That very morning was the appointed day. The day when the door should be found unlocked, when he shall be able to see for himself, the force that drove him.

He approached the door, raised his hand and reached out. He abruptly stopped. He stood as still as the silence in death. He started to think. He asked himself, “What if there was nothing behind it? What if he had imagined it all?” He stopped to think. It really didn’t matter, actually. The voice had changed everything for him. For him, it was like the essence in a flame of fire which gave it heat. It gave his life principle and reason and an approach towards everything outward, very inwardly. It didn’t matter if it didn’t exist. He would have given the world and everything beyond, just to have heard the voice once. He was pure in purpose. He did not lust for anything material. He didn’t desire anything. He wanted the voice for itself. With all the hope and without a sign of fear – carrying the highest of aims with the lowest of expectations, he clutched the key tightly and turned it. The lock clicked. Click.

He threw the key out the window.
____________________________________

- R.A.F.

The Zahir (A Theatrical - Ek Natak)

A black clad figure covered in a long, black cloth, is on centre stage, sitting – concealed, looking down, and all wrapped up. An image of confinement and secrecy is clearly delivered. The narrator reads in the background:

“It begins with a glimpse or a passing thought. It ends in obsession”
(court. Paulo Coelho)

“The Zahir, in Arabic, means visible, present, incapable of going un-noticed. It is someone or something which, once we have come into contact with them or it, gradually occupies our every thought, until we can think of nothing else. This can be considered either a state of holiness or of madness.”
(court. Faubourg Saint Pères)

The play continues as thus:
Different people enter the stage in different groups, chattering in groups among themselves, deeply indulged in conversation. (The conversations shall be mocked as the scene has to be kept silent for maximum concentration on body language.) They act oblivious towards the black-clad figure, hereafter referred to as “The Zahir”.

The groups settle at different locations on the stage. The conversations shall look very intense and deeply indulging – arguments – but shall not be voiced aloud until specified herein. The beauty of the play lies in its silence. Each group’s conversation shall be brought up one by one, all the while the others will silently “argue”. The conversations shall be ‘given sound’ one by one.
____________

These dialogues are not in the form of a designed script. The dialogues have yet to be created and balanced among actors. This draught only intends to deliver the outline of the intended idea. The conversations shall be somewhat as such:

First Group (holies):
“It is divine decree. The wish of the Lord Creator. Surely we must submit through all our deeds, acts, words and thoughts. Our lives must be according to the wishes and commandments of the true Lord. And of course, it shall never go unrewarded. If you fulfil your quest for His approval, you shall surely gain bliss. It’s a fair trade. Give-in this life for another better one.”
“Life too serious to be spent laughing.”

“Don’t even think of considering worldly, earthen pleasures. These last only as long as the acts that bring them. Pass these tests to gain the ultimate pleasure which shall be everlasting and would surely bring endless joy for all of eternity.”

“Otherwise, must bear the wrath and anger of the Almighty. Be afraid of what is to come ahead. Resent the decision to be made against your favour. Prepare for your eternal future.”

Second Group (“Gnostic” hedons):
“Ugh! It’s all a drama I tell you. It’s just not possible. We are the Masters. The Lords. We create and destroy our own world, all the time. Live your life well. Don’t waste it off on meaningless, fruitless hocus-pocus. Enjoy life while it lasts. Bring out the colours in you. It all depends on your perspective. There is nothing good or bad. It’s all in the way you see it. Have fun while you still can. Life is too short to be taken seriously. Learn to live in the present, dude. Besides, as they say, one who lives on hope, dies fasting. I hate bloody pessimists and those boring philosophers alike. Screw them all. ‘Tupid party poopers. Lay back and chill out.”

Third Group (thinking foolosophers):
“As I’ve always said, ‘Its better to rule in Hell than to serve in Heaven’. It’s a frickin setup I tell you. All of them are greedy dogs with their tongues hanging about one thing or another. Those stupid objectivists and materialists. They enjoy being animals. Talk about civilisation. They’ve turned everything into a matter of commercial trade. All too material. They want this one thing or another. This and that. Now or then. Here or there. They’re all the same. These see the stuff they’re running after. Those don’t. But they’re all running all right. Yeah it’s a material world, but humans and everything about here is a material object for them. You know I hate sin. But I love sinners. They don’t commit sins out of greed. They don’t run like blind dogs. They do it for the act itself. It’s purity of action, literally. If only everyone else stopped howling for bones and started thinking straight. At least we’ll never let any of them fool us into their capitalistic greed. Doesn’t matter whether they reward us here or there.”
____________
A new character enters the scene. A passive observer. A learner. A seer. A thinker. A neutralist looking for the truth of life. He looks around to adapt himself to his surroundings – an obvious reaction of a newcomer in a new scene with alien surroundings. He shall here forth be called “The True-Hearted Man (THM)”. He joins into the ‘silent’ arguments as observer and shudders out of them, unsatisfied, one by one. The Zahir by now stands erect amongst them, with arms stretched out open. All characters are oblivious towards The Zahir. All characters on stage are now mobile in a hustle-bustle. They pass by the Zahir and around him, as if he is invisible, or non-existent.

