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‘They took my money and India jersey, and gave me love in return’—my week in Lahore on a cricket visa

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It all started with the Pakistan Cricket Board opening up the sale of a limited number of tickets for the one-day cricket matches between India and Pakistan in March, 2004.

The moment we saw that news report, my wife Ipsita and I knew we had to do this. This was not just an opportunity to witness one of sport’s greatest rivalries, it was a chance to go to Pakistan—the place we Indians talk and read so much about, and often, despise so much.

Tickets were promptly purchased on the internet, and visa forms filled up. There is no Pakistan consulate in Hyderabad, so we made a trip to Delhi and stood at 4am in a queue of hopefuls outside the Pakistan High Commission in Chanakyapuri.

There were some like us, standing for a visa for the cricket match. Most others, and that number was in several hundreds, were people who had relatives in Pakistan and had been trying for many many months to get a visa—most of the time, unsuccessfully.

“Deposit your passport, we will inform you when your visa is granted,” said the helpful man at the counter, which I reached after about five hours in the queue.

We returned to Hyderabad and were informed a week later that the visa had come through. We were two of about 2,000 Indians who would get to go to Pakistan for the one-day cricket matches.

I have had many visas on my passport—tourist visa, business visa, visit visa. This one was unique; it read: “Cricket Visa”.

It specified Lahore only. My match tickets were only for the Lahore matches and the visa forbade me from going any place else.

Importantly, it also specified: “Exempt from police reporting”, which is otherwise a daily requirement for Indians visiting Pakistan.

The next step was visiting The Hospitality Club, one of my favourite websites which provides a platform for members to homestay as a guest at someone's home.

I had hosted and been been hosted at many places around the world—but Pakistan was an entirely different place, at least in my mind.

Was it too risky, to search for random people in Lahore and ask them for a place to stay?

I took a leap of faith and narrowed the search on the website down to Lahore and wrote to the top host in Lahore, telling him of my trip and asking whether we could stay with him for the week.

Promptly, my inbox had a response: “You are welcome.”

The Delhi-Lahore bus left from the Ambedkar Terminal in Delhi. The bus departure time was 6am. We were there at 3.30am and noticed a large queue of people already present.

There were an even larger number of people there to see the passengers off, easily in a 3:1 ratio. These people were not allowed in, and stood outside the large, iron gates of the entrance.

The passengers were a mix of Indians, Pakistanis and other nationalities.

There were about 20-odd cricket fans (mostly from Delhi, a few from Panipat and the two of us from Hyderabad), a woman and her four kids from Karachi, a man from Lahore returning from Jaipur after getting the 'Jaipur foot' (a rubber-based prosthetic leg) fitted, a mother-daughter duo from Islamabad, a Dutch lady traveling from India to Pakistan, two armed security escorts, and a liaison officer from Pakistan Tourism Development Corporation (PTDC).

The security checks were more stringent than any I have experienced anywhere in the world.

The people from Pakistan said their goodbyes to relatives who were waving from outside the iron gates of the terminus. The bus started off at 6am Indian time.

All photos by the author.
All photos by the author.

There were two police vans with armed guards and lathis (sticks) escorting the bus. One in front of the bus, the other in the rear. They honked their horns and cleared all traffic for the bus to pass off uninterrupted.

The bus had three stops before reaching the border—for breakfast, tea and lunch.. These stops offer a good opportunity for the passengers to mix and get to know each other. There was a pervading spirit of bonhomie, which grew with time and each stop.

Kartarpur was the last stop before the border. There, I saw a sign board showing an Indian and a Pakistani hugging each other in the backdrop of the Lahore bus.

Delhi was written on one side of the signboard and Lahore on the other, and there was a line written below; it read:

"Dil ka darwaza khol ke aana, par wapis jakar humein bhool na jana." (Open the doors of your heart as you enter, but don't forget us when you return.)

Around 2pm, we neared the border at Attari and suddenly, mobile phone signals were blocked. There were a number of Indians crossing over by foot from Amritsar.

From their appearance, it seemed most of them were headed for the cricket match. A few entrepreneurs had put up a well-stocked shop selling Indian cricket jerseys, Indian flags and banners. Their unique selling point: this is the last place where you can buy this stuff.

Beyond is a different world. Prices were moderate, and an Indian shirt with No. 10 and Tendulkar written on it could be bought for 200 Indian rupees.

Next was the customs check-post at Attari, India. Amidst a lot of confusion and a sea of blue shirt wearing porters, our passports were collected by a couple of stern looking officials. We filled in our forms and in about two hours, we were checked out of India.

Pakistan was clearly visible a few meters in front, but we had to wait for our luggage to be loaded back on to the bus (which, necessarily, is done by the porters because the authorities don't allow you to carry your own luggage).

After a few photos with the Indian flag in front of the bus, and a cold coffee, we were back in the bus. The next leg of the journey was a few meters of physical distance, and many light years of perceived distance.

After all, this was Pakistan!

The six-and-half foot tall, well built, Border Security Force (BSF) guard was standing in front of a massive gate just ahead of our bus. It had ‘INDIA’ written on it in big, bold letters.


The BSF jawan opened the gate, and the bus slowly rolled on to the other side. Inside the bus, there was huge applause from the passengers.

For many on board, it was an emotional moment. I was one of those.

Being on the other side of the Wagah border meant I was nearing the place where my parents were born, where they learnt to walk and take their first steps, where our family used to live and a lot, lot more.

In a few minutes, the bus stopped again—this time on the Pakistan side of the border for the formalities to be completed. Systems there were relatively more streamlined than at Attari, and the queue moved faster.

After the formalities were sorted out, we had to get our luggage checked once again. Like Attari, there was a lot of confusion among people there, before it finally got done.

I started getting mobile phone signals again. Surprisingly, it was the Airtel Punjab (India) network that was the strongest, so I made calls to my parents in India, from Pakistan, on an Indian network.

Just outside the café, some of the porters were asking passengers if they want to exchange currency. I gave them currency notes with Gandhi’s picture and got back those with Jinnah’s.

The bus passengers were asked to head towards the PTDC cafe, for a complimentary tea. The manager of the cafe took control of operations to meet this sudden spurt of Indians, and was endeavouring to increase the turnaround time of the cheese sandwiches.

As we awaited our sandwiches, a framed photo of Jinnah adorned the wall right in front of us. To the side were a few Pakistan Tourism posters, all of which had the words ‘Visit Pakistan’ firmly written in bold font.

We got back to the bus and continued onwards. The first thing I saw thereafter, was another entrepreneur, selling Pakistan cricket team jerseys, caps and Pakistan flags.

As the bus moved on, there were hundreds of people on the way who were eager to catch a glimpse of it. They were on the roads, in shops, in houses.


I waved incessantly and most people waved back, with a huge smile as a bonus. That really made my day.

There was a railway crossing in front of us, and the gates were closed. The escort of our bus walked up to the railway cabin, got the aspect of the signal changed and got the gates opened.

Our bus passed through. A goods train was seen waiting a few metres away. That was a remarkable sight to see. A train was stopped to let a bus pass by.

We headed into Lahore in about half an hour, and the roads were dominated by the Daewoo city buses, some double deckers, Mehran Suzuki cars (the exact equivalent of India's Maruti Suzuki 800), rickshaws, tongas, chand gari (a six-seater vehicle), and dozens of motorbikes.

We crossed Aitchison College (where Imran Khan studied, informed the liaison officer), the Pearl Continental Hotel (where the cricket teams are put up) and a number of buildings from the British era.

In some time, we were at Falleti's Hotel, another hotel from the British times, and the bus' final destination.

As we got down, there were people from the press taking photographs. They asked us to pose with the Indian flag, which we happily did.

We got down, and in a few minutes were able to locate The Hospitality Club friend. His name was Naseem. I called him Naseem sahab.

He took us home after driving us through the Mall Road, the High Court, the Postmaster General's office and the Secretariat.

While driving, he made dozens of phone calls to neighbours and relatives and invited them to his place for the evening.

At Naseem sahab’s place, there were scores of people who wanted to meet us, talk to us, and express the fact they are extremely happy at our being there.

Naseem then took us to another friend’s place, where I mentioned that my parents were born in Lahore. The friend whose house he had taken us to had come from Saharanpur, way back in 1947.

The man was thrilled to bits on seeing us, and he took off the watch he was wearing and put it on my wrist. Then, he took off the pen in his pocket and gave it to Ipsita.

We were blown away by the gesture.

The next day, I managed to track down the respective houses where my father and mother were born. It was a very special moment for me.

KL Sapra, my father, lived on Dev Samaj Road, and Neerja Sapra, my mother, lived on Nisbet Road.

The two houses might be nondescript today amongst the sea of houses in Lahore, but for me they represented places where my parents had taken their first steps, played, fallen, walked, talked and learnt to get their first bearings of the world.

These were also the places where they had to undergo, at the age of five and two respectively, the horrific trauma of Partition, leaving their homes behind and escaping in the laps of their parents, with fear and frenzy all around.

On the 21st of March, we were at the Gaddafi stadium. I was in my Indian-team-blue jersey. Outside the stadium, there were a stupendous number of Pakistani fans gathered.

We all waved and smiled at each other. Many, many people came up to us, asked us questions about India and exchanged pleasantries.

The Police got us inside the stadium through a special queue for Indian visitors. Inside the stadium, though, the enclosures were common to all.

There was a college girl who was wearing a T-shirt saying: “Nothing feels better than kicking Indians.”

Ipsita walked up to her and told her: “We have come from far to be here in Pakistan, I am sure you don’t mean what’s written on your shirt.”

The girl turned extremely apologetic. In a few minutes, she became good friends with Ipsita and we posed for pictures with our respective flags.

The match had started. In the stands the crowd was having a lot of fun—thousands of flags, banners, musical instruments, and Mexican waves going around the stadium.

Flags of USA, Bahrain and the UK were visible as well. There were Sikhs in tri-colour turbans and a man with a Ronaldo jersey.

A guy in a Pakistani-green jersey got us two glasses of Pepsi. An elderly person offered us paan.

Indian ads were displayed all over the stadium. When the screen on the ground showed the information minister of Pakistan, the crowd shouted: “Lota! Lota!” (meaning an individual who is double-faced and a turncoat, a term commonly used for politicians in Pakistan — could be used anywhere, I feel).

The crowd chanted "Lota" for every politician who was shown on the screen. The Pakistani crowd is good at inventing slogans. The most common slogan was "Match tusi le lo, Aishwarya saanu de do" (Take the match, give us Aishwarya).

When the screen showed Indian actors Sunil Shetty and Mandira Bedi, the crowd cheered like mad.

There was a Pakistani man whom everyone calls baba, dressed in all green, waving the flag, who goes everywhere the Pakistan team plays.

He too was cheered for whenever he was shown on the big screen. He was in the Imran Khan enclosure, adjacent to the Javed Miandad enclosure where we were.

During the innings break, the public address system played popular music. Many of the tracks were Bollywood songs. Many in the crowd were dancing and swaying to the beats.

After a while, "Dil Dil Pakistan", started blaring on the sound system. This one made the crowd go especially crazy. There was frenzied dancing and waving of flags.

After the interval, the cricket continued. Good shots were cheered for by both sides. The Pakistan team flattered to deceive and India won convincingly.

The crowd was disappointed, but genuinely happy for us.

People walked up and said ‘'congratulations'’ and “well played”. A man even walked up to me and offered his Pakistani flag in exchange for my Indian one. We posed for a photo with him.

Similarly, another person asked for my blue-coloured Indian cap as a souvenir.

I gave my address and cards to countless people. A few of our fellow spectators took our autographs as well.

People were desperate for Indian souvenirs. I ended up giving away all the Indian currency notes that I had in my pocket – with an autograph on them as well.


I parted with my cap, my money, and finally, even my jersey. In return, what I got was a massive amount of love and affection. It felt simply out of this world.

The next few days after the first match were spent going around Lahore— Badshahi Mosque, Minar-e-Pakistan, Ravi River, Mall Road, Government College Lahore, Punjab University, Kim's Gun and Kim's Book Shop.

We shopped around Anarkali and then went to Lahore Railway station. The train station is my favourite place in any city.

Like many large stations in India, this one also has a locomotive outside, with the star and crescent prominently displayed in front.

We met a number of porters, who were very happy to have a mehmaan from India visit the railway station.

There is a 'Meeting Point' at the station, quite similar to the ones in many other parts of the world. There is a big clock on top of it. I bought a platform ticket, which cost Rs5 (Pakistani).

The platform was maintained by a private party, and was quite clean.

Two big photos—one of Mohammad Ali Jinnah, and another of Mohammad Iqbal (author of the poem, Saare jahan se achcha, Hindustan hamara, which almost became the Indian national anthem) adorn the entrance to the platform area.

Samjhauta Express, the train to India, was to leave from the far end of Platform No. 1. This platform also had a McDonalds and a Pizza Hut outlet. There were bookstalls on every platform, mostly selling Urdu books.

As we moved on to other platforms, we could see the Khyber Mail. It goes from Peshawar to Karachi and was on Platform No. 5. We went inside, and saw the AC, Economy AC and non-AC coaches.

On the platform, there were vendors selling all kinds of eatables. The only problem for me, a lover of railway platform food, was that vegetarian food was hard to find!

The Karakoram Express, which is a fully air conditioned train, is the most prestigious train from Lahore, quite similar to the Rajdhani Express in India.

At my mother's house.
At my mother's house.
My mother's house from the outside.
My mother's house from the outside.
Her house's view from behind the street.
Her house's view from behind the street.

After the station, I made a second visit to Nisbet Road and Dev Samaj Road, to the houses where my parents were born.

There was a lavish spread for us at both places and the current occupants of the house were over the moon on seeing us.

I had heard from my mother that she once fell close to the staircase of the house and had a fracture when she was one-year-old.

She said didn’t remember any of it, but the constant story telling about the incident from her elder siblings was what she had narrated.

I told this story, of my mother’s fracture, to the current occupants. They said it had happened to some other children in their family as well.

So things hadn’t changed all that much in more than 50 years. Children were still falling and getting injured at the same spot. We all laughed.

This was one more of the hundreds of times during the week, that I had felt connected to a set of unknown people in an inexplicable sort of way.

Then, like the blink of an eye, it was our last night in Lahore. In the evening, we (all our recently acquired friends, totalling up to around 20) went to the Food Street on Gawal Mandi, for a farewell dinner.

Although finding vegetarian food wasn't very easy, people's willingness to do just about anything for their mehmaan made it a song.

That had been the feature of the entire trip—wherever we had gone, people had been warm and friendly, eager to meet, say assalaamu alaikum, shake hands and extend hospitality.

Most people didn’t accept money for food, saying it was their privilege to have been able to offer food to their guests.

Many conversations took place as well. This included conversations on contentious issues like Kashmir. Views ranged from moderate to extreme.

None of those views, no matter how extreme, came in the way of people taking extraordinary care of their guests and bestowing upon us the most incredible hospitality that anyone could.

The staggering opinion was that Kashmir aside, we must increase people-to-people interaction, end restrictions on visas, allow trade, allow communication, allow each other to just be.

People said these steps should be taken urgently, and were really happy that things were looking up between the two countries.

Many credited the Indian Prime Minister Atal Behari Vajpayee for being a visionary statesman who can bring peace and friendly ties between us.

Many people have relatives in India, and India is very much on the top of people's agenda. Indian soap operas are extremely popular, and shape a number of perceptions about India.

The only time we noticed disappointment was when people realised that Indians don’t sleep in Kanjivaram sarees, as some saas-bahu soaps seemed to suggest.

In all, the few days spent in Lahore had been an overwhelming, out-of-this-world experience. It helped that we were up-front with everyone about the fact that we had come from India and were polite and courteous.

Finally, I would recommend to all Indians—please visit Pakistan, meet people, talk to them, interact and get to know this place better.

We carry a lot of myths about Pakistan, and it is only when we interact more, talk more at the people-level that we can have a brighter, less bitter, and more friendly future.

Interactions that take place between individuals are different from state politics, and have no resemblance whatsoever to what we read in the papers or watch on TV.

There is a huge gap that exists between perception and reality, on both sides of the Radcliffe line, an artificial divide.

My visa prohibited me from going out of Lahore, but I hope there will be a time when I can experience other cities and historical sites as well: Mohenjodaro, Harappa, Karokoram Highway.

For now, I feel fortunate to have been to Lahore, and as they say there, Jine Lahore nahin vekhiya, o jameya nahin.

Now I can happily say I have been born.


Are you an expat living in Pakistan or have you visited the country as a tourist? Share your experience with us at blog@dawn.com.


Writing with the door open: how your writing life changes after publication

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You’ve published your first novel. Congratulations. But “published” isn’t the most important part of that sentence. “First” is.

“When is the second book coming?” Or worse: “How is it coming?”

“Slowly,” you say to yourself, “slowly.”

When you’re working on that wonderful, magical, eye-opening, self-defining first, it’s your little secret garden that you retreat in to. It’s pure love. First love.

I don’t think I could ever love my second, or the process of writing it, as much as I do the first.

With the first (I talk of the first draft here, not the published novel), it’s truly yours — yours, however you want it to be. If it walks funny, so be it. If it looks funny, all the better . You write purely for yourself, as you want to, with the door firmly closed.

Fast forward to the second, third and so on. The door is now open. Whether you attempt to hold it shut, lean on it, or push heavy furniture against it, it will never be fully closed again.

There will always be a tiny crack. A tiny crack through which the world has let itself in. And there it remains.

You can switch the wifi off while you write — something I do — but that doesn’t matter. You have now been read.

You have had reviews — good and bad; you have been discussed, written about, and now there is a weight of expectation.

You may have fans, you may have haters, hopefully a mix of both, because, if you’re not stirring any powerful emotions in anyone, you might as well stop.

You are now wondering, have I still got the magic? Assuming you must have had some in the first place in order to write a full-length novel and get published.

So there you are wondering about all this, wallowing in self-doubt, and now that you’re published, you have made the cardinal error of adding the word “writer” to your social media pages.

After your day’s work (hopefully not during), you’re posting about your day’s work. You’re reading about everyone else’s day’s work. You’re now thinking about their work instead of your work.

You might be putting up quotes from your novel. You’re posting about your reading list. You’re reading about someone else’s reading list.

Now you’re thinking about what you’re reading compared to what everyone else is reading. Is it obscure and intellectual enough? Are you reading enough? Are you reading quick enough?

So now you’re not only stressed about your writing speed, you’re also obsessing about your reading speed. Add to that the pressure that you now have to promote not just your book, but yourself as well, as a writer.

You have to tell the world, preferably every couple of days (as Facebook insists), that you are an interesting person who has lots of interesting things to say and unique ways of saying them.

Also, you will probably feel obliged to have an opinion on everything. And express it. Now your creative energy is not just reserved for your work. It’s seeping out into marketing and promotion and armchair activism.

Aren’t writers supposed to be solitary creatures who enjoy the quiet life? Shouldn’t our work be enough to speak for us?

Why do we have to put ourselves out there, in the spotlight, for people to evaluate? Why do we have to waste creative energy, or any energy at all, on social media?

After all this, somehow you block the external noise and chatter, turn off the wifi and ignore all comments — good and bad — about your first book, and tune inwards so you can hear your voice again.

But your voice is different now. It’s the voice of a writer, not of someone who writes.

