Wars have a way of creating false or incomplete histories. The tales of heroes and victories often obscure the plight of the common person caught in the war zone.

The suffering of those living in Umerkot, Sindh during the 1965 and the 1971 wars fought between India and Pakistan finds no mention in the history books taught in our schools. I learnt about these unwritten stories by word of mouth during a recent visit to this small, dusty town.

Umerkot is located in the east of Sindh, about 60 kilometres from the Indian border. It is famous for the Umerkot Fort that dates back to the 11th century. Mughal emperor Akbar was born at the Fort in 1542, after the Hindu Raja Rana Parasad gave refuge to his father Humayun, who was fleeing the armies of Sher Shah Suri. The Fort is also the setting of the famous Sindhi tragic romance of Umar Marvi.

I, and a group of friends, had travelled to Umerkot to record Shafi Faqir, a very fine singer of Sufi poetry. We were all set to record the singer in the morning when we got the news that he was going to be late since a relative of his had passed away and he had to be at the funeral. He requested a friend of his, Mohammed Jumman, to attend to us while we were waiting.

This sad and unexpected situation turned out to be a blessing in disguise for us as we found out, much to our delight, that Mohammed Jumman, who was about 70 years old, was a wonderful Sindhi poet and a scholar of the area's history. He had been close to the famous Sindhi intellectual and nationalist, the late G.M. Syed.

Recounting the recent history of Umerkot, Jumman told us that in 1965, Umerkot’s population was 80% Hindu and 20% Muslim. Most of the large landowners of the area, known as Thakurs, were high-caste Hindus.

The Thakurs employed tradesmen like shoemakers, carpenters, and musicians. They provided housing, education, and health care for these tradesmen as well. Faqir’s family was also in the employ of a Thakur.

Then came the 1965 war and a major upheaval took place in the lives of the residents. Fearing reprisals by Muslims, most Hindus crossed over to India. The majority of those who left Pakistan were the rich Thakurs.

The lower-caste Hindus — Bheels, Kolhis and Meghwars — stayed back as they were poor and discriminated against on both sides of the borders. It did not matter to them whether they earned their living in India or Pakistan.

The migration of the Thakurs left their employees without a place to live or any source of income. Faqir's father and Jumman had to move to larger towns and take up jobs as tea boys or truck cleaners to survive. Jumman told us that the period between 1965 and 1968 were the worst in his life.

The war came to haunt the residents of Umerkot again in 1971, when the Indian army crossed the border and occupied parts of Tharparkar. This is something that is not common knowledge in Pakistan.

Many fled Umerkot to its adjoining areas as fear of the advancing Indian army grew. They left their houses and cattle behind as they rushed out of the war zone.

When the ceasefire came into effect and the Indian army retreated, the residents came back to find a lot of their houses destroyed and their cattle stolen. This meant another struggle to rebuild their lives.

The religious composition of Umerkot has now changed and the majority of the population is Muslim. Jumman told me that while generally there is peace between the two communities, the relations are on an edge and a small incident can trigger violence.

He also lamented that before the wars, it was very easy to cross the border to meet relatives. All that was needed was a small tip to the border guards. Now, it is not possible to do so without taking the risk of being shot.

It is telling that Jumman's nom de plume is Dar Badar (of no fixed abode). There could not have been a more appropriate word for the displacements he had been forced to endure.

The sadness of this history was alleviated somewhat when Faqir arrived and sang the songs of love of the native soil, of peace, and of the impermanence of all things worldly.

All photos and video are by the author.

Have you ever visited any historical or unexplored places in Pakistan? Share it with us at blog@dawn.com

Vaqar Ahmed is an engineer turned part-time journalist who likes to hang out at unfashionable places like shrines, railway stations and bus stops.

This article was originally published on March 13, 2015.

An Italian national flew 5,157 kilometers to Pakistan, travelled 234 miles north to Gilgit-Baltistan, trekked through the mountainous terrain to a secluded wildlife conservatory near the Pak-China border, and paid $8000 to fatally shoot a sheep.

Verily, man’s place at the top of the food chain is finally secure.

Making rounds on social media, is news of the record set by Boieti Gian Carlo for hunting a blue sheep with 32-inch horns – the largest in Pakistan, and the second-largest in the world.

I admit that my snark-laden review of this incident is clearly tainted by my bias against the general concept of hunting animals for sport. I wouldn’t want to single out any hunter in my tirade against the greater culture of hunting, and glorification of men and women who partake in this “sport”.

I believe the significance of elaborate hunts such as these cannot be overstated in limning what’s become the grand philosophy of the human species. From the highest mountain to the deepest ocean, wherever our noble relatives of the animal kingdom may hide; with the unfaltering determination of Liam Neeson, we will find them, and we will kill them.

Why? Just ‘cause.

In fact, as this blog is being penned, I’m receiving word of a raiding party en route to the Mariana’s Trench, to search and destroy that last non-human species rumored to have been spared by poachers, man-made climate change, floating islands of ocean garbage, and our voracious appetite for meat.

It was different when our ancestors went spear-hunting to acquire resources necessary to sustain life. To some degree, I can even understand (though not happily condone) the animal deaths caused either directly for meat and fur, or through negligence in the pursuit of some other human goal.

What I’m particularly intrigued by, is the psychology behind killing an animal to savour the act of killing itself.

There is no real resource to be acquired, but rather, a staggering amount of resource to be spent on attaining the satisfaction of shooting a harmless beast as it insouciantly grazes grass atop a serene mountain. The only physical prize to come out of it is a severed part of its anatomy to be mounted on the wall, as a reminder of the blissful day one shot something dead.