THM sits down, facing the Zahir, in a manner of thinking and contemplation, and goes over towards the Zahir, studying him closely. He finally speaks to the Zahir:
“Who are you? What are you? Why are you here? Why does no one here notice you? How can they not see you? You’re so obvious. You take up the entire space in the scene.”

THM goes back among the people, asking different groups and individuals:
“Why do you leave him like this?”
“Leave who?”
“Him!”
“Him?”
“Please tell me you can see him?”
“Ummm… see what?”
“How can you not see him?!”
“What on Earth are you talking about?”

THM looks clearly frustrated and flustered. A dilemma between what he sees and hears.
(One no longer needs to believe when one starts to see.)
He walks towards the end of stage, his appearance ragged (shirt torn, cuffs hanging, hair falling, unconcerned with how he looks). He falls on his knees, facing the audience, addressing them:
“Where am I?”
“Why am I here?”
“What is this?”
“Why is this all happening?”
“What am I doing here?”
“What am I… what… what… what AM I?”
“Who AM I?”
Disillusional madness taking over him. Lost in thought. A crazy man. The crowd of people exit the stage in semi-circles, like smoke floating away, to leave the stage clear. The Zahir and THM are now alone on stage. The Zahir’s hands stretched out sideways (a standing vitruvian).

THM stand up swiftly, collecting himself, then faces the Zahir with a swift turn and shouts at him:
“So it is you. I am here with you. I am here because of you. I am here because you are here. I am for you. I am to you. I am of you. ITS YOU!”

“Ha ha ha ha” (crazy laughter followed by sudden seriousness):

“You! Just You! Nothing but You! But YOU!

THM falls down in The Zahir’s feet, going into an obviously recognizable mystical trans. The Sufi practice of “pass tanaffas” recommended here for greater clarity and stronger impression.
He picks a black cloth lying behind the Zahir’s feet, wraps it over himself and kneels in front of the Zahir, arms stretched out, back towards the Zahir, in a state of mystical calm and with a knowing smile across his face.

The crowd of people re-enter, re-indulge in debate. Their debates, arguments and hustle bustle continue. It is clearly recognizable that they do not see the Zahir AND THM. They are both invisible. They go around them, converse with each other while the Zahir and THM are in between. Strong expression needs to convey that the absence of THM is unnoticed and that they are invisible, or non-existent and the arguments continue unaltered.

Narrator says in the background:
“The Zahir… someone or something which, once we have come into contact with them or it, gradually occupies our every thought, until we can think of nothing else. This can be considered either a state of holiness or of madness.”
THM says, calmly in a firm voice:
“It begins with a glimpse or a passing thought. It ends in obsession”

A ten second silent pause. All actors enter. Bow.

The End.

FIL MUHABBAT-ULLAH

By
J.D. (Rana Amaar Faaruq)
18th September 2005,
under the falaq,
Islamabad.

The Castle of Disillusionment

It was true. The vale of Dale hadn’t changed. It was far more awe-inspiring and capturing then I had imagined it to be. Over all these years, from the times of the Greeks, to the Romans, Turks and now this confused society, it had all remained unaltered. I knew my plight well. Had considered it all too well in my head. Pulled by the majestic power of instinct, intuition and ambition, I approached the colossal castle. I had surely over estimated myself – sure, it couldn’t purge me but the temptation it represented was obviously out of this world for mortals. Just the aroma of the locale was blissful – anand, they called it. It was enough to capture and hold the greatest of rishis and kashatriyas from their quests of gyan and vijay. I hadn’t even noticed the castle for a while, the REAL reason why I was here. I knew better then to approach the moat and draw into Medusa’s age-long argument – unending, unchanging, unconvincing. But I couldn’t stop the urge of curiosity fuelled by hunger of understanding and ultimate comprehension – I drew my sabre! Forward, swiff, block, cut, knock, dash, dig, swivel, stir, cut, throw, log, turf, back step, DRIVE!!! Ahhhh… gasping, I just stood tired. My clothes shredded, lying at my feet. Nothing around me had resounded in reaction or even stir, for that matter. I had JUST made a fool of myself before my own eyes, out of anyone else’s sight, and OFFCOURSE, exhausted myself.