Be someone who writes, for as long as you can. Because then you can be other things too and other people. Be a mother, a father, a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher, a baker (or anything else you are in the day). But be a superhero when you write (your secret and true identity). Dust off those tights and wear that cape!

That’s when writing is free-flowing and true, a labour of love rather than a desire to impress the fans or silence the critics.

When you write, it should only be out of love, and there is no self when it comes to love. One more thing. Don’t rush it. As a wise man once said, “You can’t hurry love.”

Savour it. Enjoy the quality time with your work before you have to send it out into the world. It’s not a race. It’s not a competition.

Remember why you started in the first place (also remember that you are a superhero); it will get you to the finish line without tripping over yourself (or your cape).


Are you a novelist or an artist? Send us reflections on your artistic process at blog@dawn.com

Whilst holidaying in Greece, I could see Pakistan in the little, everyday things

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The comparisons started as soon as I landed at Thira International Airport, Greece. Having started my journey from London with a stopover at Zurich, Thira — which is the airport of the scintillating Santorini Island of Greece — felt like Pakistan.

The international airport may well be on par with some of the domestic airports in terms of capacity and infrastructure, just like our very own Benazir Bhutto International Airport.

As the passengers were asked to move into a shuttle to carry them off towards the terminal from the plane, the Pakistani Déjà vu had only just kicked in. I never anticipated the rest of my trip would be a constant ‘feels-just-like-home.’

As I stepped outside the airport, the bus driver was shouting “Fira Fira” — Fira being the capital of the island, where most of the tourists initially go. The call was not much different from “Faizabad Faizabad.”

-All photos are by the author.
-All photos are by the author.

I asked the driver for a ticket to Fira and he told me to get in. I was a bit confused, as living for a few months in England had taught me to pay first and get in later. It turned out to be the other way around in Greece.

As the bus moved towards the destination, a man with some receipts in hand started collecting fare from passengers.

The conductor ustaad was at work, and so was the driver with his Pindi-style driving, overtaking vehicles on a two-way, single road at a fair amount of speed.

This sight can not be witnessed in the rest of the developed world.

Due to the language barrier, one tourist missed the stop at which he was supposed to get off. The conductor got furious and the rage was evident, resulting in a cross-lingual heated argument.

By now I was convinced of a Greek-Pakistani secret brotherhood.

Over the next four days, I came across a multitude of sights which transported me back to Pakistan. I saw a fruit seller on the streets with his wares on a cart, a rusty wheelbarrow, and even a Pakistani style dhaaba on my marathon hike from Fira to Oia — the far end of the island.

On the same route, there were rocks with names graffitied on, something we would normally find in public places back home.

A bus station that had an uncanny resemblance to Rawalpindi’s Pirwadhai Laari Adda and the legendary Suzuki FX parked along the street brought unavoidable nostalgia.

Gas cylinders reminded me of CNG tanks back home. Indian-style toilets, large containers pouring water through pipes into domestic water tanks, the brands Geo and Gree, along with the usage of the term ‘Cash and Carry,’ were also vastly familiar.

Although a small island, the number of private medical clinics I encountered were overwhelming, just like every other registered medical practitioner in Pakistan who starts up their own private practice in commercial areas.

Scarecrows, like the ones we place outside our countryside clay-made houses, with wooden doors and electricity metres placed outside, further added to the list of similarities with our rural areas.

The famous saying “everything was Greek to me” was nullified.

Gyros (pronounced Eurosh) is the most common fast food in Greece. Aside from the addition of fries, it is almost same as shawarma. Which one of the two is inspired from the other is a matter I didn’t dig into, but the taste and method of preparing both items was strikingly similar.

Soulvaki — small meat pieces grilled on a skewer is also a popular dish, strongly resembling our seekh kabab and tikka boti.

One of the sweet dishes I found was named halva.

History tells us that Alexander the Great camped in present-day Karachi’s port area from 327 BC to 325 BC as his troops prepared a fleet for Babylonia.

I could not find a reference on the origin of its name but I constantly wondered whether the Karachi’s coastal town, Kaimari, has anything to do with Kamari beach on Santorini.

It may seem like a farfetched assumption to some, but I was reminded of Karachi while visiting the beach.

Love for donkeys was evident by the fact that the official symbol of Santorini is none other than a donkey.

Donkeys are a mode of transportation on the island and there are donkey stations just like the stations for other modes of transport. Bargaining with customers is not a rare sight.

They even have eating places named after the animal and many streets are littered with donkey excrement. Donkey milk soap is quite cheap and popular.

If you’re wondering, the similarity here is that the Greek are fed donkey milk, which they drink knowingly, while Pakistanis are fed donkey meat, which we eat unknowingly.

At the end of it all, although I was fully enthralled by my international adventure to the picturesque Greek Island, I was also reminded of my roots, the land of my origin.

While it is true that we are a developing country, so is Greece. It also has an underprivileged section of society which we often don’t see in pictures.

We too are blessed with immense natural beauty throughout our country. If they can have a flourishing tourism industry, why can’t we?


Have you visited places that have reminded you of home? Share your nostalgic experiences with us at blog@dawn.com

Mandir main mehrab – a temple inside a mosque in Rawalpindi

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Rawalpindi, the abode of the army and the epicentre of the country’s power, is a city that has endured sectarianism and communal violence.

Yet, it has maintained a symbol of peace in the shape of a temple that stands right at the heart of Jamia Taleem ul Quran Raja Bazaar, one of the oldest and central mosques of the city.

Like other cities of its time, Rawalpindi has a qila (fort), a tibbi (red light district), and a mosque around which the city developed.

Descending the street from Purana Qila whose only remains is a desolate brick arch and marble plate, you’ll find yourself amid the buzzing world of Raja Bazaar, the business hub of Rawalpindi.

On the left is the famous Qasai Gali; once a tibbi, it is now a jumble of old and new kitchenware, utensils and steel ware.

Balconies that at one time offered glimpses of stunning Bundo and Khairan Bai (dancers from Kashmir) have turned into storerooms of Chinese goods and crockery.

Arch with marble plate on top; the remains of Purana Qila. – All photos by the author
Arch with marble plate on top; the remains of Purana Qila. – All photos by the author

Searching for Jamia Taleem ul Quran is not without its challenges. Amongst newly built plazas and old buildings decked with bill boards and political banners, it takes considerable effort to locate a green board with bold Urdu writing: “Jamia Masjid Dar ul Uloom Taleem ul Quran”.

This is a mosque that once was at the centre of Tehreek-e-Khatme Nabuwwat, and still follows the Deoband school of thought, taking after the famous Jamia Darul Uloom Haqqania in Akora Khattak, Nowshera.

Climbing the stairs of its newly constructed compound built after a terrorist attack took place on the eve of 15th November, 2013 (Ashura), I was at first overcome with disquiet.

Disquiet soon changed to wonder as I heard the sound of the hymns of students coming from the main hall, lending an air of orchestral grandeur, and growing more perfect with every stair I climbed.

A police constable and two heavily armed private guards were observing each entry with wary eyes. A thorough body scan along with security cameras revealed that fear still hung in the air.

A colonial style wooden gallery of Qasai Gali.
A colonial style wooden gallery of Qasai Gali.
A view of Qasai Gali, now a popular crockery market.
A view of Qasai Gali, now a popular crockery market.

The new complex has been raised from the ground up and unlike an old building adorned with carvings and calligraphy, it has run-of-the-mill tile flooring along with steel and aluminum works.

Beyond the entrance is a huge courtyard, a main hall along with small rooms belonging to various departments.

At first, I couldn’t spot the temple I had heard about. Doubting the information I had been given, I thought of turning back. However, the azan was called and people started coming in.

Following the crowd, I turned for wuzu. “Bhai, ye hissa toota hai, uper jao [Brother, this area is out of order, go upstairs],” a madrassa student said to me as he stared at my western attire.

At the end of a dingy corridor was an alley with a small hallway and staircase leading upstairs.

While turning to the right, I had a splendid view of an open courtyard.

A closeup of the temple.
A closeup of the temple.

Surrounded by towering buildings, stood a desolate Jain temple, which unlike the neighbouring masjid and huge madrassa, had retained its features and was well-preserved.

Rawalpindi, before Partition, was a predominantly Sikh city with a considerable populace of Hindus and Jains.

Raja Bazaar and the adjacent Bhabra Bazaar were Jain areas, dotted with their temples and magnificent havelis.

The adjacent areas of Mohan Pora, Arjun Nagar and Ram Bagh still echo the past that despite ages having gone by, looms large in their jharokhas (a type of overhanging enclosed balcony).

Knowing my academic background wouldn’t help, I approached the administrator stating my past journalistic affiliation to inquire about the temple.

He agreed to take time from the madrassa principal for the next day at 11am. '

The facade of the mosque.
The facade of the mosque.
A view of the temple from the corridor.
A view of the temple from the corridor.

The next day, I decided to take a rickshaw there. “Molana Ghulam Ullah ki masjid jana hai [I want to go to Mollana Ghulam ulla’s Mosque],” I told the rickshaw driver.

The driver, who was in his 20s, understood the exact location without me mentioning the nearby landmark. It took 15 minutes to reach the mosque from Saidpur Road.

The giant Masjid-e-Nabwi-designed door was half opened. I proceeded to climb the stairs; the guards were there as usual. “Molana se milna hai, interview k liye [I want to meet the Molana for the interview],” I explained.

The guard, who seemed aware of my arrival, replied: “Yes, he’s waiting.” He asked me to follow him.

I walked down a long hallway with rooms where students were reciting their lesson. Some looked at me with surprise and others with a smile.

We stopped at a room that had a big plate titled ‘Principal’ displayed outside. “He’s here, ” said the guard peeping in through the door.

“Let him in,” someone replied from inside.

Molana Ashraf Ali, a white-bearded man dressed in white shalwar kameez, is the son of Molana Ghulam Ullah Khan and the current mohtamim (principal) of this mosque.

He met me cordially, greeting me with a mix of English and Urdu and we sat on the carpeted floor.

Within minutes tea arrived along with bakery items. Initially focused on politics, our conversation turned towards sectarianism and later, legal amendment.

Having been told that I wanted to talk about the temple, he looked a little baffled.

“The temple was here before the mosque,” he said while taking a sip of the tea. “My father came here in the 1940’s and established a small mosque. Those were good times. Hindus and Muslims used to live in harmony,” he recalled.

“Although the surrounding population was Hindu, they never bothered us. Then Partition happened and brothers turned into foes.

“Hindus came to my father who had a good reputation because of his honesty and humbleness, and asked him to take care of the temple. They gave him possession of the temple in writing, and asked us to look after it until they returned.

“They never came back but my father kept his promise and passed the caretaking responsibilities to me. For us, this temple is the emblem of our promise and honesty and will endure till future generations.

“We safeguarded it with our lives after the Babri Mosque incident to show the world that followers of Prophet Mohammad — peace be upon him — are not violent.

“We are not like them (Indians) and certainly not the way you media people portray us,” he stated pointedly but with a slight smile.

“We inform our students about other religions and teach them to respect others’ views and live in harmony. Humanity precedes everything,” he affirmed, referring to a hadith.

Molana Ashraf Ali in his office.
Molana Ashraf Ali in his office.

Madrassa students set eyes on this temple countless times a day on their way from their dormitory to the prayer hall.

To know how they feel, I stopped a 12-year-old student who was passing by, and pointing towards the temple, asked: “What is this?”

Ye Hindu ka hai [This belongs to Hindus],” came the reply.

The young student, who couldn’t ascertain the difference between a mosque and a temple, saw the Hindu place of worship as part of his mosque.

“Have you ever seen a Hindu?” I asked him in Urdu and he smiled shyly and responded with a “no”.

One of the members of the mosque administration then gave me a tour of the compound. The newly-built complex has two floors reserved for the mosque and madrassa, and the ground floor is a thriving market.

Shokat Ali showing old family pictures.
Shokat Ali showing old family pictures.
Ranbir Singh in his shop.
Ranbir Singh in his shop.

The shops mostly sell prayer beads, rugs and unstitched clothes. This market is the busiest in the city. To my surprise, the first shopkeeper I saw was a man in a yellow turban, speaking a blend of Punjabi and Pashto.

Ranbir Singh is a native of the tribal areas, who fled Peshawar at the time the Taliban took over the neighbouring agencies. “This place is my home,” Ranbir said proudly.

The mosque provided him shelter and he was able to start a business again which is now thriving. “Us zaat ka karam hai [It’s the blessing of God],” he said, pointing to the sky.

“The whole market respects me and calls me bhai jee. After God, I am grateful to this mosque which accepted me without discrimination and gave me respect.”

He told me that Raja Bazaar is a business hub and caters to every business, including music. Syed Shokat Ali runs an old military music band out of a pre-Partition building in front of the mosque.

With old musical instruments displayed on the walls, the band was getting ready for a function. “We came here after Partition,” he informed me, showing me old pictures of his family.

Although we sometimes practice our music here, we respect the mosque, especially the azan.

“The mosque administration and students also respect us and have never interfered in our affairs. Despite my different sect, a code of mutual respect has been established for decades and will endure for many to come,” he said while looking towards the mosque from his wooden balcony.

A view of the market on the ground floor of the mosque.
A view of the market on the ground floor of the mosque.
The balconies that once offered a glimpse of singers are now filled with junk.
The balconies that once offered a glimpse of singers are now filled with junk.

Living in a country that associates every norm with religion, tolerance and peace are values that appear to be fast diminishing from our society.

The newer generations have grown up with confused identities, and Pakistani society now faces a social vacuum.

Opportunists with their personal vengeance fill this vacuum with hate, as result of which the country is sweltering in the fire of sectarianism.

For a country that has been struggling with identity and ideology since its inception, there’s a growing need to refuse to participate in social, religious and sectarian discrimination and hate.

In a world of increasing tensions, peaceful coexistence among practitioners of various beliefs seems the only way forward if we are to become a better society.


Have you visited any lesser-known heritage sites across Pakistan? Share your experience with us at blog@dawn.com.

A tale of two British-Pakistani sisters in Peru

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This is about my sister. My big, little sister. Big, because she’s older than me by 14 years. Little, because she comes up to my shoulders, making her pint-sized and rather cute.

She and I have a special relationship. As a child she was very much the surrogate mother to me.

She bathed me, wiped my bottom and my runny nose. She fed me and tested her baking skills on me (I was her Chief Cake Taster with the chipmunk cheeks to prove it).

She was (and still is) my special friend and I loved it most when I snuggled up to her in her bed and when she put me on the back of her bike for rides down the railway track.

I looked up to her. She was beyond my equal and still is. A woman, though diminutive in height, who can pack a punch both literally and metaphorically.

She is fearless, happily dodging bullets to drive her helper home during the heady days of Karachi’s lawlessness.

And she’s smart. Smarter than my brother and I.

She has a strong moral compass, and will never shy of telling me when I’ve done something questionable.

When she married (as I’ve previously written, it was a traumatic event for me) our relationship shifted a little, but we still spoke regularly, we still wrote to each other and she remained firmly my big sister.

And then when she had children, the dynamic between us shifted once more, but she was still very much there for me.

And when she and her family moved permanently to Pakistan, I was devastated (a second trauma in my life), but we didn’t drift apart.

I kept the letters she wrote to me, and I remember the excitement of travelling on my own from England to Karachi to see her.

The journey was all the more memorable because a student wanted to sit next to his girlfriend who happened to be sitting next to me.

He must have really loved her because he sent me packing to first class to take up his seat.

My sister and her family visited every summer and it was the highlight of my year, but it was clear her attentions were focused on her children, which, as a teenager, I didn’t quite understand.

But I made do, and so did her children putting up with their bossy aunt. Yes, they were very much a part of her life, but I never really acknowledged that they were her universe.

Read next: How my love for the mountains took me from Hyderabad all the way to Everest Base Camp

Roll forward the years, and my sister and I were able to carve out time to spend together. Just the two of us. Two adults.

And on occasion, we went away on holiday for two weeks at a time. Two weeks away. And not to somewhere close by, but to places a little remote, a little off the beaten track.

These trips were memorable because we were less mother and daughter; more like close friends carrying a vague resemblance to one another.

Although in character we are opposites, my sister and I. She’s calm, whereas I’m a little hyper, a little prone to flying off the handle at the drop of a hat.

I throw myself into things with a fanatical determination; she takes a more cerebral approach to life.

Everything’s taken at a steady pace. My sister is careful, thoughtful, dependable. Whereas I’m a little reckless. She’s more a like a Volvo to my 911.

I exercise regularly because I don’t want to die young. She … well, she has no such concerns.

In December, 2007 we embarked on a two-week trip to Peru. Let’s just say it was a comedy of errors.

Our flight was delayed. We lost our bags. We had no clothes, no toiletries. Fortunately, these things were easily fixed.

Not so the altitude sickness. We arrived in Cuzco, a city lying 3,400 metres above sea level. The altitude hit me like a brick on the head.

Here I was, supposedly the epitome of peak fitness, someone who’d spent ample time in the mountains, throwing up every five minutes.

Not that my sister was much help. She was overcome by chronic headaches.

I’m not sure how much we took in during those first couple of days. Apparently we visited the concentric agricultural Inca rings and the salt pans of Maras.

The reason why I know this is because somehow I managed to record it all in a diary.

I’m not sure how I managed that, to be honest, although it may have something to do with the miracle wonder of Coca tea which cured our ailments.

We may also have become addicted it, downing at least 10 cups a day, which I’m sure had nothing to do with its alkaloid content (the source for cocaine).

Also read: Trekking to Siran Valley is a dream come true for adventure junkies and photo enthusiasts alike

Before our first trek, we visited market places and eateries (a lot of guinea pigs roasted on spits which I couldn’t stomach), as well as churches and little villages.

In one, we were invited into the home of a family who lived together in a single room. In a corner was a dais. On top of it were skulls of their ancestors surrounded by candles. That was quite fascinating.

What was less so were the hundreds of guinea pigs climbing over our feet. I felt faint. And no, it definitely wasn’t the altitude sickness.

I had sudden visions of my own guinea pigs which I’d had as a teenager. The truth is, I neglected them. They died.

And this was my comeuppance. To be besieged by guinea pigs. Black, ginger, white, brown. Long-haired, short-haired, scrambling over each other like rats.

Yes. That’s what they reminded me of: rats. And the noise. I’ll never forget the sound they made. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

I thought they would crawl over me, dragging me to my death. I had to get out.

My sister wondered what on earth was the matter with me, why I was hyperventilating. I couldn’t explain it. Not then at least.

Thereafter I begged our guide, Willow, to avoid any contact with guinea pigs.

And thankfully, there were no more guinea pigs as we headed off on our four-day trek through the Lares Valley, beginning in Qiswarani, a small village at 3,900 metres, shrouded in white cloud where we camped beside a herd of sheep, with a three-horned ram at its helm.

Perhaps that was an omen. Good or bad, that’s your call.

This was a vast and beautiful autumnal-coloured landscape with aqua blue lagoons, their surfaces so still, they were like mirrors to the top of the world.

Tiny settlements were dotted along the way. Dwellings of mud with thatched roofs and circular vegetable patches and pens of livestock. Chickens. Pigs. A llama or alpaca. (And importantly, no guinea pigs.) A life seemingly unaltered by time.

Aside from our guide, the porter/cook, Deomichu and his 10-year-old son, Augustus, we were truly on our own. A world away from technology and mobile signals.