When I say there’s resource to be spent, I mean it. The prized markhor – a rare wild goat with majestic spiral horns – costs a hunter a whopping $62,000 to shoot at.

And note that according to the rules, the hunting license is valid for a single shot only.

Saudi royals have been known to spend lavishly on Pakistani conservatories and affiliated towns to curry favour with locals, for their love of hunting houbara bustards.

Also read: Saudi Royal on Houbara Bustard hunting spree in Balochistan

There’s dark humor to be found in the fact that 80 per cent of the money made from selling hunting licenses, goes back into preserving biodiversity and maintaining our conservatories.

I wonder, if this utilitarian approach can be applied to impoverished human communities; to allow wealthy hunters to fire non-lethal darts at the Congolese people as they innocently work on their farms. But not to worry! The money from this cruel exercise would go back to providing food and clean-water to the good people of Congo.

Jeremy Bentham famously argued that it’s not a creature’s identicalness to the human species which determines the morality of harming it; it’s a matter of whether that animal can suffer.

The activities we enjoy and applaud make a statement about who we are, just as it did for the ancient Romans who cheered on grizzly, deathly combats at the Coliseum.

For those of us who venerate the sport of killing animals, that statement isn’t very comforting.

Correction: The article erroneously stated that 20 per cent of the money made from selling hunting licenses went to wildlife development. The correct figure is 80 per cent. The error is regretted and has been fixed.

50 years ago, 4th March, 1967 marked a watershed event in the post-Partition history of Sindh. It was the day when 207 students were arrested en masse at the G.M. Barrage between Jamshoro and Hyderabad as they staged a rally against the One Unit scheme that had been in place in the country since 1955.

The protests were a culmination of the unrest among Sindhi students that had been simmering beneath the surface for a long time against One Unit. Its causes went deep into the humiliations suffered by Sindh and its people on cultural, political, administrative and economic levels.

Sindhi, a 2,500 year-old language, had no official status in what became the province of West Pakistan. It was stripped of all its rights as a medium of instruction, except in primary schools in the rural areas of Sindh. Sindhis were thus deprived of all opportunities of promoting their culture and language.

Politically and administratively, One Unit meant that Sindh disappeared as an entity and was reduced to looking to the capital Lahore for the pettiest matters.

On the economic level – and this situation continues to this day – it had to concede much of the lands rendered cultivable by the construction of barrages to the higher bureaucracy and military.

Last but not the least, the demographic changes due to Partition, which saw mass influx of Muslim migrants from India and an outflow of Sindhi Hindus, meant that the major cities of the province, including Karachi, became virtual no-go areas for Sindhis as far as jobs and economic opportunities were concerned.

Final straw

The movement itself was sparked when the Vice Chancellor of Sindh University, Hasan Ali Abdur Rehman, was dismissed in February 1967 by the Governor of West Pakistan, Nawab Amir Mohammad Khan Kalabagh.

Rehman, the first Sindhi Vice Chancellor of the university, was dismissed for his efforts for facilitating the admission of Sindhi students in professional colleges by allotting quotas for the far-flung districts of Sindh. The students agitated and demanded Rehman to be reinstated.

On March 4, a general-body meeting of students of Sindh University, Liaquat Medical College, and Engineering College was planned in Sindh University’s City Campus in Hyderabad. Students were proceeding to the venue in university buses when the police encircled them near the G.M. Barrage. The students were beaten up and all 207 of them were arrested.

The police brutality resulted in mass protests all over the province. Although the dismissal order against the Vice Chancellor was not taken back, this moment, which came to be known as the 4th March Movement and is commemorated every year, gave rise to wide-scale political awakening in Sindh.

My contribution

I was a first-year student at the university's Hyderabad campus. I remember it was another pleasant evening when the news of the mass arrest spread.

This development was grave not only because students had been targeted, but because the authorities had been trying to divide the students on linguistic basis. In order to counter the unrest against the dismissal of the Vice Chancellor, the Commissioner of Hyderabad, Masroor Ahsan, had attempted to rally those who were regarded as leaders of Urdu-speaking students behind him.

The outrage felt by the students against the victimisation of the first Sindhi Vice Chancellor of Sindh University, who had dared resist the attempts by the West Pakistan government to undermine the autonomy of the university, was given a parochial colour.

Given that most Urdu-speaking students seemed to be supportive of government action, a few of us decided that something had to be done, even symbolically, to prevent the cleavage between the students on parochial lines. This could only be done by showing solidarity with the arrested students. A minimum would be to write slogans on walls against the police action.

So me and my comrade Inayat Kashmiri took up a brush to paint slogans against the police and the Ayub dictatorship in the area around Tilak Charri, where most of the education institutions of Hyderabad were located at the time.

While writing on the walls, we had our eyes fixed on the on-coming traffic on the one-way road, ready to slip into the side streets if a police van came. We were too naïve to know that police in this country does not observe basic traffic rules.

A police van came full-speed from the opposite direction and before we could do anything, we received the full brunt of lathis on our backs, were lifted up and thrown inside the van. Direction: Market Thana. There ensued salvos of invectives in Punjabi centred on one's lower anatomy.

We were handcuffed and remained tied between two chairs in the SHO’s office for four days and nights. This made of us far greater rebels than the books we had lately become fond of: Maxim Gorky’s Mother and, of course, the Communist Manifesto.

Market Thana was located just near the red light area of Chakla. A large part of police activity in this thana consisted of rounding up prostitutes from the bazaar and bringing them in for extortion and entertainment.