I lay down. Then sat up. I now faced the impeccable façade of the castle. I calmed myself. Gathered all the temperance, fortitude and prudence I could bring out of the depth of the spirit. I now began to take in the surreal surroundings and make a linkage of it in the grand plan of the Ultimate Creator – the Ultimate Show master, The Ultimate Conman. I recognized the skeleton across the lush green field almost instantly. IT WAS PERSEUS! He had died waiting. His silent remains looked impressionably calm. Patient for an end of his ardent adoration which he was so sure of. Was probably wrong there. It just struck me there – Perseus was now part of the surroundings. His content corpse was an addition to the entire program of projection. He was an integral part of the world outside the castle – of the waiting, the awaiting and the awaited. Content with the outside of the castle, forever appreciatively awaiting the manifestation of the inside – as if he already knew that the inside was a utopia and not a nightmare come true. Even in death, Perseus acted as a reassurance for the gazers and admirers and surprisingly, not nearly admonishing. He just caused the walls of the castle to go higher.

Now I saw the whole picture. I utterly and out rightly, refused to play along. I will not allow myself to be cuddled with cheese, milk and mud, to be used to strengthen the walls of deception and of secrets unknown – yet admired. So what was I to do? I really do know what fortresses are for. Attock was for STOPING. York for declaring the English grandeur upon the immaculate Highlanders. But what was the essential purpose of existence behind this castle. I refused to believe that this castle existed because of these external wonders – surely they were here with the castle and all of its unending and unreasonable appreciation (unreasonable because the object of appreciation itself is concealed behind those walls). I knew some things about cracking forts myself. I was one myself. Abashing and maliciously veiled from the outside, a cosmic juncture of unbound secrets inside. Castles, as I have come to know – and history tells us too – crack like walnuts. The external façade smashes and a bizarre and unperceivable inside emerges. It has no resolute connection with the external but yet contained within it and therefore, based upon the external conception, the inside is priorly unpredictable.

I decided to approach and unlock the hidden secrets once and for all. The only aspect beholding me from doing so was the definite uncertainty of the secrets inside – and I couldn’t expect it to periphery the island of utopia like everyone else – and I also realized that with the revelation of inner secrets, the cracking and destruction of the beautiful exterior would also be credited to me by the hedonists and objectivists out there, who, unlike me, were content with believing in just what they saw and nothing beyond.

Still, I approached the castle with the same vigorous ambition of the truth that had brought me SO far. I approached the moat, and as per folklore, set eyes on Medusa’s ever living, emerging head. “Freeze”, she said. “Submit yourself in awe O bare one and approach not beyond your grasp, for you shall not be allowed to transgress your mortal limits.” “Medusa!” I replied, “I have ragged my attire before. My body is yours to discard but I only speak for my soul when I say that I am as immortal as your own deceptive means.” I didn’t stop at the moat; I understood the beguiling of the deceptive creation and walked on it, as though it never existed. But Medusa was too angry by now, “Stop you fool! Tread you dare beyond this line and you shall have it.” “Have what Medusa”, I asked. She continued, “Don’t invoke the dreary dread of the forces of Valkyrines that guard this very sanctuary. Don’t peep beyond your sight. You shall cry for death like a baby for its mother. The mighty Titans and Lucifer himself shall have pity on you.” I could imagine and make out the effect of all this on a mortal, but replied calmly, unravaged, “Shut up, Medusa.” Her green face turned greener, yellowier and suddenly blue. She just realized that I carried the most powerful weapon conceivable. THE TRUTH. An obvious glare of rouge appeared around her cheeks. MEDUSA WAS PANICING!!! Her sudden embarrassment and peculiarity was obviously unmistakable from her looks – appearances DON’T always deceive. I continued towards the walls and held my hand out towards the wall and touched it with my hand. It went right through! No army of Valkyrines, no wrath of God-knows-what-else. No nothing. MEDUSA STARTED WEEPING and sobbing like a new-born. I took my hand back. I had understood the purpose of existence just now. The reason this castle was here. The reason why Medusa was here. The reason why there were so many to adore its outside WITHOUT knowing what’s on the inside. THE RESON WHY THERE WAS A DIFFERENT INSIDE AND OUTSIDE and the iron curtain in between. I no longer needed to know whether the inside was good or bad, perfect or manly, earthly or utopian, for I held the ultimate truth. I turned back and addressed the bobbing head, “Don’t worry Medusa, my quest is accomplished here. Your secret is safe with me for eternity and beyond. Proceed with your little game. Nevertheless, I truly do not know what lies inside, so I can’t be expected to convey this explanation to others.” I continued my journey on my way back home. Medusa finally getting hold of herself. Ashamed. Bewildered. Inspired. Awed.