It never really crossed my mind that we were two little women travelling alone. I didn’t feel particularly vulnerable and I wasn’t particularly worried.

Perhaps that’s youth and inexperience for you. It cocoons you from thinking the worst.

Related: How my trek to Snow Lake made me one of the few to witness its beauty and fury

This was an adventure and we were far away from home, work, our troubles and strife, and besides, I was more in awe of the rosy-cheeked boy, Augustus, who would run with his father carrying our equipment, up steep paths and mountain passes to set up camp. A testament to the benefits of high-altitude living.

What about our own fitness, particularly my sister’s? In fairness she did train, but six-kilometre walks, four to five times a week in a city located at sea level can hardly be considered suitable for a high altitude hike, scrambling over steep rocky slopes.

Suffice to say it proved to be hugely challenging for her.

To combat the cold she wore a padded duvet jacket. Since it belonged to the porter it drowned her petite frame.

All you could see was a little figure with tiny arms and legs and somewhere at the top a little head poking out, huffing and puffing up the mountain.

I suddenly felt this over-protectiveness that I’d never felt before and started to worry about her keeling over from a heart attack in the middle of nowhere. I went into catastrophe mode imagining the worst-case scenario.

And in the middle of nowhere your mind starts to wonder. How would we get help? Would we have to transport my sister back to civilisation on the back of an alpacha or a llama (of which there were many)?

And what kind of hospital would she end up in? Would it be clean? Would it be teaming with guinea pigs?

To ensure she wouldn’t be struck down dead, I took matters into my own hands.

I would be her personal trainer, coaching her up the mountain, repeatedly telling her she could do it and that we were nearly at the top when this was far from the case.

To minimise exhaustion, the extra layers of clothing had to go. Including the Michelin Man jacket.

She needed plenty of water too, irrespective of the lack of toilet facilities – I only have to mention the words, full bladder, exposed terrain, for you to get my drift. We took frequent breaks for her to catch her breath.

And instead of whacking me on the head and telling me to shut up, she actually did as she was told, never once complained and she survived each day without collapsing in a sweaty heap at the end. Tough as nails: that’s my sister for you.

We would get through this.

But on our last night, we were caught in the most frightening storm I have ever experienced.

Picture this: three small tents pitched in a field. In one tent is Willow, together with two oxygen tanks. In the second is the cook and his son, Augustus. And in the third are two little women cowering in their sleeping bags.

On either side of the field, mountains stretch high up into the clouds. It is pitch black. There’s no sign of life for at least four miles.

Not even a llama or an alpaca. It’s so quiet. Too quiet, it’s disconcerting. The silence smothers us.

And then there’s a low rumble in the distance, followed by a faint flash of light. A discourse which starts off quite civilised before descending into a battle between thunder and lightning, a raging torrent of claps and bangs and jagged light torching the night sky.

We are surrounded. The noise is deafening. I can’t hear myself talk, let alone my sister. At one point our tent glows, a bolt of lightning close to spearing our tent.

We are petrified, trembling. I’m not weeping. Not yet. But I have no idea if we will survive this.

I am praying that our tent will stay pegged to the ground, that we won’t be washed away by flash floods. I think I even giggle uncontrollably. But it isn’t even funny because WE MIGHT DIE.

And we cannot run because there is no other shelter and besides, we will die trying. It is a no-win situation. All we can do is sit tight and hope for the best.

Hope for the best? How trite, but what else can we do?

The storm lasts for half an hour. The following morning my sister will tell me that she was weeping, afraid that she would never see her family again. I won’t tell her that guilt murmured through me, but I battened it away.

Willow will tell us that he was terrified lightning would strike his tent, igniting the oxygen tanks sitting in the corner. And Deomichu will tell us that he and he son weren’t phased at all.

Read further: A road trip with my mother where women 'cannot go alone'

But, we survived. My sister survived. And we ended that part of our trip intact, moving on to a hotel with hot running water and access to the Internet …

… Whereupon we learnt that Benazir Bhutto had been assassinated.

Once again, Pakistan was swallowed up in chaos. Riots had broken out. People were being killed. The world was ending in Pakistan.

At least, that’s how it seemed to us. Because even the slightest mishap sounds horrific when you are thousands of miles away from its epicentre.

All hell was breaking out in my sister’s home city of Karachi. Here she was stuck in a small town in Peru, consumed by anxiety because she couldn’t contact her family so had no idea of their safety.

Looking back, I hadn’t the slightest clue what it meant to be a wife and a mother. I had no idea that there’s no such thing as forgetting your loved ones, thinking everyone will be just fine and dandy because nothing really bad was going to happen.

I had no inclination that they’re always on your mind and none so during a seismic crisis that was unfolding in your home country far, far away.

And once she did eventually make contact with her husband and learnt that everyone was all right, I merrily believed we could continue as normal.

Besides, her family were more concerned for her welfare. I don’t think she actually mentioned the physical exertion or the storm.

In fact, the true extent of our adventures were probably revealed long after she returned.

So we stayed in Peru. Of course there were a few more hiccups along the way (nothing ever goes smoothly), but it was a great adventure, and one I’m glad we did.

But it was our last trip. Not that we stopped spending time with one another. Yet to take off somewhere and not be contactable was, I wagered, perhaps not the best thing. Not then, at least.

But here’s the silly thing: it wasn’t so much the guilt that I had for taking my sister away from her family, but more that I was concerned for her.

Our roles had reversed. I was more like the surrogate mother, ensuring my sister was alright. And that came as a shock to me. A role I was less keen to take on.

She was always the one looking out for me, and at that point in time, looking after my sister was a little alien and one that made me, as the baby of the family, feel somewhat uncomfortable.

But not so much now. Perhaps it has something to do with that thing called maturity. Perhaps it’s because I’m a mother myself.

Not that I would ever mother my sister. If I did, then I would most certainly receive a firm whack around my head.

We have talked about going away again. And we will, in time. Two sisters with faces a little more lined, hair a little whiter.

Although I can’t imagine upping sticks and leaving my family behind for two weeks at a trot. Even when my children metamorphose into moody adolescents

… Then again, perhaps running away to a sheep farm in New Zealand for an extended period of time will be exactly what I need.


Have you been on any off the beaten tracks? Share your adventures with us at blog@dawn.com

From Aziz Ansari to professors and activists, how men use feminism for self gain

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I rather liked Aziz Ansari. As a South Asian person growing up in North America, there weren’t many representations of brown people in the media that I could identify with.

Ansari changed that with his show Master of None. It was endearing how his own Muslim parents played his character’s parents on the show.

He featured their story of migration, and his own experiences of being a brown person in a racist film industry.

His show also touched upon issues of sexual harassment and the daily, insidious forms of sexism that women experience. It was funny, progressive, political, and filled a much-needed gap in television.

My friends and I would discuss the show and feel inspired to write our own, perhaps one that represented brown women better.

But, when I read of Grace’s account of her experience with Aziz Ansari and how the date left her assaulted and traumatised, I felt a sense of disappointment that has become increasingly familiar.

Shattered illusions

When allegations of sexual assault came to light about the charming, socially progressive, self-proclaimed feminist Canadian radio personality, Jian Ghomeshi, whom I used to follow with great admiration as a teenager, I felt sick to my stomach.

He was a brown person with a different-sounding name and a relatable immigrant experience, who got to meet and have in-depth, illuminating conversations with celebrities from around the world.

To me he represented opportunity and space for people of colour within the arts in Canada. But then I found out that when he wasn’t on the radio being socially progressive, he was assaulting women.

Such disappointing revelations continued to follow. One of my creative writing professors in university was fired after allegations of harassment and bullying surfaced.

Like Ghomeshi, like Ansari, he was charming, funny, successful and well connected in the industry, and was expressive about his progressive values. There was great furore within Canadian literary circles about the right course of action.

When the university broke the news of his suspension and then subsequent termination, some of us were shocked and disturbed; others repeated hushed warnings they had received from fellow women about his problematic behaviour.

I remember telling one of my women friends: “I’ve learned not to trust charming, eloquent men. I think I prefer quiet feminists.”

Then there was Tariq Ramadan. In a climate of increasing Islamophobia, his was another personality I had valued.

His voice felt important, necessary, but the allegations against him suggested a reality that was very different from his public persona.

I was left wondering if my immediate reaction to men, including men of colour, who like to publicly declare their progressive values, should be that of suspicion and skepticism.

This isn’t to say that Ramadan and Ghomeshi and Ansari all behaved at the same level of violence.

The point is their careers and personal lives benefited from the progressive values they publically aligned themselves with and espoused in their work whilst they failed to practice them in their private lives.

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I can only imagine the outrage and injustice Grace may have felt as she watched Ansari standing on the Golden Globes stage in the all-black dress code to show support for the #MeToo movement, wearing a Time’s Up pin, winning an award for a show that has received critical acclaim for the way it engages with issues of sexual harassment and sexism.

She saw that it didn’t seem to matter how Ansari behaved behind closed doors.

On stage and on his show, he said the right things, he believed in the right things, he showed up wearing the right things, he had the right politics, and he was being celebrated for all of this.

The hypocrisy of it all was what fuelled her to share her experience of Ansari. To show to the world, and perhaps to him, that Ansari’s politics didn’t match his actions.

Playing hero

Ansari’s own Netflix series flirts with the idea of public perception. It may or may not be self-aware, but Master of None depicts the ease with which men can identify with feminism and socially profit from such identification without having to put in hard work or having to engage in serious self-reflection.

In the episode “Ladies and Gentlemen”, Dev Shah, played by Ansari, discovers the different forms of sexism that women experience.

In one scene, Dev and his best friend Arnold listen to their female friends, Rachel and Denise, share their daily experiences of sexism: being followed home, getting unwelcome sexual advances, etc.

Arnold asks: “Listen, tell us something. What can two gentlemen like us do to help?"

Rachel, Dev’s girlfriend replies: "I don't know. Don't do that stuff?" This is perhaps the most apt moment in that entire episode.

However, instead of Dev and Arnold examining how to ensure that they do not do that sexist stuff, the episode depicts Dev heroically saving the day.

Dev and Denise do a citizen’s arrest of a man masturbating on the subway.

Despite the fact that both Denise and Dev made the arrest, the episode follows Dev and the attention and appreciation he gets from the women around him for this incident.

He shares the story with some women at the bar, going into descriptive detail about how he got the man arrested.

The women are impressed. One says: “Damn.”

The other says: “Good for you, man, wow.”

Denise is not present in the scene and does not get to tell the story.

After sharing the story, the women at the bar begin opening up to him, telling him about their experiences of sexism, and as one women explains how she was asked to smile more by a stranger, Dev jumps in speaking passionately to the women encircled around him:

“Why should you smile more? Why? Because women get paid 23 cents less on the dollar. Because the government’s trying to regulate your body? You smile more? Uhn, uhn, him smile less!”

He moves to another group of women and repeats his story of the citizen’s arrest. One of them laughs and exclaims approvingly: "That's awesome! Let's all do shots."

Then there’s a lot of cheering and fist pumping and loud music and women dancing around Dev.

The scene ends not with the women’s stories, but with a celebration of Dev’s feminist rhetoric.

The progressive words he shares, which are inspired by the distressing stories the women have shared with him, are shown as socially benefiting him in that scene, which may have been the point of the scene.

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Similarly, in the second season’s finale, it is revealed that Dev’s friend and celebrity co-star, Chef Jeff has been accused of sexual harassment.

The episode is not about the women who accuse Chef Jeff. The harassment serves as a plot point: it’s a blow for Dev’s career plans.

Dev becomes worried about his association with a harasser. He doesn’t do anything until the allegations go public.

When they do, Chef Jeff and Dev are on live television, and Dev immediately becomes concerned with the optics of the situation, and distances himself from Chef Jeff to protect his image, insisting that if Chef Jeff did anything inappropriate, he doesn’t condone that behaviour.

Once again, Dev isn’t able to delve deeper into the issue, and the episode doesn’t go far enough to question what Dev could have done or should have done.

It doesn’t do much to push the conversation further or ask uncomfortable questions of Dev or the audience.

Ansari’s own response to Grace’s allegations feel like an act of virtue signalling.

He maintained that his sexual interactions with Grace were to him by all indications consensual, and then he used his statement to further publically align himself with the right values and reaffirm his public image.

Rather than questioning or admitting that perhaps he failed to understand what consent looks like, he ended his statement with: “I continue to support the movement that is happening in our culture. It is necessary and long overdue.”

The unfortunate reality is how common and easy performative feminism is, and how many of us celebrate such feminism, particularly when it’s men who are performing it.

Louis C.K., too, has been celebrated for his progressive politics, and had he attended the Golden Globes event, we can probably assume he too would have been dressed in black, possibly even wearing the Time’s Up pin.

Perhaps if Harvey Weinstein hadn’t already been outed and had attended such an event, he too may have abided by the dress code, supported the Time’s Up movement, said the rights things before the cameras, and expressed his support for women’s empowerment.

James Franco, too, appeared on that stage and collected a Golden Globe wearing the Time’s Up pin. Allegations of sexual misconduct surfaced shortly after. One of his accusers and a former student of his, Sarah Tither-Kaplan, described seeing him on stage with the pin, as “a slap in my face.”

In hushed whispers

In my experience, even within community activism, the common theme was that not all of our so-called feminist brothers were allies.

Over meals and after hours in conversations, women in the community would talk. “Protect your ideas,” a woman activist warned me.

Another woman scholar warned me about the sexist and racist behaviour of a professor I was planning on working with.

Hints would be dropped about certain figures with subtle warnings. Disturbing stories would be shared of harrowing experiences of men.

There were different levels of exploitation and misbehaviour. From sexual harassment to stealing ideas.

Related: Female Pakistani journalists share stories of harassment at the workplace

Given the different kinds and levels of exploitative behaviour, there were no easy answers on what to do in each scenario, how to react or resolve the issue, but these were painful and frustrating conversations and questions women were engaging in, and have had to engage in for generations.

Through the years, I learned that women and femmes recognised these types of male feminists. We know them, we warn each other of them, and we try to stay away.

Even so, we watch, often from the sidelines, from within our whisper networks, how the careers of such men flourish and thrive based on the image they have created of themselves through feminism.

They exploit women’s trauma and women’s emotional labour for their public image and to advance their careers. Watching some of these men, indeed, feels like a slap in the face.

By aligning themselves with the rights politics of the time, they can write books and produce art on social justice, and then get praise and recognition for such work, accumulating social and financial capital. Being feminist in public further entrenches and solidifies their power and prestige.

Their show gets renewed for another season. They make it on to listicles such as “9 Male Celebrities Who Are Feminists and Proud” and “28 Famous Men who Prove You Don’t Need To Be A Woman To Be A Feminist” (Louis C.K. and Ansari are on these lists).

Whereas, women, who put in the emotional labour to produce movements by sharing their traumas and pointing their fingers at the problem, make themselves vulnerable to attacks.

For women, the cost of self-empowerment or being feminists in public can be high. It is not only emotionally and physically laborious, it can be life-threatening.

There’s the well-known example of Qandeel Baloch, who was killed for her life choices and for practicing her ideals.

Read more: Qandeel Baloch is dead because we hate women who don't conform

Countless women put up with harassment to make a place for themselves within their industry – be it academia or the film industry.

Be it America or Pakistan, vocal women, who speak out about sexism, will receive death threats, rape threats, and sometimes these threats materialise.

If not met with direct violence, women who stand up for themselves or share their stories, will be mercilessly torn apart in the court of law and in the court of public opinion.

What was she wearing? Why did she stay? Why didn’t she call the police? How do we know she’s telling the truth? Is she trying to destroy his career? Was it intentional?

Which is why many women remain silent, or use a pseudonym, as Grace did.

Which is why, instead of a class action there is a crowdsourced spreadsheet titled Sexual Harassment in the Academy with thousands of anonymous testimonies of assault, abuse, bullying, intimidation and harassment at universities.

Which is why most women don’t report their assaults to the police. Which is why most women don’t take their rapists to court.

We need to talk

As feminism becomes mainstream and acceptable — a cultural shift that brings me hope — it’s important to continue to engage with feminist ideals thoughtfully, critically and in depth.

In an era of hashtags and online petitions how do we ensure critical and meaningful engagement?

How do we ensure these important conversations aren’t just taking place in public for others to see, but are also conversations we’re having with ourselves?

Or maybe we need to ask what are the failures of our progressive politics? Do our politics not demand enough?

Do they not educate enough? What causes the gap between the idea and the embodiment of the idea?

In what ways is social media helpful and in what ways does it make it too easy to perform? What is the alternative? How do we demand more? How do we educate better?

The goal of feminist movements such as the #MeToo movement is not to get men to wear pins or show up to feminist marches or get them to publicly identify as feminists. That’s too easy.

One of its central goals should be to ensure that men, as Rachel in Master of None puts it, “just don’t do that stuff.”

The goal is embodied feminism, not performative feminism. It is a laborious and difficult process that requires self-reflection and contemplation on one’s personal actions, away from the limelight and hashtags.

Zainab's murder: the state must not succumb to mob mentality

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Yesterday night, the chief minister of Punjab formally announced in a press conference that the key suspect in the rape and murder of six-year-old Zainab Amin had been arrested.

But even before the announcement was made, residents of Kasur had surrounded Zainab’s suspected rapist/murderer's house.

Given past incidents of mob violence, there's a danger that mob mentality might once again govern the handling of this case, either directly (lynching, defamation) or indirectly through coercing the state to hand in a quick verdict to soothe public anger.

Passionate public reactions, fueled by intense media coverage, can seep into the consciousness of trial participants, including the police, lawyers and the judges, effecting the state’s ability to be an impartial adjudicator.

During this time, law enforcers face intense pressure to handle the situation urgently, and in the mistaken belief that they have a duty to come to a quick result at any cost, often err on the side of premature criminal justice action.

For instance, the police can employ aggressive methods, including coercive interrogation tactics, to get answers that the public demands. Whereas, empirical evidence has unequivocally shown that coercive interrogation tactics do not lead to honest confessions.

We may proclaim that all are innocent until proven guilty, but we, through our mob mentality, tilt the state towards deciding the guilt, long before trial.

Whereas, the proper basis for determining innocence or guilt includes ensuring the accused’s attendance in court, protecting the judicial process from outside interference, weighing evidence on the basis of facts and law, and finally by protecting the sanctity of an investigation.

When nations transition from oppressive and lawless regimes to democratic ones, they face innumerable challenges. If the values of a democratic government are to take root, the state must transform the culture in which it operates.

The most important opportunity for promoting the transformation of the culture towards due process of law is in the state’s response to the public’s quest for mob justice.

The state’s response to Zainab’s murder has the potential to be a watershed moment, and may inculcate the values of due process and accountability before the society at large, as this case has a far greater hold on public imagination than most other events that have transpired in the nation’s history.

There are many reasons for the state to withstand public pressure and instead hold potentially elongated, yet fair and meticulous proceedings and trial.

First, diligently following the process of law in criminal proceedings safeguards an accused’s due process rights. 

Second, it discourages perjury, misconduct, tampering and judicial decisions based on prejudice, secret bias or partiality.  

Third, the history of proper and transparent high-profile trials furthers the notion that trials have a sacred value, in that they rationally soothe human reactions of outrage to injustice, unlike all other forms of retribution.

Justice for Zainab will not be found in a one-off speedy trial with mob mentality looming over every minor decision made by the state.