The language of communication in the thana was Punjabi – not its Heer of Waris Shah variant but an outpouring of its filthiest variety. This made us understand all the more the resentment in Sindh against One Unit, the suppression of the smaller provinces and their merger into West Pakistan with its capital in Lahore.

During this time, we were hardly given any food and we avoided drinking water as we did not want to beg our unworldly hosts to take us to toilet. After four days, Hafeez Qureshi, one of the leading advocates of Hyderabad and a nationalist leader, came looking for us. He asked the SHO for a copy of the FIR so that he could engage legal procedures for our release. But an FIR there was none.

Apparently the SHO hadn’t even cared to inform his higher authorities of our arrest. He panicked and handed us over to the lawyer and even excused himself, saying that if he knew we were students, he would have let us go after admonition. Luckily for us, it was not yet the era of missing persons and kill and dump.

The discovery of Sindh

This small act of solidarity earned us lot of recognition and friends in the university. I already knew Jam Saqi, the great Sindhi nationalist leader whom I held in awe for his dedication and selflessness. He came from a far-off village in Tharparkar. I was a frequent visitor to his small kholi in a building on Tilak Charri.

He used to cook his only meal of the day late in the evening on a small stove. Even then, he used to insist on sharing it with me. I had never come across such a man in my family environment. I realised that life was much deeper and vaster than what family confines could offer. The real human beings were found where I was taught not to look for inspiration.

4th March served me as initiation into the soul of the province that had offered refuge to thousands of Urdu-speaking families like mine when they migrated to this country after Partition. With time, on becoming proficient in Sindhi language and going to the various cities and rural areas of Sindh as an activist, I impregnated myself with the deeply humanistic substrate of the Sindhi civilisation. With Jam Saqi, I came to meet luminaries like Hyder Bakhsh Jatoi, Ibrahim Joyo, Sobho Gianchandani, Usman Diplai and others.

What struck me the most in these people was their simplicity and total absence of pretension of any kind. I became more and more repulsed by the type of hostility that the great majority of educated Urdu-speakers maintained against the people of Sindh at the time.

The importance of 4th March

It will not be wrong to say that 4th March crystallised the defiance of the people of Sindh against the treatment meted out to them by the dominant players of the country. Ground was prepared for it first of all by an unprecedented flourishing of Sindhi literature in all of its genres, especially poetry. Poets like Shaikh Ayaz felt and mirrored the pain of Sindh in their poetry.

No wonder that after 4th March, a recurrent event Sindhi Sham became the main form of assertion of Sindhi identity and pride. Behind an innocuous cultural façade, Sindhi Sham was a forum for voicing dissent against the unjust policies perpetrated in the name of one nation.

Countless literary periodicals burgeoned in Sindh after 4th March. To this day, the most vibrant daily press of the country, closest to the ordinary citizens, is the Sindhi press.

Unfortunately, most historians and political specialists in and outside Pakistani, with some honourable exceptions like Dr Tanvir Ahmed who wrote the Political Dynamics of Sindh, have failed to take due account of the landmark nature of the 4th March Movement.

The Movement was an important component of the overall democratic upsurge in Pakistan that led to the falling of Ayub Khan’s dictatorship and dismemberment of One Unit. Even the books written on student movements in Pakistan seem to overlook the fact that Sindh, after having been wiped out from the country’s map by virtue of One Unit, struck back hard and reentered the political frame due to the defiance and courage of its students.

It is 50 years since that fateful evening of 4th March, 1967. It is long ago but so near that it is impossible to forget it. Time has not erased the deep pride I have always felt in making a very small contribution to that great event.

I will finish with a prayer by the inimitable Latif Sain:

Saim sadaein karein mathan Sindh Sukar
Dost mitha dildar Alam sub abad karein

My Lord keep Sindh always on top
Dear Friend also make prosperous the entire world

Have you been part of student movements in Pakistan? Tell us about your contributions at blog@dawn.com

The Indus is a mainstay of the Indian civilisation. For the people of Sindh especially, its mythical status penetrates each and every aspect of Sindhi life. The mention of River Indus, or Sindhu, goes as far back as we can go in recorded history.

K.R. Malkani, a Sindhi Hindu who had to leave his homeland during the mayhem of Partition, notes in his book The Sindh Story:

In the beginning was the word. The first recorded word was the Veda. And Veda is just ecstatic about Sindhu, the cradle of Indian civilisation:

"Sindhu in might surpasses all the streams that flow,
His roar is lifted upto heaven above the earth."

It is on the banks of this mighty river that rishis and sages have spent endless time contemplating the secrets of life and the universe.

Gradually, a cult of river worship developed in some of the areas where the Indus flows. The devotees personified their beliefs: Muslims would call him Khawaja Khizar, Zinda Pir, and Sheikh Tahir, while Hindus would evoke him by the names like Uderolal, Amar Lal, Uday Chand, and Jhulay Lal.

The people who follow the cult of river Indus are called Daryapanthis and their main centre is at Uderolal city, some 30km away from Hyderabad. The axis of the city is the shrine-temple complex; wherever you may go, it forms a skyline and reassuringly looms over the horizon. It embodies the spirit of Sindhudesh: the sharing of everything that is sacred, be it a Sufi shrine, a Sikh gurdwara, a Hindu temple, or a river deity.

The principle ritual is Chaiti Chand, which is both the birthday of Jhulay Lal and the celebration of the Hindu New Year. Chait is the first month of the Hindu calendar.