Recognition:
- My friend S.I.K. served as a living inspiration for this writing.
- Based on a scene born in the beautiful mind of FUH (without hyphens).


R.A.F. الپیال
राना अमार फारूक
Sunday, 14th August 2005 C.E.
Islamabad.

Rain Beneath Shelter

The floating clouds looked like fog. There is no way of telling them apart, really. Not if you’re walking in them. One rare oddity which can't be understood from inside. Rather ironically, an outsider's perspective is required. From far away u can tell clouds and fog apart, but an insider's opinion isn't probably best for this test.

Then rather slowly, yet abruptly, but gradually taking pace – like a sea wave getting closer to you on the shore – it started to rain. The rain was dripping yet, but getting swifter. Following instincts, he ran under a large tree for shelter. The very sight of the tree – covering all that lay beneath its outwardly stretched and gladly receiving, extended leaved arms – was comfy and cosy. But as soon as he got there, it started pouring heavily. Pouring. Yes, that’s what I said, but not in the out open. It was pouring under the tree. Sweet-sour rain. Mother Nature feeding its hungry children, dried and silently shouting out to be fed. Yet, it was still dripping outside the "shelter". And that was when, at 6000 feet above sea level, I discovered that it rains under trees too. Do you know why it rains under trees?

(Based on a true incident I experienced in the MH, Chirat Cantonment.)

R.A.F. الپیال
Islamabad

Imaginary Pizza Part-I

Sanity is not a well-defined term. It is almost synonymous with normalcy. Almost. But then who is normal? That isn’t very clear either. Usually it is accepted that EVERYONE is normal, unless determined otherwise. Those who aren’t, are called “abnormal” by the “glass-is-half-empty-type-pessimists”, and “special” by “happy-go-lucky-optimists”. I think we all know majority is always never right. And that is so because the bulk of our population can never be right. All intellectuals, intelligentsia, educated elite, political masterminds, academics and many more DO NOT comprise “the normal lot”, since “EVERYONE” is sane and normal but is not an intellectual etc. So I’m led to believe that all these categories are NOT synonymous with normal, or sane. Therefore that would imply that if I’m not “sane” and “normal” like many of the other people mentioned above, then I (or they) would have to be INSANE, or JUST NOT NORMAL.

Moving on, actions, habits and patterns of behaviour which are common of the general lot - and found in all “sane” people - are called normal. So we can conclude that those actions, sayings and ideas which are not generally common among ALL people, would have to be “abnormal”, and since they cannot be labelled ‘sane’, all these actions would be “insane”. With the same explanation (mentioned above) under consideration, we move on to consider “specialities”. As the word reflects itself, specialities are not supposed to be normal (remember that the word ‘special’ is used by many as ‘abnormal’). Therefore, my – or anyone’s – specialities are abnormal anomalies. If not, then it is not a speciality, it would just be a common, ‘normal’ thing. And so, the more specialities I have, the more abnormal or insane I would be. It is for this very reason that I often take pride in calling myself “insane”, or at least appreciate others doing so, since they are in effect crediting my specialities. This has often bewildered others to quite an extent. Just yesterday, a friend of mine said, *“Amaar you’re a normal person ‘online’, but you’re absolutely ‘insane’ otherwise”. For an entire day, I failed to decide which part of this statement was meant to serve as an insult, and which as a compliment. For I couldn’t understand if I was really not being myself while “online” or if the entire world had in a moment adopted my specialities (my insanities) and turned them into normal behaviour – now, that would have meant my loosing the “special” traits that define my personality and dissolving into the ‘normal’ crowd. Or maybe, I was just being credited that my abnormal insanities (specialities) are far more wondrous when I display them in person. Either way, I indefinitely feel proud to be abnormal and insane and truly consider – as I should – someone calling me normal and sane as hoarding an insult out rightly, by robbing me of my distinctive personal specialities (id est. insanities). I hope I never loose my insanity and forever cherish it as I do still.

*(The intellectually provocative comments mentioned above were passed by my friend Capt. Taji.)

(Hopefully, a sequel will be duely out, explaining what an imaginary pizza has to do with insanity.)

-Rana Amaar Faaruq,
14th June 2005, Islamabad.