Rather, justice for Zainab can only be effectuated in the gradual independent reform of our criminal justice system.

How this case is investigated can set the benchmark for all future criminal proceedings. This can range from the incorporation of scientific investigative methods such as fingerprints and DNA (which has been done), to the state combating infiltration of mob mentality by not disclosing the identity of law-enforcers and adjudicators.

Abraham Lincoln once rightly noted that mob justice, while perhaps accomplishing noble ends, erodes respect for the law, which is the true guarantor of justice.

Ascertaining guilt through the justice system is a lengthy process. Cases should not be handled quickly, but handled correctly.

The state must embrace this train of thought and withstand mob mentality.


Are you a lawyer or activist working to reform Pakistan's justice system? Share your insights with us at blog@dawn.com

Tharparkar: the final frontier where narratives of acceptance and plurality still remain

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I got a call in the middle of the week from a friend of mine. I thought it better to let it ring out and call back when I had less on my mind. I was, after all, living in the rough and tumble of Karachi.

He was from the small town of Nagarparkar, in the eastern district of Tharparkar, where tasks and responsibilities couldn’t possibly be so tiring. Us urban folk have a knack for such mindsets.

His name was Magan Rajiv. He eked out his living driving his kekra (a converted military vehicle from the World War II era that looks like a jeep) along the Pakistan-India border, shuttling tourists around the hidden sanctuaries that Tharparkar had to offer.

Magan had called me with his usual warmth and compassion, but there was an underlying sentiment of concern. The rains had well and truly ended, and tourists had stopped frequenting the town.

He had to run repairs on his kekra, and he didn’t have any money to spare. He was between a rock and a hard place.

This stung me hard, and left me with a sense of sadness for his situation.

We were from different walks of life, but had maintained our friendship against the odds. I had to help.

All photos are by the author, thumbnail by Manoj Kumar
All photos are by the author, thumbnail by Manoj Kumar

I first met Magan in August, 2015. It was the Independence Day long weekend, and what better way to celebrate the birth of the nation, than to be at its border.

Over the eight-hour drive from Karachi, we saw the landscape change from apartment complexes and ring roads, to informal settlements of slums and shanty towns, and finally to the rich expanse of agricultural land.

There were crops such as wheat, rice, sugarcane and cotton, along with major horticulture crops such as mangoes, bananas, and chilies.

Being seasonal pursuits, some of these crops had been replaced by in-season plantations. As we moved further east from Karachi, these changes ebbed and flowed, till we reached District Tharparkar.

The landscape suddenly changed, with light brown grains of sand swirling in the air, as if to delineate a rite of passage. The land wasn’t all sand dunes though, as it is most of the year.

The famous Tharparkar rains had transformed the arid and desolate landscape, into a green and lush expanse of cacti, acacia and neem trees.

The land being extremely fertile, had soaked in the rains, and made itself ripe for grazing for the over 4.5 million strong livestock - donkeys, camels, goats, cows, sheep and mules - the main source of livelihood for Tharparkar’s population.

Peacocks could also be seen roaming the hilltops, their quest for sustenance aided greatly by the rains.

A shot of the Karoonjhar ranges, early afternoon.
A shot of the Karoonjhar ranges, early afternoon.

We broke journey in Mithi, the capital of Tharparkar district, and a convenient location, for us to break bread and rest for the night, before the much-awaited trip to Nagarparkar the next morning.

As the crack of dawn hit, there was no call to prayer from the muezzin, but gongs from the temples. Pakistan has, sadly, over the years, pushed out its religious minorities through institutional and social bigotry.

Tharparkar, being a district with a large presence of Hindus, is the final frontier where vibrant narratives of acceptance and plurality are still found.

Related: Mithi: Where a Hindu fasts and a Muslim does not slaughter cows

We hit the road – it was a windy morning, and as we made our way down the roadway (a well-constructed one, on account of private corporations), it was a bittersweet feeling.

Tharparkar being a district rich in coal, among other natural resources, has fallen prey to carrot and stick incentivisation, that capitalism viscerally advocates. The roads were built, and the hospitals were shining, but the people were broken.

Corporations had pushed off many locals from their native lands (cornerstones of their identities, and their solitary asset), and moved them either into far-flung areas of the district, or into other regions of the country.

This land not only held ancestral connotations, but had allowed Tharis to practice progressive agricultural practices, whilst maintaining a sense of identity.

Many of these companies took the shortcut, and instead of engaging the communities, transacted directly with the feudals.

The Tharis had therefore lost a part of their identity, without having a say in the matter.

Read next: Pakistan’s coal expansion brings misery to villagers in Thar desert

On the drive from Mithi to Nagarparkar, the once desolate but now green landscape was dotted with chaunras (straw-roofed mud houses), iconic to Tharparkar.

Thari women are known for their rich and colourful dresses, and brightly coloured bangles (up to their shoulders, if they’re married), and these women could be seen hauling water on foot.

These sights reminded me of imagery from the Pink City (Jaipur), the Blue City (Jodhpur), and Udaipur, major cities in Rajasthan, India, a short hop across the border.

My great grandmother being a native of Rajasthan, the current state of cross-border mobility left me reeling.

The Karoonjhar range tops, near this-man made footpath, are climbed by locals in record time. Many of them come humour tourists, asking them to put a wager on them reaching the top and returning within two minutes. The tourists almost always leave the ranges with a lighter pocket.
The Karoonjhar range tops, near this-man made footpath, are climbed by locals in record time. Many of them come humour tourists, asking them to put a wager on them reaching the top and returning within two minutes. The tourists almost always leave the ranges with a lighter pocket.

After an hour in the car, we starting feeling restless. The landscape hadn’t changed, and we weren’t far from the border now.

However, just as our restlessness was peaking, we saw a rise in elevation on the horizon. These were the Karoonjhar mountain ranges.

These granite rock hills are etched into Thari folklore. The Karoonjhar range was on our itinerary for the next day though, so we shuttled off further down towards the border, and towards the heart of Tharparkar city.

On the outskirts of the city, we were stopped briefly by a few nonchalant border patrol officers who asked us why we would venture to the border, and what was there to see here.

A shot of the Karoonjhar ranges, from the Thardeep Rural Development Programme huts. Both solar-powered huts and camping tents (as seen here) are available on rent just outside Nagarparkar city.
A shot of the Karoonjhar ranges, from the Thardeep Rural Development Programme huts. Both solar-powered huts and camping tents (as seen here) are available on rent just outside Nagarparkar city.

As soon as we entered Nagarparkar city, it was time to negotiate kekra costs to the border. This was where I met Magan, and once we decided on a price, we shook hands (his hands being rough and calloused from all the off-roading they’ve had to navigate) and headed off.

Our first destination was Churio, the closest settlement to the Indian border. Churio had stunning 360-degree views of the Thari landscape, but is known more so for the view of India you get sitting on the abutting rocks.

The arid and desolate landscape of Churio is in stark contrast to greenery which is seen after the rains.
The arid and desolate landscape of Churio is in stark contrast to greenery which is seen after the rains.

The view from the abutting rocks at Churio. The water is Gujarat, India. Kundaliya is the first major Indian settlement, just 15 kilometres from the border, with major Gujarati cities like Ahmedabad and Rajkot, being just a few hundred kilometres away.
The view from the abutting rocks at Churio. The water is Gujarat, India. Kundaliya is the first major Indian settlement, just 15 kilometres from the border, with major Gujarati cities like Ahmedabad and Rajkot, being just a few hundred kilometres away.

A 180-degree-view of India from the lookout at Kali temple. Churio sits very close to the Gujarat/Rajasthan state border. Jaipur and Jodhpur are two major Rajasthani cities, about the same distance from Churio as is Karachi. Perhaps one day Nagarparkar can be a stopping point for cross-border tourism.
A 180-degree-view of India from the lookout at Kali temple. Churio sits very close to the Gujarat/Rajasthan state border. Jaipur and Jodhpur are two major Rajasthani cities, about the same distance from Churio as is Karachi. Perhaps one day Nagarparkar can be a stopping point for cross-border tourism.

Churio is flanked on three sides by India, and gives off a feeling of susceptibility, fed into us by our respective governments.

Buttressed by borders, it’s a shame it provides no view to the cities of Ahmedabad and Bhuj, despite their closeness to Churio. These are cities where many religious/ethnic groups such Memons, Agha Khanis, Bohris, and Parsis, originate from.

One of my Agha Khani friends travelling with me on this trip, hails from Gujrat. The irony wasn’t lost on either of us.

The other major attraction was the Kali temple on top of a granite peak. The temple lies inside a boulder, which apart from a tiny foundation, stands unsupported.

Thari folklore claims it’s a miracle of Kali, the Hindu devi of death, a matriarchal figure associated with both, sexuality, and motherly love.

An aerial view of Kali temple, with the Indian landscape in the background.
An aerial view of Kali temple, with the Indian landscape in the background.
Taking the side route to the Kali temple, from the lower rocks.
Taking the side route to the Kali temple, from the lower rocks.
A walk down from Kali temple back towards our kekra. I noticed several UNHCR tents at the kali temple base.
A walk down from Kali temple back towards our kekra. I noticed several UNHCR tents at the kali temple base.

After we digested what Churio had to offer, we moved laterally across the border, our kekra flying across once parched landscapes, maneuvering through smaller hamlets, all the while waving at farmers and kids alike.

Our next stop was Kasbo, another small hamlet along the border, but an attraction for other reasons.

Upon arriving, we entered the Ram Dev temple, made in honour of the 14th century Hindu folk deity, native to Rajasthan state.

Ram Dev is said to have devoted his life to the uplift of the poor and downtrodden. Seven centuries later, his message still needs urgent outreach.

A major feature at the Ram Dev temple were the Manganhars. Musicians native to Tharparkar, Manganhars sit outside temples and mosques, needing just shade and an audience, to ply their trade.

Their songs are about both, the physical (the infamous Thari rains, which so greatly affect the lives people here), and the metaphysical (love, passion, and tolerance – cornerstones of both Hinduism and Islam).

We were fortunate to meet one such Manganhar, Yousif Faqir, an iconic figure. It was an encounter not to be missed. Iconic as it may be, it was bittersweet, with the rains bringing cyclical tourism, but the general plight of the Manganhars remaining as it has been.

Even though they are bastions of folk music, they are being forced to abandon their generational traditions, due to changing societal norms which have pushed them into the peripheries, and onto the verge of extinction.

Discover: Dama Dam Mast Qalandar: The man behind the melody

The next day we started with the Bhodesar mosque, a shining marble structure located at the foot of the Karoonjhar hills. It was built in the 16th century by the ruler of Gujarat, and is known for its Hindu and Jain architectural styles.

The fact that a mosque was based on the architectural edicts of a different religion, sheds light on the vibrancy and diversity, which once marked this area.

A short walk up from the mosque, is the Bhodesar Dam’s reservoir, which was completely filled with water, thanks to lady luck who had recently smiled upon the Tharis, with seasonal rains (or are they blessings of Ram Dev?).

Crossing the dam, we saw an old Jain temple, now sadly dilapidated, due to both, the exodus of Jains from this area many generations ago, and the lack of foresight from national heritage institutions.

A small Jain temple in Bhodesar.
A small Jain temple in Bhodesar.

We then hopped into our car, and made our way through the city, up the steep path leading to one of the higher points of the Karoonjhar hills.

By far the most stunning landscape I had seen on the trip, I had not expected such majestic mountain ranges in a desert. The erosion on the rocks lent to the assumption that they must be thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of years old.

As we climbed the steep cliffs, we could see and hear peacocks fashioning sustenance from the landscape, pecking methodically at the shrubbery.

Thari farmers could be seen taking their livestock up and down the Karoonjhar plains, and in places where we felt we couldn’t set foot, we heard the light gongs of bells tied to goats and cows, grazing at will.

Also read: The lament of a heritage manager in Pakistan

We spent the whole afternoon there, the silence being meditative for anxious city dwellers like ourselves. It was savoured, cherished, and etched into our memories.

It was a long drive back, and as we sat in the car to start our long journey home, I couldn’t help but question how the cultural dynamic could be so stark within a country.

Upon travelling just eight hours by car, the landscape, religion, culture, and traditions had changed so drastically.

Beneath the doom and gloom that is painted about Pakistan (both locally and internationally), we must not forget to shed light on these narratives.

These are stories of diversity, celebration, compassion, and love, dotted across landscapes.

We don’t have to look very far back in time, or laterally across the country, to see these narratives. However, we do need to savour them, reflect on them, and chronicle them for the world to know that we have fading jewels, which need to be re-polished.

After this recollection, I realised that whenever Magan calls, I must respond immediately.


Have you visited sites that are in dire need of preservation? Share your experiences with us at blog@dawn.com


Terminally ill and on death row in Indonesia — Pakistani national Zulfiqar Ali requests to be sent home

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Zulfiqar Ali, 54, is a Pakistani citizen on death row in Batu Prison in Indonesia. He was arrested in 2004 and sentenced to death on drug charges, following a forced confession and an unfair trial.

On account of these violations, the former president of Indonesia commissioned an inquiry in 2010 which found Ali to be innocent.

Nonetheless, in July 2016, warrants for his execution by firing squad were issued.

With just 72 hours to live, former prime minister Nawaz Sharif stepped in and Ali’s execution was stayed.

However, he remains on death row and his execution could be scheduled any day.

Indonesian president, Joko Widodo, is visiting Pakistan and will address the parliament today. According to Justice Project Pakistan, the government of Pakistan must press upon him to release Ali so that he may spend his last days with his family on his home soil.


There is pain. Blinding on some days, a dull companion on others. I wish I had become used to it by now, but everyday it feels a little bit more fresh.

The jail doctors have told me I have three months to live — six if I’m lucky. The cancer has left behind only a sliver of liver, despite the fact that almost $40,000 have been spent on my care so far.

They tell me that there are medicines that will make things easier. But to get them I have to pay $5,000.

Painkillers are luxuries that prisoners can ill afford. Perhaps they think that death row prisoners deserve the pain. I wouldn’t wish this agony upon my worst enemy.

Why I’m going through this is beyond me. A government inquiry ordered by the former president of Indonesia found me innocent.

Human rights groups all over the world are supporting me. Indonesian government officials say that the case against me is flawed, weak, and almost non-existent.

I was 38 in 2004 when my flatmate was caught with 300g of heroine in Jakarta. When the police arrested me, I was in Bogor, a city almost 100km away.

I had no idea why I was being arrested and when I asked, I was silenced with a punch and a kick.

Perhaps they thought I was trying to evade arrest. It’s easy to get confused when neither of you speak the language. My requests for a translator went unanswered for a month.

Oddly enough, I have not been able to find the words to describe what happened to me after my arrest, in any language.

When I say they kicked me, the verb feels inadequate. Nothing quite captures the weight of a leather shoe swiftly bashing your stomach. There’s an anger to the act, a deliberate, controlled anger which finds the spot where it hurts the most.

There’s a sudden deafening of the world around you. No, it is not enough to simply say “they kicked me.”

After a man has stood over you, telling you that he will tie you to the bumper of the car and make it race forward – you are never the same.

They said it would stop, the pain, if I signed on the dotted line. If I just admitted to partaking in drug trafficking, it would go away – the beating, the kicking, the punching, the death threats.

I was rushed into emergency kidney and liver surgery right after I gave my torture-induced, false confession.

Even if my mind began to heal from the trauma of the torture, pangs from my liver and kidneys would always remind me of those three days. It’s hard for your mind to forget if your body won’t let you.

I lived in Lahore before I moved to Indonesia in 2000 to work in a textiles factory. I thought the money would be better, my family’s life would improve, and that I would bring prosperity to my home — the same home that my aging mother has now had to sell to pay for my medical expenses.

I left Pakistan, but in the end it is Pakistan that has kept me alive so far. In 2016, my wife, Siti, received word from the Pakistan embassy, telling her I had 72 hours to live.

I had said my goodbyes. My youngest child, my son, was not yet eight-years-old, but I compressed the lessons I wanted to teach him about growing up in our last visit.

I was in a room with 13 others – a number that trickled down to 9. The sound of 27 bullets being fired at the same time lingers for a long time. Heavy rain did not drown it, my own pounding heart did not drown it.

But back home, a media storm was brewing. A loud one, and difficult to ignore. The Pakistani prime minister then made a phone call.

That call saved my life.

I am now a dying man, living with cancer in a prison cell. It’s laughable to think I am a danger to anyone.

I have spent the last 14 years of my life in jail for something I did not do. My children have grown up without me, and I have been unable to leave anything behind for them.

I want to come home, to my country, so that I can spend my last days with the people I love, not with guards in a cage.

The government of Pakistan has helped me before. I could not believe my luck, that they did so much for someone who can do nothing for them. But for a man who can do nothing, that means everything.

And sending me home costs less than a $5,000 painkiller.


Zulfiqar Ali spoke from the jail hospital in Batu Prison to Rimmel Mohydin who wrote it in the form of an article.

Zainab’s murder: how will the prosecution build its case?

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The Punjab government may rely on a plethora of evidence for its prosecution against the suspect in Zainab Amin’s rape and murder case, but they should be wary of the fact that they cannot rely solely on DNA evidence, let alone any single form of evidence, for conviction.

In fact, corroboration of different kinds of evidence — medical, physical and ocular — will be needed to convict the suspect, and the state’s competence will be tested on a heightened level.

The Punjab government missed a key opportunity to enact tailor-made legislation for rape cases when, in a public interest jurisdiction matter (Salman Akram Raja & another v. Government of Punjab, 2013 SCMR 203), a series of suggestions and guidelines were proposed to Punjab by the supreme court on how the police, hospitals and doctors should handle cases of rape.

While the suggestions primarily related to protecting the victim from the accused during all stages of investigation and trial, it included guidelines which could have safeguarded the government’s interests as well.

Also read: Zainab's murder: the state must not succumb to mob mentality

This included the mandatory administration of DNA tests and preservation of DNA evidence in rape cases, along with separate screens for vulnerable witnesses so that they do not have to face the accused persons during trial.

The then prosecutor-general of Punjab had said that legislation was likely to be made in this regard. Regrettably, no such legislation has been enacted in the province yet. Therefore, the Punjab government will have to rely on existing laws to convict the suspect in Zainab’s case.

Since there is no direct evidence in this case due to the victim being deceased and there being no known, direct witnesses to the crimes, the prosecution will have to rely on a string of other forms of evidence to connect the suspect with the offence without any reasonable doubt.


Proper post-mortem examination, correct semen grouping and matching of the swabs, untainted recovery of physical evidence from the scene of the crime, consistent eyewitnesses’ testimony, and finally, accurate forensic analysis, will all play a part in the prosecution’s case against the suspect.

Persons directly involved with the investigation of the case will serve as crucial evidence against the suspect. The Medico Legal Officer (MLO) who conducted Zainab’s post-mortem examination will be called upon to verify the contents of the examination report, along with the chain of events leading to the issuance of the report.

Similarly, the police team (e.g., the investigating officer) that seized the physical evidence in the commission of the crime (e.g., the suspect’s jacket) will be called upon as witnesses.

The MLO and the investigative team will be subject to extensive cross-examination on when, where and how they obtained and preserved their evidence and/or findings.

Any substantial disparity discovered in or between the investigation and the post-mortem report, including any major contradictions in the recollection of the events or any improper collection/preservation of the evidence, will severely taint the prosecution’s case.