It sets in when the winter has gone and spring has also come to an end but the hot, gusty winds have not yet arrived. It is the time when wheat is harvested and fields are being prepared for cotton or paddy crop in the south of Sindh.

Even though most of Sindh's Hindus have migrated to India, Chaiti Chand is still celebrated with religious fervour and a growing spirit of community. In fact, after Partition, when Sindhis in India became a de-territorialised community, Sindhi singer Ram Panjwani tried to bind them together in a sense of Sindhiyyat by projecting the image of Uderolal as the patron saint or Ishtdev of Sindhi Hindus.

The main rituals commence in the evening and a stage is set for people to participate. The mela starts with jyot jagayan, or lighting the sacred lamp.

The proceedings continue with a pooja just before sunset, performed at the sacred well of Balanbho sahib. Its water is believed to have healing properties. After the prayer, chhando is performed in which the water is sprinkled on the face. It is supposed to enlighten the spirit.

An integral part of the mela is the behrano parwan karan, or floating the behrano. Behrano is a huge brass plate that is decorated with flour, sweets, dried fruits, lamps, and rose petals. It is an offering to the river and the Daryapanthis believe that fish and other aquatic organisms eat the behrano and bestow blessings upon the devotees.

People bring the behrano to Uderolal from various cities like Mirpurkhas, Shahdadapur, Sanghar, Nawabshah, Sakrand and others. Traditionally, the behrano was floated into the Indus, but now it is offered to any water body or canal because whatever water there is in Sindh, it comes from the Indus.

Another ritual that takes place during the mela is called pallao payan. It is when devotees hold the hems of their shirts or dupattas and pray to Uderolal to solve their problems and deliver them from the ordeals of the world.

The proceedings end with the chhej dance performed by energetic men wielding dandia. The swaying movements resemble the waves of the Indus. The chhej starts with a low rhythm and gradually moves to a frantic pace.

As time passes, the air gets thick with the fragrance of rose petals and incense, and the men passionately chant:

Ayo ayo, jhulay lal
Jeko chawando jhulay lal, tehnja theenda bera paar

Jhulay Lal has arrived
One who would say Jhulay Lal's name, his boat will safely reach the shores

It is followed by Jiay jhulay lal chants from the crowd.

For someone who knows that spaces for such activities are shrinking, the sight is at once exhilarating and a poignant reminder that perhaps all is not lost – at least not yet.

All photos are by the author.

What is the most grand festival or place of religious significance that you have visited? What did it teach you? Share it with us at blog@dawn.com

I quickly got up from my chair as I heard a loud thud and a door slamming shut across the hallway from my apartment. I looked out and saw my neighbour sitting in the corridor, bursting into tears.

As she clenched her fists and rolled up into a foetal position, it looked like she was ready to pass out any second. It was obvious that her boyfriend had assaulted her.

“Why don’t you give her some water? Make her feel like someone cares. Everyone is so selfish in Dubai as you know!” my husband suggested to me.

My hands shaking, I reached the shelf for a glass and hurriedly filled it with water. I hesitantly opened the door of the apartment just a crack, carefully trying not to make my neighbour feel as though I was intruding.

“Are you alright, do you need something?” I asked her. She shook her head as I motioned at her to drink some water. As I shut the door of my apartment, I noticed her boyfriend come out and pull her up by her arm, forcing her to leave the building even though she could barely walk.

I vividly remember the conversation I had after the nerve-wracking incident with my husband, who I had married only a few months ago. We were both concerned and couldn’t believe what we had just witnessed.

“How can anyone do something like this to their partner and intentionally inflict harm upon them?” He nodded in agreement and the rest of our night carried on quite uncomfortably since we were both worried about the fate of our neighbour.

Little did I know that the man I had married was going to do something much worse to me.

What she had gone through was physical abuse, which is apparent. Everyone can see it. But what I was about to go through was emotional abuse, which is much more subtle. I didn’t even realise what was happening until much later.

We all think we are hopelessly in love at the beginning of a relationship and nothing in the world can stop us from being together. But as time went by, it became clear to me that my ex-husband had extreme narcissistic personality traits.

The worst part is that he didn’t and will most likely never realise what he did wrong.

Idealise, devalue, discard. These are the three most common traits that a narcissist has. And that’s exactly what my ex-husband did in an extremely twisted, clever way.

When we first met in my last year of university, things were very different. He impressed me with how intelligent but down to earth he was. After I graduated, he proposed. Things were shaky at first since my parents weren’t welcoming to the idea of meeting someone I had chosen to be my partner. They were reacting like many Pakistani parents would.

They reluctantly agreed to meet him, and eventually things went smoothly. Both families were happy and on good terms. My parents were eager for me to get married as early as possible, as typical Pakistani parents prefer.

Right after the wedding, we flew to Dubai where he was living. The small, studio apartment wasn’t what I had dreamed of, but I shoved that thought aside. The most important thing for me was having an understanding with my husband and a supportive relationship in every possible way.

Things were fairytale-like in the beginning, as the ‘honeymoon’ phase usually is. But a few months later, they started to go downhill.

Suddenly, his interest in me began to fade. Our physical relationship and even the slightest things like the conversations we used to have began to take a sharp turn. Some days would pass by normally but most were nightmares.

The biggest problem was that he had an explanation for everything. For instance, I would ask him why he would frequently go on walks alone, sometimes late at night. He would give me long explanations as to how all intelligent people like Einstein, Newton, and even prophets used to spend solitary time to think about the world and why we are here.

I used to think it was a Pakistani norm that having alone time after marriage is considered odd and every single activity has to be done together, so I would just nod in agreement to his answers.

Since his passion for photography suddenly reignited, I encouraged him to pursue it. But I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that he would spend weekends meeting random women who he was in contact with online to photograph them for free.

His answer was that photography was his passion and he wanted to continue pursuing it, even without being compensated. He would say that it was just to get him back on track since he felt he had lost the skill. “Why are you only photographing women who are barely wearing anything?” I asked him. Because he didn't know how to photograph men, he would tell me. Once again, I let it go.

He even had an excuse ready for why our physical relationship was in shambles. He claimed that he used to be alone as an only child. It was challenging for him to even share the same bathroom as someone else.

Being private with his phone and laptop came with another set of answers. These gadgets were the siblings he never had and felt a close attachment with since there was nobody else to hang out with during the long, lonely days at home in Karachi.

That’s how I was sucked into his manipulative world.

He even managed to convince the therapist I somehow talked him into going to. When I talked to her individually, it seemed that she understood my situation perfectly. But after a one-on-one session with him, she concluded that things would be fine and seemed very satisfied with how he is as a person.

And that is the most odd thing about people like him. They are so convincing and likeable that if you only know them superficially, you can never pinpoint exactly what is wrong. People around them don’t realise they have a problem because of how well they carry themselves in front of others. And this is a lot more common than one would think.

When I first met him, I saw a confident, dedicated and passionate individual. But now I feel I had actually confused his superiority complex and self-obsession with healthy confidence.

His obsession with being successful and undermining others were warning signs that our relationship won't be very different. Another red flag was that there was a serious problem with how he responded to criticism of his work. For him, his work in communication design and photography was sublime.

One day, I merely pointed out that one of his photographs was excessively saturated and the editing could have been better. He blew up on me, saying I didn’t know what I was talking about since I was not a professional in the field.

He had strung me along the entire time till I realised what was going on. It took me some excessive stalking through Instagram – not surprisingly the same platform we had first connected on – to realise he was being flirtatious with other women and even seriously involved with one of them.

When I started realising what was going on and questioned him, he started to lose interest in me. An entire week went by with us living apart because I was suddenly not willing to listen to his excuses. After a major fight, he told me to leave, which I did. He refused to allow me back into what was our home because he needed “time to process everything”.

The game was over for him since I wouldn’t consent to or entertain his control over me. So, he went out to fulfill his ego with a new victim who he had started seeing while we were still married. The pictures and videos I found of him with his girlfriend were proof enough for me.

When I confronted him, he had yet another list of excuses ready.

That’s when I decided to leave him because I knew the situation would only get worse. But it didn’t go according to how I had planned. Instead, he forced me to leave because he thought we needed a “break from our relationship.” It was just another trick out of his mind-games playbook.

I had to debate a thousand times in my mind if I wanted to leave him or not. I was still too scared to take this step because a part of me still loved him. As difficult as it was, I knew in my heart that I had to do it. No matter what opinions the rest of the world had, they would never fully understand the misery I was being put through and the constant conflicts going through my mind on a daily basis. I finally decided I didn't have a future with this man.

While he was at work, I packed all my things and walked out the door without ever looking back. It was the most rattling, nerve-wracking and stomach-wrenching decision I have ever taken in my entire life. But it had to be done because I knew my life would only get worse had I stayed in this marriage.

I had fully trusted my ex-husband with my entire being and I couldn't comprehend why he would lie and manipulate me. It took me a long time to process what had happened and why. I would constantly be questioning why he had gotten married to me if he only wanted to play these mind games.

Once I realised who he truly was, I felt as though I was going through a roller-coaster ride of emotions. I went through phases of anger, hurt, and resentment. Eventually, I had to accept that this is how he was as a person and it wasn't going to change.

For the women who are in abusive relationships, just know that it’s never too late to end it. You are entitled to your own happiness, and nobody else is in charge of that or can understand it better than yourself.

We live in a patriarchal society that doesn’t accept divorce with open arms. People also tend to think there isn’t an actual issue if there is no physical abuse involved. Emotional abuse is not taken seriously enough. So many women out there are living in misery because they are either afraid to confront the situation or their families refuse to see the abuse.

But really, ask yourself: is it worth suffering your entire life because log kya kehngay? I don't think so.

Were you or are you in an abusive relationship and want to share how it has affected you? Tell us at blog@dawn.com

Gaddafi Stadium

City: Lahore (Punjab)

Constructed: 1959

First Test Match: 1959 (Pakistan vs. Australia)

Original Name: Lahore Stadium. Changed to Gaddafi Stadium in 1974.

Seating Capacity: 27,000

Home Ground of Lahore Qalandars; Lahore Eagles; Lahore Lions.

• The headquarters of the Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB) and cricket’s main training academy in the country are both situated at Gaddafi Stadium.

• A Test match here against England was affected by rioting in 1968. In 1977 another Test (also against England) witnessed a riot between police and spectators.

• Three matches were held at Gaddafi Stadium during the 1987 Cricket World Cup in India and Pakistan. This included one of the tournament’s semi-finals.

• The stadium was expanded and renovated just before the 1996 Cricket World Cup. It held three matches during the event, including the 1996 World Cup final.

• The last Test match to be played in Pakistan was at Gaddafi Stadium in 2009. It was abandoned midway after the bus carrying the visiting Sri Lankan squad was attacked by terrorists.

• Pitches at the stadium have largely been batting-friendly, except during a Test match against India in 1978 and a Test (also against India) in 2004 when green-top tracks were prepared to help fast bowlers.

• The first ODI was played here in 1978 against England.