While there might not be direct witnesses to the commission of the crimes against Zainab, witnesses of interest, including those who may have seen or observed the suspect before or after the crimes, will be called upon to narrate relevant facts as circumstantial evidence.

Different witnesses’ narrations will be compared and contrasted to determine the sequence of events leading up to the commission of the crime and after.

The consistency amongst the witnesses’ testimonies and any presence or absence of preconceived animosity/ill-will against the accused will play an integral role in determining the veracity of their statements.

The prosecution, and consequently the state, will have to be especially wary of out-of-court intimidation tactics by the suspect or other vested parties.

Such tactics have notoriously adversely impacted trials of rape, whereby eyewitnesses often change or resile from their statements due to intimidation tactics employed against them.

Read next: No, death penalty is not a solution to child sexual abuse

Overwhelming and irrefutable evidence of the above (i.e., medical, physical and ocular evidence) may be strong enough to convict the suspect.

However, any significant discrepancy in the above will force the prosecution to rely on forensic evidence, including DNA, as additional corroborative evidence.

The aforementioned 2013 supreme court judgment held that DNA evidence, while not conclusive on its own, could be considered as valid evidence in corroboration with other pieces of evidence.

In 2015, however, the supreme court, in the context of a biochemist’s DNA report in a kidnapping and murder case, held that DNA evidence was not admissible due to the fact that there was no sanction of law regarding the admission of such.

While this may have created some ambiguity on the relevance of DNA evidence in rape cases, the federal legislature in 2016 passed the Criminal Law (Amendment) (Offences Relating to Rape) Act, 2016, which amended Section 164 of the Code of Criminal Procedure by adding that samples of DNA, where practicable, shall be collected and sent for examination at the earliest.

Therefore, the Punjab government may introduce DNA evidence in Zainab’s case. However, the mere availability of such evidence will not tantamount to admission or acceptance of it, as the forensic/DNA expert will also be subject to cross-examination and scrutiny.

While DNA evidence can serve as a powerful evidentiary device, it can become contaminated or corrupted by errors in laboratories from factors such as coincidental matches, time, temperature, contact with other contaminants, and exposure to other elements.

The forensic expert will have to back the collection, preservation and findings meticulously before the court of law.

Related: Pakistan's flawed forensic investigation in rape cases is the weak link in the justice system

Finally, the accused may at some point argue that he made an extra-judicial confession, which is a confession made out of court, and not as a part of a judicial examination or investigation.

Such a confession would need to be corroborated by other evidence by the prosecution, or else it would be insufficient to warrant a conviction, especially if the confession was made before a person of influence and authority.

Such evidence can at best be corroborating evidence, and is held to be the weakest type of evidence and no conviction on can be made on such evidence by itself.

The prosecution's case hinges on narrating an unbroken chain of corroborative pieces and links of evidence against the suspect. If the circumstantial evidence connects the accused with the offence without any reasonable doubt, it will form the basis for the accused’s capital punishment.

The river Ravi has run dry in Lahore but this monument stands as a reminder of its Mughal past

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The Ravi river is a shadow of its former self as it runs past Lahore, which is sprawled on its eastern bank.

Not really a river any more, it is but a filthy stream contaminated by the toxicants released into it from factories along the nearby Shahdara road.

In the winter, the river looks even worse because its flow has been reduced to a trickle, making a mockery of the buttresses constructed on its banks to prevent flooding in the past.

In fact, some nomads set up temporary camps on dry patches of the riverbed in the winter, confident that water will not displace them.

But come summer or winter, boatmen on each bank of the Ravi offer to take picnickers to the baradari or summer pavilion of Kamran Mirza, which stands on a little island in the middle of the riverbed.

As a child, I often wondered how the Mughals managed to construct this structure at such a convenient location.

I later found out that the baradari, a typical Mughal pavilion, was constructed on the western bank of the Ravi, where it overlooked the historical city of Lahore.

But the Ravi was once whimsical and powerful enough to change course at will. Sometimes full of wrath, it destroyed everything in its path.

In one of its previous incarnations, the Ravi decided that the baradari looked better in the middle of the riverbed.

Believed to have been constructed in 1540 by Prince Kamran Mirza, the younger brother of Emperor Humayun, the structure is said to be the oldest Mughal structure in this Mughal city of gardens.

Others, however, have asserted that the current structure of the baradari could have been a later renovation, replacing the original building, perhaps on the orders of Emperor Shahjahan. Then, there are others who doubt if Kamran Mirza ever constructed a baradari here.

The baradari of Kamran Mirza stands on an island on the Ravi river. (Photo credit: Shaista Bukhari. CC BY-SA 3.0).
The baradari of Kamran Mirza stands on an island on the Ravi river. (Photo credit: Shaista Bukhari. CC BY-SA 3.0).

Succession battles

Kamran Mirza was the half-brother of Humayun. When their father, Babur, died in 1530, he eyed the Mughal throne.

While Humayun was away in Bengal, stabilising the empire’s eastern front, Mirza was assigned the job of keeping its western border secure. But he had other plans.

Taking advantage of the situation, he established his suzerainty over Punjab, including Lahore. The baradari is believed to have been constructed around this time.

Later, when Sher Shah overthrew Humayun and secured the Mughal throne for himself, Mirza is believed to have reached out to the Afghan king to offer him his loyalty for the right to rule Punjab.

Shah turned the offer down. When Humayun eventually returned from Persia, where he had taken refuge, he fought Mirza and won.

As punishment, and to prevent him from creating further trouble, Mirza was blinded and sent off to Mecca to perform Haj.

A similar fate awaited Prince Khusrau, the eldest son of Emperor Jahangir, who had rebelled against his father.

In fact, Jahangir was camped at this very baradari in 1606 when the rebel prince was captured and brought to him.

Khusrau had nurtured the ambition to rise to the Mughal throne ever since the last years of his grandfather, Emperor Akbar.

That was the time a middle-aged Jahangir, then Prince Salim, rebelled against his father and was defeated and humiliated. Akbar eventually forgave Salim.

However, it is believed that the two never truly reconciled, with Akbar becoming increasingly close to Salim’s firstborn, Khusrau.

It was even speculated that Akbar might bypass Salim and appoint Khusrau as his successor, considerably raising the political stature of the young prince.

Backed by powerful nobles, Khusrau began seeing himself as Akbar’s successor. When Akbar died in 1605, Jahangir ascended to the throne and imprisoned Khusrau in Agra Fort.

Khusrau rebelled and managed to escape.

This eventually saw his capture and audience with the emperor at the baradari of Kamran Mirza a year later.

Standing on the banks of the river, it is possible to see the golden dome of the smadh built in memory of Guru Arjan Dev, the fifth Sikh Guru, who was executed at that site on the orders of Jahangir for his alleged show of sympathy to the rebel prince.

As punishment, Khusrau is believed to have been blinded later. He was eventually murdered by his brother, Prince Khurram, who later ruled the Mughal empire as Shahjahan.

A little distance from the baradari, on the western bank of the river, are the mausoleums of Jahangir, his wife Nur Jahan and her brother Asaf Khan, the principal actor during the war of succession following Jahangir’s death.

Lahore's Badshahi Masjid. (Photo credit: Lukexmartin/Flickr).
Lahore's Badshahi Masjid. (Photo credit: Lukexmartin/Flickr).

Court intrigue

Khusrau was not the only one of Jahangir’s sons to rise up against him. Khurram rebelled too, but Jahangir defeated him and forgave him.

However, Khurram chose to remain in exile in the Deccan for the rest of his father’s life.

Khurram’s father-in-law was Asaf Khan, who remained part of the Mughal court, opposing his sister, Nur Jahan, who backed her stepchild Prince Shahryar, Jahangir’s youngest son, to succeed the emperor.

Shahryar was married to Nur Jahan’s daughter from a previous marriage.

Once Jahangir died in 1627, Lahore once again emerged as the focal point of a bloody war of succession.

Shahryar, backed by Nur Jahan, declared himself emperor at Lahore Fort. With the royal treasury under his control, he had an advantage over other claimants.

But Asaf Khan outmaneuvered Shahryar. As Prince Khurram undertook his long march from the Deccan to claim the throne, Khan propped up a puppet – Dawar Baksh, Khusrau’s eldest son – as emperor.

Khan then defeated Shahryar’s forces just outside Lahore, paving the way for Khurram’s successful bid for the throne.

What followed set a new precedent in the Mughal wars of succession.

On January 23, 1628, on the orders of Shahjahan, Asaf Khan executed Shahryar, Dawar Baksh and any other Mughal prince who drew a direct lineage from Jahangir.

Thus, Shahjahan’s son, Aurangzeb, was only treading in the footsteps of his father when he executed his brothers after his successful bid for the Mughal throne a few decades later.

While there were two other brothers in that war of succession, the final battle was between Dara Shikoh, the emperor’s favourite, and Aurangzeb, arguably his least favourite.

Dara Shikoh was the governor of Lahore when Shahjahan fell seriously sick, triggering the war of succession that was to engulf the entire empire.

Aurangzeb defeated Dara Shikoh and executed him in 1659, while Shahjahan was imprisoned till his death in 1666.

Just behind the smadh of Guru Arjan in Lahore are the tall minarets of the Badshahi Masjid that were constructed out of sandstone tiles.

As Lahore governor, Dara Shikoh had brought these tiles from Jaipur to construct a pathway from Lahore Fort to the shrine of his Sufi mentor, Mian Mir.

After Dara Shikoh was executed, Aurangzeb constructed a mosque with those pink tiles.


This article was originally published on Scroll and has been reproduced with permission.

How to do landscape photography like a professional

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I spent over a decade living in the UK and photographing the British landscape, not as it is, but as I see it in my mind. As the great Ansel Adams said: “You don’t take a picture. You make it.”

In order to become a good photographer, one needs to master not only the technical craft but also the art of photography. And this is easier said than done.

Photography is the art of crafting light. The word ‘photograph’ has Greek roots – being a combination of 'phos' (light) and 'graphé' (drawing).

I captured images using a variety of different photographic techniques including neutral density filters, high dynamic range photography (HDR), tone mapping, stacking, exposure blending and digital panorama stitching.

The science of photography

A photographer’s medium is light itself and one needs to understand its properties and behaviour. Light is unique in the sense that it is both particle and wave.

Exposure

As a photographer, we are always trying to capture just the right amount of light to create a photographic exposure. Too much light and the exposure is too high, resulting in all the brighter parts of the scene, such as clouds in the sky, losing all texture and tonal detail and rendering an area of solid white.

Too little and the darker areas of the image and middle values, such as the ground, trees and foliage come out completely black.

The units of measure for light generally used in photography are called stops. Every time a stop is increased, the amount of light is doubled.

The human eye can see about 16 stops of light at any given time. This is a sliding range that can adapt itself over a 20-stop absolute range.

For example, when one walks into a cinema, it takes a moment for one to adjust to the low light as one’s iris opens up to allow for more light.

Similarly, when one walks into bright sunlight, it takes a while for one’s iris to close down and adjust to the sun. In both scenarios, one’s eyes are showing about 16 stops of light but have adjusted by about an extra four stops to adapt to the environment.

Aperture

Just like the iris in our eye, camera lenses have an aperture (opening) built in that gives the photographer control over the amount of light coming through the lens.

The aperture size is measured in f-stops and written as f/[number] - the smaller the number, the wider the aperture.

Whilst wide apertures allow more light in, they also result in shallower depth of field. Depth of field is the volume in front of the camera where objects appear to be in focus.

Small apertures tend to generate greater depth of field at the cost of reducing the light that comes through to the sensor.

One-third of the depth of field extends from the point of focus towards the camera whilst two-thirds of the depth of field extends beyond the point of focus.

For example, if the focus is set to a distance of 10 metres, a wide aperture may give you a depth of field of three metres, i.e., everything between nine metres to 12 metres would be in focus.

A small aperture, on the other hand, may give you a depth of field of 15 metres where any objects that lie between five metres to 20 metres in front of the lens would be in focus.

Two-thirds of the depth of field extends further away from the plane of focus (the distance where the focus is set) whilst one-third lies from the plane of focus extending towards the camera.

Shutter speed

Besides the amount of light coming through, another aspect that the photographer needs to consider is how long to allow that light to come through. This is done using a shutter that is present inside either the camera or lens.

The faster the shutter speed, the more frozen in time any moving objects in the scene will appear such as the birds in the sky and the waves in the image below:

-All photos by the author
-All photos by the author

Leave the shutter open for a longer duration and any moving elements in the scene will become motion blurred. The amount of motion blur will depend on the length of time the shutter is open for.

The images below illustrate different shutter speeds used to blur the motion of the waves to varying degrees.

Longer shutter speeds can create interesting images, turning moving elements in the scene, such as clouds and water, misty. However, longer shutter speeds require the camera to be completely still and use of a tripod is therefore essential.

Camera sensor

Finally, the camera sensor is an important element to consider. It has a number of photosites responsible for actually recording the light.

You can make the sensor more or less responsive to light by changing a setting known as ISO.

The higher the ISO number, the more responsive the sensor is. However, the sensor noise also increases when you increase the ISO.

Therefore, it is important to keep the ISO as low as possible whilst still getting the correct exposure.

Landscape photography

When photographing landscapes, one has to work with available light and this requires continuously improvising and responding to any lighting changes in order to create the desired look.

You can limit the light entering the lens by placing certain filters in front of it but you cannot manipulate the light in the surroundings to become brighter given the intensity and vastness of the landscape.

The amount of light digital cameras can record in a single exposure varies greatly from camera to camera but even with most of the latest cameras, it is difficult to record beyond a range of 7-8 stops when the scene contrast might be as wide as 22 stops.

There are two main techniques employed by landscape photographers in such instances.

The purist approach is to use graduated neutral density (ND Grad) filters which are pieces of glass or resin that are completely transparent at one end and dark at the other.

These filters are available in normal, hard and soft graduation between light and dark, and, in varying intensities.

These filters are essentially used to bring the exposure of the sky down, closer to the exposure required for the ground so that the overall exposure is within range of the camera sensor.

Whilst these filters work very well for landscapes with a straight horizon, they end up darkening any landscape features that may poke up cutting across the horizon, such as buildings, hills or mountains.

Another relatively recent approach that has gained popularity in digital photography is high dynamic range (HDR) photography where the photographer takes multiple images of the scene, without moving the camera, at different exposures to expose correctly for different elements in the scene.

These exposures are combined and blended together, either within the camera or through the use of a photo manipulation software, so that only the desired pixels from each exposure appear in the final image.

The aperture and ISO are kept locked when photographing in HDR as changing the aperture changes the depth of field across images and ISO changes result in different patterns of noise.

The only variable, therefore, is the shutter speed which is used to vary the exposure levels in the sequence.

There are a number of challenges that the photographer needs to be wary of when photographing landscapes in HDR.

Scenic elements, such as clouds, foliage, water, fog etc., are in constant motion and may not line up properly between one exposure to the next and appear as semi-translucent “ghosts” that require manual intervention.

And whilst each exposure brings more dynamic range to the final image, it also brings all the lens and camera sensor artifacts, such as chromatic aberrations and noise, that can get compounded in the final image.

Nevertheless, the latitude and flexibility that HDR photography provides is a huge benefit when pushing and pulling pixel values around during post-production as there are a lot more values to play with in order to create the image you previsualised.

Most of the images in this article have been created using this technique. The camera, lens, aperture, ISO and shutter speeds used to create each image are also listed.

Being far up in the northern hemisphere, the quality of light in the UK is very different and much softer than the harsh sunlight in Pakistan. The constantly changing weather and cloud formations add more drama to the scene.

Castles have been one of my favourite subjects. Corfe Castle, in particular, has featured in a number of my works.

Corfe Castle

Corfe Castle has an interesting history. It is a tale of bravery and betrayal.

The castle itself sits in a gap (or ceorfan in old English, where it gets the name) between two hills on the Isle of Purbeck in Dorset county.

Known as the most romantic ruin in Britain, to me it offers a sense of closure – an end to the conflict. It doesn’t matter who lost or who won, at least now no one lives in constant uncertainty and fear for their lives.

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II<br>
Lens: Canon EF 85mm f/1.8 USM<br>
Number of exposures: 11<br>
Aperture: f/16<br>
ISO: 100<br>
Shutter speed(s): 1.6 sec., 0.8 sec., 0.4 sec., 1/5 sec., 1/10 sec., 1/20 sec., 1/40 sec., 1/80 sec., 1/160 sec., 1/320 sec., 1/640 sec.
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II
Lens: Canon EF 85mm f/1.8 USM
Number of exposures: 11
Aperture: f/16
ISO: 100
Shutter speed(s): 1.6 sec., 0.8 sec., 0.4 sec., 1/5 sec., 1/10 sec., 1/20 sec., 1/40 sec., 1/80 sec., 1/160 sec., 1/320 sec., 1/640 sec.

Corfe Castle - The second conquest

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II<br>
Lens: Canon EF 24-105mm f/4L IS USM<br>
Number of exposures: 3<br>
Aperture: f/10<br>
ISO: 100<br>
Shutter speed(s): 1/100 sec., 1/400 sec., 1/25 sec.
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II
Lens: Canon EF 24-105mm f/4L IS USM
Number of exposures: 3
Aperture: f/10
ISO: 100
Shutter speed(s): 1/100 sec., 1/400 sec., 1/25 sec.

Corfe Castle Panorama

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark III<br>
Lens: Sigma 24mm f/1.8 EX DG<br>
Number of exposures: 1<br>
Aperture: f/11<br>
ISO: 200<br>
Shutter speed(s): 1/60 sec.
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark III
Lens: Sigma 24mm f/1.8 EX DG
Number of exposures: 1
Aperture: f/11
ISO: 200
Shutter speed(s): 1/60 sec.

Eileen Donan Castle, Kyle of Lochalsh, Scotland

Eileen Donan castle has featured in a number of Hollywood movies. It sits on a tiny island in Scotland and is a sight to behold.

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark III<br>
Lens: Canon EF 28mm f/1.8 USM<br>
Number of exposures: 6<br>
Aperture: f/16<br>
ISO: 200<br>
Shutter speed(s): 1/500 sec., 1/125 sec., 1/30 sec., 1/8 sec., 0.5 sec., 2 sec.
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark III
Lens: Canon EF 28mm f/1.8 USM
Number of exposures: 6
Aperture: f/16
ISO: 200
Shutter speed(s): 1/500 sec., 1/125 sec., 1/30 sec., 1/8 sec., 0.5 sec., 2 sec.

Dunvegan Castle, Isle of Skye, Scotland

Dunvegan Castle is the seat of the MacLeod, chief of the clan MacLeod. Clan MacLeod might ring a bell to the fans of the movie and TV series Highlander.

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark III<br>
Lens: Canon EF 28mm f/1.8 USM<br>
Number of exposures: 7<br>
Aperture: f/16<br>
ISO: 200<br>
Shutter speed(s): 1/1000 sec., 1/250 sec., 1/60 sec., 1/15 sec., 1/4 sec., 1, 4 sec.
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark III
Lens: Canon EF 28mm f/1.8 USM
Number of exposures: 7
Aperture: f/16
ISO: 200
Shutter speed(s): 1/1000 sec., 1/250 sec., 1/60 sec., 1/15 sec., 1/4 sec., 1, 4 sec.