• The first T-20 international was played here in 2015 against Zimbabwe.

• The final of the second edition of Pakistan’s premier cricket tournament, the Pakistan Super League (PSL) was held at the Gaddafi Stadium in March, 2017.

National Stadium

City: Karachi (Sindh)

Constructed: 1955

First Test Match: 1955 (Pakistan vs. India)

Seating Capacity: 40,000

Home Ground of Karachi Kings; Karachi Dolphins; Karachi Zebras.

• The National Stadium is Pakistan’s largest cricket stadium.

• The first Test match at the stadium was played in 1955 (Pakistan vs. India).

• The first ODI here was played in 1980.

• Pakistan has played more than half of its Tests in Pakistan on this ground. It has lost just two. Once the National Stadium was known as ‘Pakistan’s cricket fortress.’

• The stadium has witnessed some of the most thrilling Tests and ODIs played in Pakistan.

• Despite National Stadium being the most successful home ground of the Pakistan cricket team, and famous for producing some of the most exciting Tests and ODIs, it also has a history of experiencing the largest number of riots and disturbances during matches.

• Tests here were badly affected by rioting in 1968 (against England) and 1969 (against New Zealand). Rioting also took place here during a Test (against West Indies) in 1981 and an ODI (against Australia) in 1983. The ODI was eventually abandoned. Things began to improve from the late 1980s onward.

• The stadium was expanded for the 1987 Cricket World Cup. It hosted three games during the tournament.

• Further improvements were made for the 1996 World Cup. The National Stadium hosted three matches during the 1996 tournament.

• The National Stadium had a matting wicket (jute) between 1955 and late 1950s which helped seam bowling. Its pitches were flat and batting-friendly after matting was removed. They remained this way till the mid-1970s. The groundsmen then began to prepare square turners, but from 1982, the pitches at the stadium became more sporting. They would offer seam and bounce to fast bowlers at the start of the Test, become stable in the middle, and offer some spin at the tail-end of the match. ODI strips remained batting-friendly, though.

• National Stadium is also famous for offering swing to quick bowlers. Experts believe this is due to the steady sea-breeze which often blows across the stadium.

• The last international match to be played here was in 2009.

Iqbal Stadium

City: Faisalabad (Punjab)

Constructed: 1970s

First Test Match: 1978 (Pakistan vs. India)

Seating Capacity: 18,000

Home Ground of Faisalabad Wolves.

• Once known as Layallpur Stadium (the old name of Faisalabad), Iqbal Stadium was renovated and given the status of a frontline cricket stadium in 1978.

• Traditionally, Iqbal Stadium pitches have been flat. Out of the 24 Tests held here, 14 have ended in a draw.

• It was at this stadium that the infamous spat between former England captain Mike Getting, and Pakistani umpire, Shakoor Rana, took place in 1988. The incident became a diplomatic nightmare for the governments of both the countries.

• The last Test held at this stadium was in 2006. The last ODI played here was in 2008.

Rawalpindi Cricket Stadium

City: Rawalpindi/Islamabad

Constructed: 1992

First Test Match: 1993 (Pakistan vs. Zimbabwe)

Seating Capacity: 25,000

Home Ground of Islamabad United; Rawalpindi Rams; Islamabad Leopards.

• Situated in the suburbs of Rawalpindi and very close to Pakistan’s capital city, Islamabad, the stadium first emerged as a Test venue in 1993.

• It was a busy venue during the 1996 Cricket World Cup.

• It was a regular Test venue till early 2000s.

• The pitches here have been largely sporting.

• The last Test played here was in 2004.

Arbab Niaz Stadium

City: Peshawar (Khyber Pakhtunkhwa)

Constructed: 1984

First Test Match: 1995 (Pakistan vs. Sri Lanka)

Seating Capacity: 20,000

Home Ground of Peshawar Zalmi and Peshawar Panthers.

• Arbab Niaz Stadium emerged as a frontline cricket ground in the early 1980s, but it did not host a Test match till 1995. It was mostly used for ODI games.

• The pitches here have largely aided spinners.

• The last Test played here was in 2003.

Multan Cricket Stadium

City: Multan (Punjab)

Last Test Played Here: 2001 (Pakistan vs. Bangladesh)

Seating Capacity: 35,000

Home Ground of Multan Tigers

• The Multan Cricket Stadium hosted its first Test in 1981 and last in 2006.

• The pitch here has traditionally aided seam bowlers.

• During a Pakistan-West Indies Test here in 1981, West Indian fast bowler, Sylvester Clarke, hurled a brick in the stands at a spectator who was throwing oranges at him. The brick hit the spectator on the head and he was hospitalised.

• Pakistan downed a strong England side here in 2005 after England had defeated Australia in that year’s Ashes series.

Jinnah Stadium Sialkot

City: Sialkot (Punjab)

Constructed: 1920s.

First Test Match: 1985 (Pakistan vs. Sri Lanka)

Seating Capacity: 18,000

Home Ground of Sialkot Stallions

• This stadium was first constructed in the 1920s by the British. In the 1950s it was named Jinnah Park. In 1979 it was upgraded and renamed Jinnah Stadium.

• The first Test here was played in 1985 and the last in 1995.

• Pakistan played its first ever ODI at home on this ground in 1976. It was against New Zealand. It was also New Zealand’s first ODI against Pakistan.

• Jinnah Stadium is known for its green-top pitches that help fast bowlers.

• A 1984 Pakistan-India ODI here was stopped midway and abandoned after news of the assassination of the then Indian PM, Indira Gandhi, reached the ground. India were batting.

Niaz Stadium

City: Hyderabad (Sindh)

Constructed: 1962.

First Test Match: 1973 (Pakistan vs. England)

Seating Capacity: 15,000

Home Ground of Hyderabad Hawks

• The world’s 1000th Test match was played at Niaz Stadium (Pakistan vs. New Zealand) in 1984.

• Swing bowler, Jalaluddin, took the first hat-trick for Pakistan in ODIs. He did it during an ODI against Australia in 1983 at Niaz Stadium.

• The last time a Test was played here was in 1984, even though Niaz Stadium continued to host ODIs till 2008.

• The Niaz Stadium pitch has traditionally been placid and batting-friendly.

Gujranwala Jinnah Stadium

City: Gujranwala (Punjab)

First Test Match: 1991 (Pakistan vs. Sri Lanka)

Seating Capacity: 20,000

• The first (and only) Test match held here was in 1991.

• The last ODI played at the stadium was in 2000.

• One match was held here during the 1987 Cricket World Cup (West Indies vs. England).

• The current World number one umpire, Pakistan’s Aleem Dar, made his international umpiring debut at this stadium during a Pakistan-Sri Lanka ODI in 2000.

Sheikhupura Stadium

City: Sheikhupura (Punjab)

Construction: 1995

First Test Match: 1996 (Pakistan vs. Zimbabwe)

Seating Capacity: 15,000

• The Stadium has hosted two Tests and two ODIs.

Zaffar Ali Stadium

City: Sahiwal (Punjab)

Construction: 1955

Seating Capacity: 35,000

• Only two ODIs have been held at this stadium. One (against England) in 1977; and the other (against India) in 1978.

• The ground is best known for the ODI match which India voluntarily forfeited to Pakistan in 1978 when Pakistan fast bowlers, Sarfaraz Nawaz and Imran Khan, began bowling bouncers hurled specifically to injure the batsman. There were no laws against such bowling in ODIs in those days.

Ayub National Stadium

City: Quetta (Balochistan)

Seating Capacity: 20,000

Home Ground of Quetta Gladiators and Quetta Bears.

• Though just two ODIs (and no Tests) have been played here, Ayub Stadium is best known for holding the first-ever ODI between Pakistan and India (1978).

Bagh-e-Jinnah

City: Lahore

Constructed: 1885

Capacity: 8,000

First Test: 1954 (Pakistan vs. India)

• Bagh-e-Jinnah is located within Lahore’s vast Lawrence Garden. It was built by the British.

• It was Pakistan’s first international cricket venue.

• It stopped being a Test venue after the construction of Gaddafi Stadium in 1959.

• It is now mostly used for club cricket games.

• It has Pakistan’s only cricket museum.

DHA Cricket Stadium

City: Karachi

Capacity: 8,000

First (and only) Test: 1993 (Pakistan vs. Zimbabwe)

This article was originally published on January 22, 2016.

This piece consists of snippets chronicling gender roles on the streets of Karachi through a male gaze, and also tells part of the story behind Girls at Dhabas — a group that consists of men, women, and every gender in between.

"LADIES HAI, LADIES HAI! Ruk!" [It's ladies! Stop!] yells the bus conductor. The bus driver screeches to a complete halt. This isn’t a usual event for the SUPER HASAN ZAI public coach in Karachi, unless a woman waits at the bus stop.

A woman donned in a simple shalwar kameez and a dupatta wrapped around her head makes her way inside. She briskly settles down on a seat in the ladies' section. The men occupying the ladies' section adjust to make room for her: they are being ‘respectable’ gentlemen.

In 15 years of traveling of buses, I have never seen men do that for other men. I often wonder if it is an action grounded in respectability, or one of misguided protection.

I instantly think back to the time my friend, S and I went to a dhaba. Out of concern and 'respect', the dhaba wala offered my friend a special spot: "Bibi," he had said, "Aap family area mein beth jayein." The family area was a table situated at the back of the room, draped with a curtain, where my friend would be out sight from the rest of the male customers.

On the surface, it might seem like a thoughtful act on the dhaba wala's part. But like the action of making room for a woman on the bus (while on other days 'accidentally' pinching her), these actions are rooted in misogyny: men in this country are not so much concerned with giving women their space, but rather defining it for them.

Even seemingly well-meaning acts of kindness, when analysed, betray the power dynamics that rule any male-female relationship in Karachi's public space. In fact, there are myriads of ways us men police women’s behaviour in public daily: when we tell them to wait inside cars while we go run an errand, when we tell our girl friends not to smoke in public, when we hear about our female friends hanging out at dhabas, and say: ‘That’s no place for a woman.’

2:30pm, Ziauddin Ahmed Road

I'm standing with Rafi the makai wala right outside the university gate. He's cooking corn for the kids from the neighboring schools; the square is occupied with a spectrum of individuals. Rickshaw drivers hoping to get a ride, kids in line waiting for junk they can put in their stomachs, a circle of men smoking surrounded by a larger circle of men who seem to have found comfort under the tree’s shade.

Looking around, I think about the male to female ratio in Pakistan, which is almost 1:1. But there isn’t a woman in sight.

A girl interrupts the scene, walking by in skinny jeans, a low cut top, and hair neatly parted to her side. I recognise her from my class. As she walks towards Rafi’s cart, I notice the heads of the rickshaw walas (men), passersby (men) and loiterers (men) turn, their gaze following her walk, much like my own.

I shift my eyes and look elsewhere.