Gillett Road - Icy

Home can be a magical place too! This shot was taken next to my bungalow.

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II<br>
Lens: Canon 25-105mm f/4 EF 28mm f/1.8 USM<br>
Number of exposures: 3<br>
Aperture: f/16<br>
ISO: 1000<br>
Shutter speed(s): 1/125 sec.,1/30 sec.,1/8 sec.
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II
Lens: Canon 25-105mm f/4 EF 28mm f/1.8 USM
Number of exposures: 3
Aperture: f/16
ISO: 1000
Shutter speed(s): 1/125 sec.,1/30 sec.,1/8 sec.

Kimmeridge Bay at sunset

Kimmeridge Bay has amazing stone ledges leading into the sea. This shot was photographed during a 15 minute break between two storms.

Both the sunset and approaching rain storm can be seen in the distance.

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II<br>
Lens: Canon EF 15mm f/2.8 Fisheye<br>
Number of exposures: 3<br>
Aperture: f/8<br>
ISO: 100<br>
Shutter speed(s): 1/100 sec., 1/400 sec., 1/25 sec.
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II
Lens: Canon EF 15mm f/2.8 Fisheye
Number of exposures: 3
Aperture: f/8
ISO: 100
Shutter speed(s): 1/100 sec., 1/400 sec., 1/25 sec.

Lighthouse, Isle of Skye

The lighthouse here on the Isle of Skye seems dwarfed by the mountains in the background.

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark III<br>
Lens: Sigma 70-200 mm f/2.8 EX DG OS HSM<br>
Number of exposures: 7<br>
Aperture: f/16<br>
ISO: 400<br>
Shutter speed(s): 1/8000 sec., 1/3200 sec., 1/800 sec., 1/200 sec., 1/50 sec., 1/13 sec., 0.3 sec.
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark III
Lens: Sigma 70-200 mm f/2.8 EX DG OS HSM
Number of exposures: 7
Aperture: f/16
ISO: 400
Shutter speed(s): 1/8000 sec., 1/3200 sec., 1/800 sec., 1/200 sec., 1/50 sec., 1/13 sec., 0.3 sec.

Sligachan Bridge, Isle of Skye, Scotland

Sligachan Bridge is a sort of local landmark on the Isle of Skye in Scotland.

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark III<br>
Lens: Canon EF 28mm f/1.8 USM<br>
Number of exposures: 7<br>
Aperture: f/16<br>
ISO: 400<br>
Shutter speed(s): 1/1250 sec., 1/320 sec., 1/80 sec., 1/20 sec., 1/5 sec., 0.8 sec.
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark III
Lens: Canon EF 28mm f/1.8 USM
Number of exposures: 7
Aperture: f/16
ISO: 400
Shutter speed(s): 1/1250 sec., 1/320 sec., 1/80 sec., 1/20 sec., 1/5 sec., 0.8 sec.

Cheddar gorge

Cheddar gorge is a fascinating geological site.

This image is made up of a total of 40 different exposures!

The scene was too big even for the 21mm wide lens and I had to take a series of exposures, pan the camera whilst ensuring there was at least 50% overlap in the new framing compared to the previous one, and take another series of exposures and so on.

First the exposures for the same framing were blended together and then the resulting images were digitally stitched together to create this mammoth image.

See thumbnails for the individual exposures below:

Swanage Pier

This long exposure of Swanage Pier in Dorset, UK is a metaphor for time. The boat and birds in motion contrasts the stillness and strength of the pier.

The motion of the sea has been transformed into a misty stillness. The effect of the passage of time can be seen on the pier.

However, it still stands - worn, beaten but strong - and now serves a different purpose as a resting place for the migrating birds.

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II<br>
Lens: Canon EF 85mm f/1.8 USM<br>
Number of exposures: 1<br>
Aperture: f/11<br>
ISO: 160<br>
Shutter speed(s): 30 sec.<br>
Filter: Lee 10-stop ND (Big Stopper) filter
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II
Lens: Canon EF 85mm f/1.8 USM
Number of exposures: 1
Aperture: f/11
ISO: 160
Shutter speed(s): 30 sec.
Filter: Lee 10-stop ND (Big Stopper) filter

The Isle of Skye

Dramatic light on the Isle of Skye, Scotland

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark III<br>
Lens: Canon EF 50mm f/1.4 USM<br>
Number of exposures: 1<br>
Aperture: f/11<br>
ISO: 400<br>
Shutter speed(s): 1/320 sec.
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark III
Lens: Canon EF 50mm f/1.4 USM
Number of exposures: 1
Aperture: f/11
ISO: 400
Shutter speed(s): 1/320 sec.

The curves of Kimmeridge

The rolling hills of the Isle of Purbeck in Dorset are a sight to behold.

The curves of the hedges and the hills creating a contrasting pattern to the straight, linear lines in the sea whereas the sky is a blend of linear patterns and forms on the land.

The grazing sheep and the tractor transport the viewer to the lazy afternoon in the countryside.

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II<br>
Lens: Canon EF 100mm f/2.8 Macro USM<br>
Number of exposures: 3<br>
Aperture: f/13<br>
ISO: 320<br>
Shutter speed(s): 1/160 sec., 1/640 sec., 1/40 sec.
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II
Lens: Canon EF 100mm f/2.8 Macro USM
Number of exposures: 3
Aperture: f/13
ISO: 320
Shutter speed(s): 1/160 sec., 1/640 sec., 1/40 sec.

Glencoe, Scotland

Glencoe has a dark history. Losts in these mists somewhere are the spirits of the massacred souls.

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark III<br>
Lens: Sigma 24-70mm f/2.8 EX DG<br>
Number of exposures: 3<br>
Aperture: f/11<br>
ISO: 800<br>
Shutter speed(s): 1/640 sec., 1/160 sec., 1/40 sec.
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark III
Lens: Sigma 24-70mm f/2.8 EX DG
Number of exposures: 3
Aperture: f/11
ISO: 800
Shutter speed(s): 1/640 sec., 1/160 sec., 1/40 sec.

Warwick Castle

The castle with its grandeur is presented here in all its tonal detail and glory.

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II<br>
Lens: Canon EF 75-300mm f/4-5.6 USM<br>
Number of exposures: 15<br>
Aperture: f/22<br>
ISO: 100<br>
Shutter speed(s): 20 sec., 10 sec., 5 sec., 2.5 sec., 1.3 sec, 0.6 sec., 0.3 sec., 1/6 sec., 1/13 sec., 1/25 sec., 1/50 sec., 1/100 sec., 1/200 sec., 1/400 sec., 1/800 sec.
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II
Lens: Canon EF 75-300mm f/4-5.6 USM
Number of exposures: 15
Aperture: f/22
ISO: 100
Shutter speed(s): 20 sec., 10 sec., 5 sec., 2.5 sec., 1.3 sec, 0.6 sec., 0.3 sec., 1/6 sec., 1/13 sec., 1/25 sec., 1/50 sec., 1/100 sec., 1/200 sec., 1/400 sec., 1/800 sec.

Stair Hole, Lulworth

Lulworth is a geological goldmine where you can see the limestone folding from the shock reverberations to the tectonic plates when Europe and Africa collided together millions of years ago.

Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II<br>
Lens: Canon EF 24 - 70mm f/2.8L USM<br>
Number of exposures: 3<br>
Aperture: f/16<br>
ISO: 100<br>
Shutter speed(s): 1/30 sec., 1/125 sec. and 1/8 sec.
Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II
Lens: Canon EF 24 - 70mm f/2.8L USM
Number of exposures: 3
Aperture: f/16
ISO: 100
Shutter speed(s): 1/30 sec., 1/125 sec. and 1/8 sec.

Lulworth Cove

Lulworth Cove is yet an amazing geological formation along the Jurassic Coast in the south of England. This is a stitched high dynamic range panorama shot created from over 30 images.


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At first I was afraid but now I can say that I am a proud Punjabi speaker

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It has been over 10 days since I departed from Delhi after recovering from a ligament tear, but my mind drifts back to a series of articles with a poignant theme that I read in one of Punjab’s leading newspapers —Punjabi on the decline!

A dear friend had written, almost two years ago, about the impending doom of the Punjabi language in both Pakistan and India. The recent spate of articles was not my favorite déjà vu.

Studying in one of the better schools in Chandigarh in urban India, I was first introduced to Punjabi in the fifth standard, much like my peers.

Fond of Alexandre Dumas’ works, I pestered my principal, asking her why we did not have an option of studying French as well.

It was, after all, a prominent and posh language. My principal pacified me with carefully worded statements; she was clearly used to this annual badgering by students like me.

Thus began my frightful journey into the world of Punjabi. Despite the fact that she spoke thet Punjabi, my mother had never had the opportunity to read or write in her native tongue in school.

My very strict father was thus tasked with teaching me Punjabi, just as he had taught my sister years earlier. I spent hours upon hours mugging up the Gurumukhi alphabet.

If I had struggled with the Hindi alphabet in the first standard, learning Punjabi was worse than facing Goliath — I was a 10-year-old boy who was content in simply being able to tie his shoelaces properly.

With different symbols for similar sounding diacritics, and perplexingly similar symbols for different letters, my mind would perform nauseating barrel rolls every time I would pick up my Punjabi books.

Read next: Mind your language—The movement for the preservation of Punjabi

My grasp on Punjabi soon improved, however, and I found myself scoring the highest in the subject. That I was my teacher’s favourite and enjoyed studying languages, further piqued my interest in Punjabi.

But Punjabi was never the medium of communication in my household. Having made an egregious grammatical error while trying to converse with my mother in the Queen’s tongue, my parents made sure that all conversations at home were in English.

Without anyone to practice my Punjabi with, my knowledge of the language was limited to the written form.

Conversations at my relatives’ and grandparents’ places would always be in Punjabi, and I feel the handicap even now when I partake in these conversations.

I would understand most words, but my participation would be limited to Hindi. My Punjabi just wasn’t fluent enough for my relatives who hailed from Amritsar and Patiala, and the pre-teen child in me did not want to embarrass himself.

It would be over a decade from the day I first picked up my Punjabi textbook, before I started talking in Punjabi.

Also read: How a gurudwara in Nankana Sahib promoted Punjabi for centuries

Off studying the nuances of engineering in remote, coastal Karnataka, there were few speakers of Punjabi there, and even my broken, often grammatically incorrect sentences in Punjabi would be welcomed by my Punjabi brethren.

With time, I started watching Punjabi movies to ward off homesickness and it wasn’t long before Linkin Park and Metallica were replaced by Gurdaas Maan and Rahat Fateh Ali Khan on my playlists.

It was there that I discovered my identity, felt like a Punjabi for the first time, found confidence which I never knew existed, and saw my life transform.

Later, I made new friends, and came out of my comfort zone to forge new connections in college, met fellow Amritsaris in the streets of Washington DC, and broke bread with jubilant Lahoris and Multanis in the cafes of Vienna.

Punjabi, as a language, has been on the decline for the past several years, staring us in the eye, taunting us at our inability to save our heritage.

My dear friend had once posed a question to the people of Pakistan and India: Is Punjabi staging an exit? It almost has.

Schools and colleges in India and Pakistan face a paucity of Punjabi teachers, and as such, few takers for Punjabi as a language.

Due to a variety of reasons, Punjabi is being dropped as a means of verbal communication at an alarming rate. Learning Punjabi is restricted to learning the lyrics of the latest songs, and that’s just about it.

We know of Bulleh Shah and Waris Shah, thanks to cinema and music, but few of us would know of Amrita Pritam, Nanak Singh and even Faiz Ahmed Faiz who wrote many of his poems in Punjabi.

One of Faiz Ahmed Faiz's Punjabi poems sung at Coke Studio by Atif Aslam.

As a young man who had unwittingly lost his mother tongue before destiny chose his fate, I feel it is paramount for Punjabis to learn their native language and embrace their rich cultural and literary past.

Years after I wanted to study French rather than Punjabi, I am glad that I wasn’t given a choice in my school.

I went on to study French in college, but never would I have had another chance to study Punjabi and ultimately, be connected to my roots.

It is sadly ironical that the Punjabi diaspora in the UK, the USA and Canada makes every attempt to keep Punjabi alive, but only the opposite can be said about the language’s fate in the Indian subcontinent.

Gurdaas Maan ji has put it beautifully in his song Ki Banu Duniya Da,

Har boli sikho, sikhni vi chahidi
Par pakki vekh ke, kachchi nahi dhai di

[Learn every language; it’s important to do so
But never at the expense of your mother tongue, never at the expense of Punjabi]

Gurdaas Maan's Ki Banu Duniya Da


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No, the wazir-e-ala Punjab did not call you

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The Citizen Feedback Monitoring Program (CFMP) works as follows: “Whenever a citizen visits a government office, the transaction is recorded along with the phone number.

“Until now, 7.2 million such transactions have been recorded from the 17 government services in 36 districts of Punjab.

“The CFMP team acquires the data and makes robocalls followed by SMSs asking the citizens about the quality of the service and whether they were asked to pay any bribe.

”So far, 5.9 million such contacts have been made with the citizens.”

Another link tells us that by “November 30, 2014 over 690,562 voice calls and 6,092,665 robot calls were made to the citizens and responses were logged.”

“Proactive governance,” the rubric under which programmes like CFMP are slotted in international development discourse, was first introduced in 2011 in the Punjab province.

A World Bank blog post tells us some more: “Since the launch of the program, more than 4 million SMS requests for feedback have been sent to citizens. Over 400,000 citizens have responded.

“A survey in 2014 showed that more than half (55%) of the citizens surveyed said that overall service delivery had improved, 63% said timeliness of service delivery had improved, and 71% said staff attitude had improved.

“75% of those who responded with SMS requests for feedback said they believed this feedback model would help improve the services in the future as well.”

Also read: Exclusive: The CPEC plan for Pakistan’s digital future

Together, these are a lot of aggregate numbers but the trouble is they aren’t telling us much. There is statistical evaluation – in vogue in much development and academic practice – but there is also the evaluation of lived experience.

This latter kind finds little room in dominant discourses. Indeed, exclusive attention to aggregates may be insulating policy makers from lived experience.

At a government policy institution in Lahore last year, the invited speaker – an eminent academic – said to an audience of 50-60 bureaucrats:

“What you’re telling me, based on your decades of experience in service, is important but it isn’t data. These are anecdotes. Policy formulation needs data, not stories.”

After that, most of the officers became quiet, and we lost the suggestions and lessons learnt from officers’ years of service.

They were then given forms to fill – their stories mattered insofar as they corresponded with a point A or B for tabulation and aggregation.

But policy formulation has much to gain by heeding stories. So here’s one:

He is a few years over 60 – he must be, for his pension began then. He retired after decades in government service. Getting his pension payments started was a bit of a challenge – he paid one of the men Rs20,000 to process his paperwork.

One of his friends’ wives had to pay some Rs40,000 to some three or four men to get her deceased husband’s salary payments started.

So he reasoned, if there’s no lihaaz for a dead man and his widow and three young children, why would they make an exception for him.

He did have some choice though – one man asked for 20,000, the other promised to get his work done in 13,000. He asked around and was advised to pay the 20,000 for “pakka kaam.”

He has driven four children to school – and elsewhere – most of his life for a living. He took them to school, then college, then university – first the one, then the other, the third, and then the fourth.

He knows the routes better than any of those children. He drove on the same roads for 20 years until all four had graduated from college.

A few years ago, some officials decided that road names and sign-posted directions needed to be in English. Suddenly he got lost. Suddenly, someone took his dignity.

At every roundabout his hands waver on the steering wheel. It’s almost as if English has its own geography, its own maps.

Read next: Why a clean drinking water project in Punjab is going nowhere

Madam is being driven to an office on Davis Road today. When she emerges after her meeting, he isn’t waiting by the car as he usually does, but is at the entrance to the office. He says to her with urgency, “The wazir-e-ala just called me.”

There is a tremor in the December air. “Yes, yes he called me himself. Just now when you were inside! He asked me about the theft that day and they want my feedback. Can you have a look? Now?”

He thrusts the phone in her face, "Look, please." It is an old phone – everyone can’t keep up with smartphone times. Maybe the tremor is in his voice.

She looks at the message on the grievously smudged screen – he has indeed received a message from the wazir-e-ala. It is written in English, but it speaks Urdu. “Aap nay kuch roz pehlay police ko…”

He can not read, but he listened to the voice recording that came before the message. He says he was trying to open the message but might have pressed a wrong button somewhere so the wazir-e-ala probably decided to leave him a voicemail instead. There are only 15 buttons on his phone.

He says again, “The wazir-e-ala called me himself. He called me himself just now. Maybe we can get the car back – we must give him honest feedback. Do it now. He asked me about the FIR we registered for the car theft.”

She suggests in a faint voice that sometimes people are selected for these recorded calls. She hears herself saying something about data points, ICTs, technology, computers.

“Yes, yes I’m telling you I was selected for this call by the wazir-e-ala himself.” Maybe he didn’t hear. He insists, “We must respond to the wazir-e-ala’s message quickly.”

She starts typing a message, blinking furiously. The alphabets are smudged or the eyes are wet – she is unsure what keys to press in what order.

He has so much to tell the wazir-e-ala. “Tell him that at first the thana wouldn’t register my FIR.”

He gives her names. “Write them all down. Send him the SHO’s name. Tell the wazir-e-ala that the FIR was only registered after your father called the thana. Tell him there are CCTVs along the Mall Road and if they want they should be able to locate the car within hours.”

“Are you done,” he asks impatiently. “Send it, send it now. The wazir-e-ala might take those police officials to task – we might get the car back!” It wasn’t even his car.

………………………….

The CFMP employs the idiom of democracy. It aims to “give power back to people” and its website states that it is “reviving democracy.”

Further, that it “is a citizen-centric model of governance providing a platform to common citizens to vote in favour or against an official.

“Their feedback will decide whether the official will remain in the job or leave.

“It is a powerful practice strengthening the citizen empowerment and accountability pillars of democracy.” It seeks to ensure that “the ultimate power remains with the public and every public official is accountable to them.”

He doesn’t know what a robocall is but the wazir-e-ala called himself and he makes clear that that’s all that matters. “Did the message go?” he asks again.

Digital Punjab won’t automatically be democratic Punjab. Fourteen months later, he has given up on retrieving the car but a part of him is still waiting for a response to his text.

………………………..

Hidden among beautiful old trees, and sprawling and equally beautiful and old houses in Lahore’s GOR-1, and five or six check-posts and 10 or 12 security officials, is the Chief Minister’s Complaints Cell.

Even if someone wanted to complain to the wazir-e-ala for misleading the computer illiterate and less technologically savvy, apart from being called a technology, or worse, development-hater, he or she would have to negotiate access past those roadblocks and check posts and searching faces and demands of:

“Who are you? Where are you going? Why? Who are you meeting? Do you have an appointment? What time is your appointment? What is your name? Where are you from?”

Some English, peppered with mention of VIP names and offices has usually opened doors and barriers for madam.

But if you’re on the margins of smartphone times you’ll probably not want to make the trek to the wazir-e-ala’s complaints cell. Who knows, the wazir-e-ala might call you himself.


Are you an academic, activist or policy analyst working on government reform? Share your expertise with us at blog@dawn.com

This Kashmir Day, who will stand up for Azad Kashmiris?

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Posters of wailing mothers and battered children, of Indian officials attacking the 'honour' of Muslim women, of beatings and thrashing of young boys, mark the Kashmir Highway in Islamabad ahead of Kashmir Solidarity Day, or Kashmir Day, observed as a public holiday in Pakistan every 5th of February.

"Kashmir is the unfinished agenda of Partition!" "Kashmir is Pakistan's jugular vein!," "Kashmir and Pakistan are like one soul in two hearts!"

These are some of the common slogans every year on this day, to show support for Kashmiris living under Indian hegemony on the other side of the Line of Control (LoC).

Hafiz Saeed — the Punjabi self-proclaimed leader of Kashmiris — usually makes an appearance, as do other parties advocating for jihad in Kashmir.

Ousted prime minister Nawaz Sharif and his daughter also rallied today, with the latter shouting the erstwhile slogan, "Kahmir banay ga Pakistan" (Kashmir will become Pakistan).

The struggle must go on, they say. Pakistan won’t rest till Kashmiris are freed from Indian occupation.

In-depth: The pursuit of Kashmir

Over the past decade, however, Kashmir had failed to evoke the same passion in Pakistanis as it did in the 1980s and 1990s.

Gallup Pakistan — which conducts periodic polls on Pakistani perceptions of the Kashmir conflict — revealed in 2016 that there is growing pessimism amongst Pakistanis over Kashmir’s independence.

Over the past 25 years, there has been a 14% increase in the number of Pakistani respondents who believe that it will take quite some time for Kashmir to gain independence; 19% increase in those who believe Kashmir will not be able to gain independence at all; and a 14% decrease in those who believed that Kashmir would gain independence in one or two years as compared to when the poll was first conducted in 1990.

The study also reveals that participation in Kashmir Day events fell to its lowest in 2015 when only 1% of Pakistanis actually took part in any events. Participation has generally remained low since 2010.

However, since Burhan Wani’s — commander of Hizbul Mujahideen — killing by the Indian army in July 2016, a new spell of violence has been unleashed in Indian-held Kashmir (IHK).

Related: I'll never forget the day Burhan Wani was killed

Pellet injuries, death and persecution are infused in the toxic air that continues to suffocate Kashmiris. Kashmir has once again come to the forefront and political forces in Pakistan are perhaps observing Kashmir Day with greater zest to show their opposition to their historic foe, India.

Lahore’s streets are full of Punjab government’s posters about Kashmir Day. The Ministry of Kashmir Affairs and Gilgit-Baltistan has also put up posters depicting Indian violence.

Emerging political forces, like Khadim Rizvi's Tehreek Laibaik Ya Rasool Allah, are also cashing in on the day, pledging solidarity to Kashmiris.

In light of this renewed vigour, one must ask whether Pakistan is only reacting this way because of India’s aggressive policies towards Pakistan recently — not least the claims of surgical strikes and hostile statements by the Indian Army Chief who seems to be playing an increasingly politicised role under Modi’s regime.

Kashmir was on the boil in 2010 as well. Is it Kashmir then that evokes passion in Pakistanis or is it anti-India rhetoric? It seems as if Kashmir has been completely consumed by the bilateral politics of India and Pakistan.

Emotions become heightened only when relations between the two countries sour. This bilateralism becomes even more problematic when it comes to the state of affairs of Azad Kashmiris.

By pledging solidarity to Kashmiris in IHK only, the underlying assumption is that Kashmiris on this side of the LoC are fully emancipated and satisfied.

They face no injustices, they have no grievances. No one needs to stand in solidarity with them. AJK is often ignored in discussions on Kashmir, only becoming relevant when Indian forces shell, killing scores of innocent civilians living by the LoC.

A closer look into AJK, however, reveals a dire state of affairs. 2017 marked the highest number of ceasefire violations since the 2003 ceasefire agreement. Already, over 200 ceasefire violations have been reported in 2018.

Men, women and children living by the LoC face the brunt of cross-loC shelling, but the Pakistani government stays removed from these areas.

Occasional visits by military and political officials to inspect the areas do little to alleviate the concerns of the people of AJK.

Just this past week, nine people were injured in Khuirratta, Kotli District. However, when locals came out to protest the shelling, they were forced to retreat.

Read next: Enforced disappearances: The plight of Kashmir's 'half widows'

Of course, one can argue that Indian shelling is beyond Pakistan’s control. What can Pakistan do if the enemy ruthlessly fires at civilians? But then who is in charge of providing bunkers and basic amenities to the civilian population?

Why has the civilian population not been relocated from areas scarred by shelling? Where is their compensation and allowance? Whose responsibility is it if not the civilian government’s and the Pakistani administration’s?

Last year when I visited Neelum Valley to enquire about the conditions of families living by the LoC, the locals told me that the civilian government was largely absent from the area.

During another visit to Naykal Sector in Kotli, I met with a young girl whose mother had been killed by a splinter.

"It was Eid and we had tied the goats outside. At night the Indian army shelled and the mortar sliced our goat into two. When my mother went outside to see the animals, a splinter hit her.

"No one was willing to take her to the hospital during the shelling. People were asking for lakhs of rupees to cross the road.

"When we finally took her to a hospital, they told us we had to take her to CMH Rawalpindi for proper treatment. She died in the process."

The young girl emphasised how important it was to have a fully functioning hospital in the area. After all, Nakyal Sector has faced one of the worst ceasefire violations in recent years. Casualties are frequent.

It should perhaps be the government’s primary responsibility to equip the hospital and ensure that victims receive timely help.

The same money spent on posters and rallies would be better spent on uplifting the quality of medical services in the area, which can actually save lives.

The deceased’s husband further complained that "when someone dies in shelling incidents on the working boundary in Punjab, they are given five lakhs in compensation; when my wife died, we only got three lakhs. Are Kashmiri lives less important than Punjabi lives?"

Roads are full of rubble, sewage pipelines are not laid, and doctor-to-patient ratio is alarmingly low. Water and power shortages undermine economic activity in an area where dams have been constructed to fulfill the rest of Pakistan’s energy needs.

Royalties are not given because AJK is not a province of Pakistan, but when it comes to implementing projects that benefit other parts of Pakistan, the area is taken for granted as a part of the country. No permissions are sought from the local government before launching projects that aid Pakistan’s development.

Locals in Neelum Valley have been campaigning for a road from Athmuqam to Taobat; three Pakistani prime ministers — Yousaf Raza Gillani, Raja Pervaiz Ashraf and Nawaz Sharif — have come and gone, each promising construction but to no avail.

Kashmiris tell me promises are only made to be broken in this region.

Also read: Courage lies in the hearts of Kashmiri women who dream of freedom

This Kashmir Day, who will stand up for Azad Kashmiris? Are they not Kashmiri enough? Are they not deserving of intervention and attention? Are their basic rights not important?

Will Hafiz Saeed and Khadim Rizvi stand up for them too? Will the Punjab government and the federal government take responsibility for them beyond putting up posters every Kashmir Day?

Will solidarity with Kashmiris extend to this side of the LoC as well, to the ‘azad’ counterpart of the ‘occupied’? And will that solidarity still remain even when India-Pakistan relations improve?

Perhaps it would be more constructive to ponder over some of these questions rather than chest thumping and sloganeering every 5th of February.

Solidarity must be shown through sustained development policies, protection of basic rights, and provision of basic amenities.

Posters may instigate sympathies for Kashmiris in Pakistan but that sympathy is nothing but a hallow commitment to the Kashmiri cause when the very Kashmiris the state represents are overshadowed in jingoistic displays in the name of ‘solidarity.’


Have you, your family, or someone you know, been affected by war and conflict? Share your experiences with us at blog@dawn.com


When water at Tarbela recedes, Bharukot Fort emerges to reveal an eventful history spanning centuries

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The waters of the world’s largest earthfill dam recede each winter, leaving behind a rich tapestry of historical forts, battlefields, shrines and villages that tug at the curiosity of wanderers like myself.

Prior to the damming of the Indus at Tarbela in the 1970s, the now largely submerged Trans-Indus region of Tanawal in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, had for centuries served as a strategic corridor for caravans and armies travelling between Kabul and Kashmir.

This transformed the rocky hills of Tanawal into a stage where the ambitions of machiavellian Nawabs, Khans, Rajas and Pirs played out in a fascinating game of premodern realpolitik.

The Tarbela dam inflicted enormous damage on the social and cultural ecosystem of the people of Tanawal.
The Tarbela dam inflicted enormous damage on the social and cultural ecosystem of the people of Tanawal.

As my family was one of thousands displaced by the construction of the Tarbela dam, I was eager to catch a glimpse of the lands where my ancestors once lived.

I had read across different history books about Bharukot, an impressive little fort that once stood in Tanawal, and was occupied by different dynasties during the turbulent centuries between Babur’s invasion and British rule.

50 years prior to the construction of the Attock Fort in 1583, it was at Bharukot that the Yusufzai chiefs, Malik Ahmad and Gajju Khan, came to a monetary settlement with Sultan Ghiyasuddin of Pakhli Sarkar, who was a local ally of the Mughals.

Today, the ghost fort of Bharukot remains submerged under water most of the year, revealing itself only when waters reach dead level in late winter.

Therefore, I was ecstatic when I received a call from a Haripur-based friend last month, informing me that it’s a good time to visit what are now known as the Bharukot islands.

The last remnants of a community that was displaced by the Tarbela dam.
The last remnants of a community that was displaced by the Tarbela dam.

As we drove towards the Tarbela dam, I felt uncertain about what to expect once we reached the site of the fort.

It seemed pretty unlikely whatever remained of the fort could have endured the wear and tear of being underwater for 10 months each year, since the Tarbela dam’s waters first inundated the region in 1974.

I grew up with my elders narrating heart-wrenching scenes from that year, with communities across Tanawal refusing to leave their villages until the dammed waters of the Indus entered their orchards and homes.

According to historian Hari Ram Gupta, the Tanawal region’s orchards garnered such fame and repute that in 1836, Ranjit Singh, leader of the Sikh Empire in the early 19th century, ordered his commander-in-chief, General Hari Singh Nalwa, to go deep behind enemy lines at great personal risk to procure mangoes from there.

For the first few weeks after its completion, the Tarbela dam’s surface was seen littered with thousands of mangoes as well as personal belongings left behind by people in what had been their homes, streets and neighbourhoods for generations.

‘A watercolour Rock Aornos from Huzara’ by James Abbott shows one of the 22 mud forts situated along the Indus in the Tanawal region of Hazara, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.
‘A watercolour Rock Aornos from Huzara’ by James Abbott shows one of the 22 mud forts situated along the Indus in the Tanawal region of Hazara, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.

When we reached the outskirts of Haripur, I was surprised to see the Tarbela’s water line several kilometres from where it is when the dam is at peak capacity during the summer.

The colourful wooden boats at Tarbela Lake are still operated by Mohanas, the ancient boat-people of the Indus. The Mohanas of the Upper Indus are far fewer in numbers than their brethren in Sindh.

I found it heartwarming to hear my father converse with a Mohana boatman, Gul Muhammad Khan, in the Tanawal dialect of Hindko. It turned out that prior to the construction of the dam, our families lived in the same town, Amb-Darband.

We were told by the boatmen that Bharukot now exists as two islands in the lake. The bigger of these islands is where the former village of Bharukot was located; remains of Bharukot Fort are situated on the smaller island.

The site of the former fort of Bharukot stands out in the middle of the Tarbela Lake as a small island.
The site of the former fort of Bharukot stands out in the middle of the Tarbela Lake as a small island.

Gul, the Mohana boatman, casually asked us to sit on opposite ends of his fishing boat so it doesn't capsize. As the small fishing boat purred through the placid waters of the Tarbela, I tried not to miss out on the breathtaking views of the surrounding areas.

To our east was the intimidating Mount Gandgarh where, according to local myths, Raja Rasalu imprisoned Baggarbath the giant, in a cave after defeating his army.

Also to our east in the Tanawal hills was Kokal, a village named after Raja Rasalu’s wife, Rani Kokalan. The rich layers of history in this region never cease to amaze me!

Bharukot had gradually risen above the water as a pile of rocks and rubble. Gul docked the boat at a convenient spot near the island, helping us climb off the boat and up the rocks.

Unfortunately, years of heavy siltation have made it impossible to locate remnants of the structure of the fort that stood here for more than 300 years.

A view of Mount Gandgarh from Bharukot island. According to local folktales, this is where Raja Rasala defeated an army of giants.
A view of Mount Gandgarh from Bharukot island. According to local folktales, this is where Raja Rasala defeated an army of giants.
Our fishing boat docked at Bharukot island.
Our fishing boat docked at Bharukot island.

At the summit of the small island, I saw a piece of flat land where the higher levels of the fort were situated. Fragments of broken pottery were evidence of its previous human occupation.

There were also visible signs of excavation on the island, indicating that the fort’s site was visited by treasure hunters in the recent past.

I was pleasantly surprised to hear Gul’s narration of how his elders stormed Bharukot Fort ‘hundreds of years ago,’ taking Ranjit Singh’s men by surprise.

For centuries, local communities have relied on oral traditions to understand their place in history.

He also mentioned that the old fort was surrounded by cliffs on two sides, making it difficult for incoming forces to scale its walls.

The fort of Bharukot stood here for more than three hundred years.
The fort of Bharukot stood here for more than three hundred years.

In 1838, the chief of Tanawal, Painda Khan Tanoli, described by Edward Conolly as “a sort of wild man, at war with all around him” and by Hari Ram Gupta as “cunning as a fox and ferocious as a tiger,” who would “cross the Indus on inflated skins” to attack Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s men.

Painda Khan Tanoli responded to the Maharaja’s peace offer, to accept a jageer in return for bending the knee, by launching a surprise ambush on Bharukot Fort. He walked away with Rs4,000.

This infuriated the Maharaja, who "had a mind to exterminate completely the evil-minded Painda Khan" for his insolence. Ranjit Singh expired in the summer of 1839, before he could execute a military campaign in the region.

Fragments of pottery at the site of Bharukot Fort are signs of its earlier occupation.
Fragments of pottery at the site of Bharukot Fort are signs of its earlier occupation.

10 years later, Bharukot would become associated with a short-lived alliance between the Sikhs and Afghans.

In February 1849, an Afghan lashkar sent by Dost Muhammad Khan of Kabul to aid the Sikhs against the British was camped out at Bharukot when news of the Sikh defeat in Gujrat reached them. The lashkar hastily retreated to Kabul on hearing this news.

The fort would be demolished two months later by Captain James Abbott, the first British administrator of the Hazara region. According to Abbott’s diary, he destroyed the fort and reduced it to a ‘garrison’ of 15 men on May 8, 1849.

We said goodbye to the fort to check out the adjacent island that was formerly the village of Bharukot. The island is also home to a shrine that stays underwater most of the year.

A solitary shrine on the island of Bharukot stays submerged most of the year.
A solitary shrine on the island of Bharukot stays submerged most of the year.
Bharukot's graveyard remains under water for nine months at a time.
Bharukot's graveyard remains under water for nine months at a time.

Although it wasn’t clear whose shrine it was, my father offered a quiet prayer there in remembrance of all the forgotten people who lived and died in Bharukot.

While on the island, I was distracted by the sight of what appeared to be a small tent village. It turned out to be a community of Sindhi Mohanas.

Heavy pollution and the excessive damming of the Indus has choked the life out of the river, forcing the Sindhi Mohanas to relocate upstream in search of healthier fishing and living prospects.

I was amused to see our local Mohana from the Upper Indus converse with Sindhi Mohana boys in broken Urdu.

Gul Muhammad Khan, a Mohana from the upper Indus, talking to Sindhi Mohana boys.
Gul Muhammad Khan, a Mohana from the upper Indus, talking to Sindhi Mohana boys.

As we returned to Islamabad, I thought about all the different dynasties who had tried to hold on to Bharukot Fort over the centuries.

When I thought of the Mohanas currently fighting for survival on the island, it occurred to me that the final battle of Bharukot is that of the Indus itself, as it breathes its last breath in the face of climate change, pollution and infrastructure development to secure a future for Pakistan's energy-starved megacities.

As my troubled mind yearned for a return to simpler times, I reflected on the words of the Guru Granth Sahib:

"The thirst of only a few rare ones is quenched,
People may accumulate hundreds of thousands, millions, tens of millions, and yet the mind is not restrained.
They only yearn for more and more."


Have you visited places of cultural or historical significance in Pakistan? Tell us about your experience at blog@dawn.com

Only memories are left of Mashal, the idealist who always wanted to learn more

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A mob lynched Mashal Khan last week at the premises of his university on the allegation of blasphemy. Factually, the statement is accurate, but reducing the incident to newspeak is simplistic and incomplete, for it fails to capture what Mashal's life story was.

Mashal was cousin to a friend of mine. I talked to him the day after Mashal was killed, and what he told me shattered me into pieces.

Mashal's father, Iqbal Shayar, didn't have a stable source of income but he was always ready to do any kind of work in order to put food on the table for his family. He is also a poet. A man of letters, he never let poverty be an affront to his family's dignity and instilled in his children the love for reading and critical thinking.

On the same topic: I've known Salman Haider for 14 years and he is not anti-Islam

It was hard for the father to pay for his son's formal schooling, but it was a struggle he undertook with pride. Mashal went to the Institute of Computer and Management Sciences on a scholarship and got the best marks in F.Sc at his college. He then secured a partial scholarship to study engineering in Moscow but unfortunately had to return to Pakistan after just one year since his family was unable to pay for the rest of his degree.

After coming back, Mashal didn't follow the conventions and look for a job. He had other convictions. He believed that he would be more useful to society if he went into civil services, so he enrolled into Abdul Wali Khan University Mardan to do a Master’s in mass media and journalism and prepare for his civil services exams.

Mashal’s father supported his son’s decision. Given the financial hardships, it would have made more sense for Mashal to work and support his family financially. Yet, his father didn’t stand in the way of his son’s noble desire to continue studying. This is what enlightened people do; they prefer idealism, public service and social betterment over material gains.

But the mob that killed him had a different vision. Mobs don’t appear out of a vacuum and public violence is never apolitical. Rather, mobs are products of a long process of social engineering. They are conditioned into self-righteousness by a constant of stream of villainous ideas and statements, whereby a beautiful soul like Mashal is dehumanised to the point that his lynching became a necessity and a celebration.

Read more: Khurram Zaki - The voice that spoke for the dead

Mobs go on rampage to silence those who dissent. Their goal is to publically reinforce the boundaries of what’s ‘right’ and ‘wrong’. A mob can become active at a moment’s notice. It doesn’t wait for or need proof; if it smells blood, it unleashes itself.

After Mashal’s death, I wondered if it was just a matter of him being at the wrong place at the wrong time. The answer was ‘no.’ Mobs are products of a society that wants conformity; an inquisitive and humanistic person like Mashal was always in danger of facing its wrath no matter where and when.

Mob violence is also a collective loss – last week it was Mashal, before him there have been many others, and next week it can be any of us who is killed on mere suspicion of blasphemy.


As if exploitation of blasphemy laws by mobs wasn’t enough, instrumentalisation of this law by the state to silence dissent and criticism has added to its misuse. As long as the state thinks that it’s justified in regulating people’s opinions by using the blasphemy card, lives of people like Mashal will continue to be the collateral damage of this policy.

Mashal’s father has kept his composure. When I listen to him, I’m amazed by his strength and perseverance. He insists that his son did no wrong and that he educated him, despite all the hardships, to make him a useful member of the society. Being a poet that he is, he reinforces his words by reciting Pashtu and Urdu verses. One phrase that he said about Mashal is still ringing in my ears: “sunrays can’t be chained.”


This article was originally published on April 18, 2017.


How has Mashal Khan's killing effected you? Tell us about it at blog@dawn.com

No more pardons for rape

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Last week, a 17-year-old rape survivor became one of the few victims of sexual assault whose plight piqued our collective conscious.

A hearing-impaired girl, she was sexually assaulted over two years ago by an accused who subsequently absconded.

It was last week that the accused finally appeared in court for interim bail — only to be pardoned by the girl’s father, despite her desperate protests.

Whilst previously claiming to have witnessed the occurrence himself, the father subsequently claimed that he filed the case by mistake.

The scene that played out in court was truly heart-wrenching; however, in a criminal justice system that fails to extend protective safeguards for survivors of sexual assault, it was hardly far from the norm.

In a country where civil society estimates that four women are raped everyday and conviction rates are next to zero in most districts, it is little surprise that a significant majority of rape cases are compromised before the trial is concluded.

The public outrage resulting from last week’s events have focused on the criminal justice system's treatment of crime as a private dispute between two parties and therefore reconcilable at their will.

Whilst the ability to compromise remains a fundamental flaw in prosecution for a broad range of crimes, the same does not hold true for rape.

Rape, as defined under Section 367 of the Pakistan Penal Code, 1860 (PPC), is a non-compoundable offence.

This means that regardless of any agreement/settlement between the complainant and the defence, the state is under an obligation to pursue the matter until it reaches its verdict.

In 2012, the brutal gang-rape of a 13-year-old girl in Rawalpindi brought to light the rampant practice of out-of-court settlements between parties as the basis of awarding acquittals.

Despite confirmation of the occurrence of the offence by the medical officer, the police failed to register a First Information Report against the accused.

It was only once the victim attempted to take her life did the Supreme Court take notice of the incident and direct the police to finally register the complaint.

However, once the case was fixed before the trial court, the father of the victim approached the court stating that he had entered into an out-of-court settlement with the accused parties under the auspices of a jirga and wanted to drop the charges of gang-rape.

Read next: The state and diyat

Despite the non-compoundable nature of rape and gang-rape under Pakistan’s criminal laws, the trial court acquitted the accused under Section 265-K of the Code of Criminal Procedure — a provision that provides courts discretion to acquit accused parties at any stage due to a low probability of conviction.

The validity of the acquittal on the basis of compromise was assailed before the Supreme Court in a public interest petition by lawyer, Salman Akram Raja, and civil society activist, Tahira Abdullah.

The Supreme Court declared the acquittals of rapists on the basis of compromise by trial courts as a nullity of law.

The Court stated that “rape was an offence against the whole society” and that even if the victim did not come forward to produce evidence due to an out-of-court settlement, it was the responsibility of the state to pursue the case to its end.

However, despite the decision of the country's top court, out-of-court settlements often remain the only means of resolution available to victims of rape.

Out-of-court settlements are routinely brokered by police and jirgas who pressurise the families of the victims to accept arbitrary decisions — often through intimidation and outright threats.

Despite a judgment of the Supreme Court in 2006 declaring decisions of jirgas in criminal matters as unconstitutional, disputes between parties, including sexual assault, are routinely referred to these often all-male bodies for resolution.

As the primary consideration of these bodies is to maintain order in society, the response to allegations of rape focuses on appeasing the male family members involved rather than ensuring justice for the victim.

Under these proceedings, the victim is treated as much as an accused party, on account of bringing dishonour to her family, as the rapist.

It is thus not uncommon to sanction rape of a woman from the family of the perpetrator by the victim’s family in order to balance the loss of honour.

The decisions of jirgas often enjoy the protection of police on account of their links to political leaders within the constituency.

In August 2017, a jirga ordered the rape of 16-year-old girl in Raja Ram near Multan, following allegations that her brother had raped a 12-year-old girl.

A law enacted in 2011, titled the The Anti Women Practices Act, stipulated penalties for the use of women in dispute resolution or in customary practices.

However, the response of police is primarily reactive and focused only on cases that are reported in the media.

Explore: Pakistan's flawed forensic investigation in rape cases is the weak link in the justice system

Notwithstanding the role played by jirgas in resolving rape cases, victims and their families often prefer entering into out-of-court settlements rather than standing a trial.

The criminal justice system, like the informal jirgas, treats the victim as an accomplice in her own violation. A victim’s testimony is adjudicated against misogynistic stereotypes regarding her character and sexual history.

In fact, her testimony is disregarded as false from the second she comes forward with a complaint, as a true victim of rape would never dishonour herself by drawing attention to her loss of honour.

During the course of the trial, the victim is subjected to scathing cross-examination by the defence, often in the presence of her rapist and in open court and is thereby forced to relive the traumatic violation.

Witnesses and victims are provided no protection against the accused and are left at the mercy of threats and intimidation, until they are forced to abandon charges.

Same topic: It's time Pakistan banned the two-finger test for decoding consent in rape trials

Despite the directives of the Supreme Court, trial courts are all too happy to accept these settlements stemming out of the desperation of those that they are tasked with protecting.

In the Supreme Court decision in 2013, wherein the unconstitutionality of out-of-court settlements was assailed, directives were issued to protect victims and their families against pressure to enter into out-of-court settlements with the accused.

These directives included measures such as recording of victims testimony before female magistrates, in camera trial, administration and preservation of DNA tests and samples, and psychological counselling for the victim.

However, four years on, application continues to be limited. In 2016, the National Assembly enacted legislation protecting the identity of rape victims and laying down procedures for medical examination and DNA testing.

But statistics on rape continue to soar unaddressed and every day we are confronted with incidents of sexual assault more harrowing than the one reported the day before.

Despite recent developments, conviction rates remain unchanged and most victims are forced to reconcile with the accused after having abandoned all hope for justice.

The government of Punjab, in 2017, set up a pilot court named Gender-Based Violence Court in Lahore, under the directions issued by the Supreme Court in 2013.

Tasked exclusively with handling cases of violence against women, the court is a welcome step towards introducing gender-sensitive reforms in a criminal justice system that routinely fails half of the country’s population.

Nonetheless, the public discourse needs to focus on systematic policy and legal reforms to establish gender-responsive judicial institutions rather than operate on the basis of piece-meal legislation and impassioned responses to individual cases.


Are you a lawyer, activist or policy expert working on legal reforms? Share your expertise with us at blog@dawn.com

'I wouldn't want my kids to see and be brutalised by it' — parents speak out against public hangings

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In the wake of the Zainab rape and murder case, as the Council of Islamic Ideology debated whether public hangings should be mandated in certain cases, a group of parents with young children were questioned on their views regarding the act.

They were asked what effect such a public demonstration of punishment would have on children witnessing it, and if in their opinion, it would be effective against curbing incidents of child sexual abuse in future.

Their responses were collected by Dawn.com and Justice Project Pakistan from a multitude of cities across Pakistan and have been shared below.


Sanam Taseer, gallerist. Sons aged six and nine.

I don’t want my children to witness a public execution as I don’t want my children inured to violence.

I don’t want them exposed to the kind of bloodlust that led to the commission of these brutal crimes in the first place.

I don’t want to rip away their innocence. Public executions are a form of societal barbaric revenge, and only perpetuate the cycle of violence. I want them to build a world where killing is not the answer.

Valerie Khan Yousafzai, child’s rights activist. Children aged 11, 15, 17, and 20.

As a parent, and a child’s rights activist, protecting my children from sexual abuse has always been one of my priorities.

So when such news appears on TV, when I must hold the hands of a grieving mother whose child was abused, I obviously feel angry and frustrated beyond words.

Yet, those feelings must not lead me to lose my own humanity. I cannot. I am a mother, I have responsibilities.

I do not want my children to see more violence, experience more trauma, by witnessing a public hanging.

I want them to understand that the state must show reason and be above mob emotions, that violence begets violence, and that killing child molesters has never reduced child sexual abuse.

I must tell them the truth and make them realise that humanity must prevail.

Benazir Shah, journalist. Daughter aged four.

When our pet dog died, I told my four-year-old that he had left for a long vacation. I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her about the finality of death.

Then, recently, she saw the picture of a seven-year-old girl, Zainab. “Why is she always in the news?” she asked. A terrible man hurt her, I replied, hoping she wouldn’t ask how.

Where is the man now? In prison, safely put away, so he would never hurt anyone again.

Yet, there are calls for the terrible man to be hung to death. His execution to be a public spectacle.

If my daughter was to bear witness to such a violent act, then I would have to talk to her, not only about death, but also about suffering. About what happened to Zainab and why. About why this man deserved to be killed, and not just be put away forever.

But how would I explain to her why executing criminals was more important than protecting children? Or why this public display of brutality was necessary?

And when even after the terrible man is killed, there is another Zainab. What would I say?

Mobeen Shafaat, marketing director. Children aged one, six, 10 and 14.

A public hanging is nothing more than a spectacle. It’s a show, it’s going to be lapped up by television channels for ratings, and I won’t be surprised if it even gets sponsors.

Anyone who thinks this is justice is fooling themselves.

I want my children to have a strong sense of what’s right and wrong, but when they see a man being killed right before their eyes, and think that that is what is “right,” then we are raising an entire generation to have a very skewed sense of what justice is.

We all want to protect our children, especially from those who can harm them. But exposing them to this much violence, and letting them think that that is okay, is just as damaging.

Javed Masih, office helper. Daughter aged five.

My daughter picks up on everything — lines she hears on television, things her friends say, words she hears at home.

I’m terrified that she could see someone be hanged, and think that that is an acceptable practice.

I don’t want her to be thinking of such things at such a delicate age because I have no idea how to explain it to her.

How is someone her age expected to understand what a hanging is? Why should she even be expected to know how this works before she can even fully read?

We should let children be children.

Munazza Nadeem, housewife. Son aged eight.

I have a very simple question, “What do we want our children to learn from public hangings?” because an execution is not a lesson but a threat. It’s not just a spectacle but a nightmare, and it’s not justice but madness.

I don’t want my eight-year-old to learn more and more ways a human being can be put to death.

At first I had to save him from the continuous media coverage of terrorist attacks, as he had started playing with toy guns; then I had to save him from video games, as he had started punching everyone in his class.

I have no idea what he will do after witnessing public hangings.

Dr Ali Madeeh Hashmi, psychiatrist. Father of teenage children.

The death penalty does not deter crime, including child abuse. Public hangings will most decidedly not prevent such crimes in the future.

On the other hand, it will brutalise and traumatise people, including the children it is supposedly protecting.

Those demanding such punishments, in the face of evidence to the contrary, are demonstrating their own depraved mindset. They are no better than any bloodthirsty mob.

The main thing no one is discussing about child abuse is prevention.

Why is it happening so much? What can we do to prevent it (other than punishing the perpetrators after the fact)?

How can we help victims and families and prevent them from becoming abusers?

Ayesha Kasuri, educator. Daughters aged two, 13 and 17.

Watching life go out of a person is the most disturbing thing I can think of; it is so finite and eternal.

These concepts are too abstract for children, and in the case of public hangings, we are desensitising our children to a point that is unnecessary.

As it is, we have robbed them of their childhood; they can't bike to school, they can't play with their neighbourhood friends, they go to schools with barbed wires and armed guards (mandatory now for government as well as private institutions), and now this.

Please let my children be children and let them enjoy the few precious years of innocence left. Eventually, they too will come to terms with the harshness of this world.

My daughters are two, 13 and 17. Two of them are aware of what has happened; we've talked about it, we watched the videos in horror, we went to the vigil in Islamabad, decided punishment is for God to give, and all we can do is educate.

Nadia Jamil, actor and activist. Mother of two.

Our children see enough violent crimes without witnessing public executions as well.

With every act of violence we expose young minds to, we leave a traumatic memory that desensitises them from a more humane experience of life.

It is horrible to think that after shooting each other with toy guns, as has become an integral part of every child’s play time, public hangings, upon becoming the norm, will also find their way into children’s games.

Please protect children from more violence in society. They see enough violence around them already, and are too often victims of savagery.

I beg of you. It’s too gruesome. Nowhere in the world are children this accustomed when it comes to death, unless they live in a war zone.

Mina Malik-Hussain, writer. Children aged two, four, six, and eight.

I do not support capital punishment. Statistically it doesn't decrease crime and one cannot logically oppose one kind of killing and support another — it's a pretty binary stance.

As a parent, I am horrified at the idea of public hangings. In this age of unbridled television and social media content, we already struggle to protect our children from the depths of depravity mankind can fall to, and images of the same.

A public hanging is the height of violence and no child should ever witness one, even by mistake. You can’t tell them “killing is wrong – except for a few times.”

Daanyal Masum, technoloy professional. Children aged two, five and 10.

I am not opposed to the death penalty. I believe it is not immoral, and can act as a deterrent.

That being said, I do wrestle with the fact, and am unable to square the circle, of having the death penalty applied in a country where the justice system and policing is so heavily skewed against the poor and the disenfranchised.

The push from the citizenry and from legislators for a public hanging of Zainab's killer is populism at its worst and will open the gates to an unhealthy appetite for more — too much panem et circenses about it.

I wouldn't want my kids and others to see that and be brutalised by it.

I would never want them to think that this should be a spectacle. That this is normal or something to be cheered. That they learn at such young ages how cheap life can be.

This world teaches us that fact eventually, but I am not a fan of hurrying that process along. There are things societies must do because they are necessary, but not show too much delight in — like the business of war — lest they grow too fond of them.

Ali Arqam, journalist. Father of two sons and two daughters, aged two and nine, and six and 12, respectively.

It is disturbing to think about criminals hanged publicly, and individuals watching. This demonstration of viciousness, and turning it into a type of amusement for the onlookers, would have disastrous effects on people’s psyches, particularly children.

I remember the fear in the eyes of my six-year-old daughter Forough Farrokhzade when she was narrating a road incident in which a girl of her age, from the same school, was killed by a reckless motorcyclist.

She feared going to school without her mom for the next couple of days. My wife and I had to persistently connect with her on an emotional level, for a whole week, to help her escape the harrowing memories.

It’s ghastly to suppose she could witness a public execution, and appalling to imagine the impact the act will have on her innocent mind.

Calling a spade a spade: Asma Jahangir’s bold stance on Balochistan

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On Asma Jahangir’s death, the former Balochistan Chief Minister Sardar Akhtar Mengal tweeted: “Balochistan is forever in your debt.”

His remarks echoed the broader sentiments of the people of Balochistan who widely treated the iconic human rights defender as their champion and dependable spokesperson at the national level.

Besides her tremendous work in all areas of human rights, one of Asma’s most outstanding contributions was her persistent effort to encourage all sides in the Balochistan conflict to de-escalate tensions, provide space for confidence-building measures and find a peaceful resolution.

This engagement earned her the status of a nonpartisan investigator and a uniquely qualified negotiator.

The Baloch people admired her for courageously calling a spade a spade while people elsewhere in Pakistan trusted her as a credible source who tried her best to accurately describe the situation by risking her own life by often traveling to some dangerous parts of the province.

Speaking up to power on Balochistan has always required enormous courage and has come with official reprisal. She put herself forward; spoke the truth by confronting powerful elements in the government who often disputed her position.

When tensions between the military regime under General Musharraf and the Baloch nationalists escalated, triggering a standoff between the chief of the Bugti tribe, Nawab Akbar Bugti, and the army, Asma led a fact-finding mission of the Human Right Commission of Pakistan (HRCP) to Balochistan in 2005-06.

The fact that government entities and disgruntled opposition parties agreed to talk to her during an extremely charged situation reflected the overwhelming informal authority and trust she enjoyed.

Editorial: Asma the fearless

The mission met with aggrieved stakeholders, spoke to senior government and military officers and called upon “all parties engaged in the conflict to give up violence, and open dialogue on the issues of the province.”

HRCP’s Human Rights Violations: Conflict in Balochistan report included shocking revelations about cases of missing persons, torture, and other prevalent grievances of the people of Balochistan.

The report talked about the development of the Gwadar Port, the controversy surrounding it, and demands of the local population seeking inclusion and representation in the mega projects.

Asma kept on visiting Balochistan from time to time, continuing to listen to the perspectives of the local people, and also producing neutral and professionally researched reports about the causes and implications of the unrest in Balochistan.

In 2009, she spent another week in Balochistan speaking to all stakeholders, ranging from the Baloch nationalists to senior government officials.

She seemed upset and agitated over the unchanged situation and continued human rights violations in the province despite the installation of a new democratic government led by the Pakistan People’s Party.

“It is still the military that calls the shots in Balochistan,” she had said at a press conference in Quetta. “The decision-making is firmly in the hands of elements that were in command before February 2008. The provincial government is dysfunctional in critical areas.”

She also noted that enforced disappearances continued under the PPP government as well.

“If Balochistan is not demilitarised and confidence building measures are not taken,” she warned, “the country may dearly regret the consequences.”

She was apparently upset with and critical of the military’s handling of Balochistan. It is not as if other politicians and journalists did not know what was going on there; it just required Asma’s level of courage to publicly call out the powerful that misuse their official authority.

Related: 'The courtrooms of Islamabad High Court will miss Asma's valorous voice'

In one widely circulated clip from a show on a private news channel, she berated the military leadership for its authoritarian policy in Balochistan.

Putting things in perspective, she explained that the people of Balochistan had stood up for their rights because Islamabad treated the region as a colony, extracted its mineral resources without sharing the benefits with the local people, and, on top of that, illegally picked up Baloch activists and tortured them in official custody.

“Why should the Baloch feel obligated to stay with us when we don’t treat them as equal citizens and keep referring to them as anti-national and traitors?” she had questioned during the show.

Asma regretted that we learned no lessons from the East Pakistan debacle and were repeating the old mistakes in Balochistan when military force is being used to address a political crisis.

She pointed out that in Balochistan, the establishment was busy pitting one tribe against the other, taking away the province’s resources and then employing violence against the local people to silence them.

“After all Balochistan is not our colony,” she reminded us. “We must treat them with respect.”

When she visited Balochistan again in 2013 on yet another HRCP mission and produced the report Balochistan: Giving the People a Chance, she was further perturbed over the status quo.

She noted that not much had changed in spite of devolution of power to the provinces under the 18th Amendment.

This time the Inspector General of the Frontier Corps, seemingly upset with her public stance on Balochistan, did not meet with the HRCP delegation despite repeated requests.

Asma reminded that the government had entirely disregarded HRCP’s earlier recommendations meant to provide guidelines to all parties to end the conflict.

She cited the issue of disappearances as one of the significant factors that fueled resentment in Balochistan and also singled out different state actors for acting beyond their constitutional mandate while operating in the country’s largest province.

Obituary: Pakistan’s bravest citizen is no more

With Asma’s death, Balochistan has lost a true friend, a regular visitor and a vocal defender of people’s rights.

Her departure takes away a national icon who cared for the democratic rights of the smaller provinces.

She served as an interlocutor between the rest of the country and those living in the periphery and complaining about their constitutional rights not being sufficiently protected.

Although Asma did not live to see a permanent peaceful solution to the ongoing Balochistan conflict, she left an impeccable legacy that teaches us about the power of compassion, travel and dialogue while dealing with underrepresented communities.

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