6:30pm, Badar Commercial

It's nearly dusk. I'm at a dhaba with my friend, killing time. She's buried writing something in her journal, a cigarette (that needs to be ashed) in her other hand. As usual, I notice heads turning towards us.

A girl with a cigarette at a dhaba is entertainment for everyone; I’ve smoked countless cigarettes over cups and cups of tea at dhabas with my male friends, no one turns their head around. But with her, I have become used to winning staring competitions with other customers.

A masseuse walks across the parking lot filled with chairs and the smell of chai, the clink of his oil bottles echoing through the street. My friend asks me to call out to him: she wants a massage.

“Are you working right now?” “I am,” he replies, placing his oil on the table before me. He positions himself behind me, rolling his sleeves up.

“I don’t want a massage. Baji wants one."

He stares at me, his expression a mixture of confusion and ‘Are you joking?'. We tell him we are serious.

He moves behind my friend, placing his hand around her neck. She lets it down immediately, and the massage begins. Then men sitting around us are visibly uncomfortable. We overhear some of them gossiping. ‘A girl – getting a massage!’ It is absurd. Why isn’t it equally absurd when men get massages in public?

4:00pm, Sindhi Muslim

Needing a break from studying, I walk outside for fresh air: the cigarette/pan cabin at the end of my galli is a familiar spot. I light a cigarette as the traffic of people and cars pass by. A woman from my street – I recognise her – is walking with a heavy load of groceries in her hand. Some man offers to help. She abruptly refuses his offer, No thank you, and he cluelessly walks away.

Standing there, I notice the hordes of men all around the corner, where the woman had to make her way through. I can’t blame her for being edgy. No man has to walk around with the kind of constant paranoia women do in this city.

8:00pm, at home with my father

I tell my father how I’ve been frequenting dhabas with my friend – a girl. He thinks it's cool.

“It portrays our city as if it's not women friendly though,” he insists. In another breath, he doesn’t allow my sisters to walk till the corner of our street to fetch groceries.

He thinks the city’s security condition is to blame for the ratio of men and women out on the roads. “If a girl goes to a dhaba, there’s a 90 per cent chance something bad will happen to her,” he adds.

1:30am, late night thoughts

Whatever ‘security conditions’ there might be, my friend and I have started sitting at dhabas every day.

Harassment, so far, has been limited to the extent of stares. Some are curious. Some disapproving. Our culture claims to be welcoming and respectful towards women, but we have gotten used to its hypocrisies.

I think about how the common culprit is almost always a man, but it’s the women who has to make the difficult choices. Some are forced to live under the umbrella of misplaced, self-righteous ‘concern’ leveled by men who claim they know what is best for their wives, sisters and daughters.

Other men and women alike have become so conditioned that they continue protecting this system of thoughts: we say ‘men will be men’, we discourage women from being – just being – in public, and any time someone fights back, we shut them up, calling them unrealistic.

9:00pm, outside Shireen Jinnah Colony

Normally, my friend and I would not drive to Shireen Jinnah Colony at 9pm, but today we are feeling braver than usual. Nearing Khyaban-e-Bedil, I call Naeem who I am supposed to meet for a smoking session.

He instructs me to turn into a street without lights. Forcing paranoia to drift out the window, I drive in. Naeem is waiting for us when we reach.

“Naeem, this is my friend. She is very close to my heart. I hope she is welcome here,” I greet him.

“Ali bhai, your friend is my friend. Let’s go in the tanker parking lot. We have a seating arrangement there.”

I drive deeper into Shireen Jinnah, calm as the summer sea, and park where Naeem asks me to. We get out of the car and place ourselves in the car seats set out on the ground. It is pitch-black and I feel just as safe as I do in any other part of Karachi.

My friend lights a smoke, and Naeem responds with shock. But he doesn’t say anything. He simply smiles, and hands her some matches.

10:30pm, Cantt

After leaving Naeem, we impulsively decide to stop at a dhaba near the Cantt Station. We order some daal and roti, and of course, chai to wash it all down. As usual, her head is buried in her journal with the same unashed cigarette pose. I use her phone to browse through Instagram.

“I wish other girls came to dhabas too. It would really tone down the whole staring game,” I said.

“So let’s figure out a way to,” she replies. We cackle and snigger, scheming ways to fix the dismal gender-ratio at dhabas and public spaces in Pakistan. She suggests putting up a photo of herself on social media as an experiment first. We discuss if we should hashtag it. #SAtDhabas, I suggest, and she turns it down immediately.

“Wait. I know what we should do,” I reply, running off with the phone. I snap a picture of her (knowing she will hate it) and give it a more inclusive hashtag: #GirlsAtDhabas.

The Ferozepur road, one of Lahore’s arterial thoroughfares, evokes a lot of nostalgia. Starting from the Walled City, connecting several small ancient hamlets on the way, including Ichra, Mozang, Amar Sadhu and Kasur, it leads to Ferozepur in India. Or so it did.

Somewhere along its path, a boundary fence has been constructed. Two of the largest armies in the world, armed to their teeth, stand guard on either side of this fence.

The cities of Lahore and Ferozepur were linked by an ancient bond that several ravages of history – Mongol and Afghan invasions, and British colonialism – could not cut. But this bond was finally ripped apart in 1947 when the two new nation states of India and Pakistan were formed. The Ferozepur road now forlornly runs through Lahore, hastily abandoning its destination at the first sight of armed soldiers, betraying the traveller.

Old Lahore

Located on this road, facing a modern multi-storey building, is the Gulab Devi hospital, which sprawls over an area of 40 acres, an indulgent expanse of space in an increasingly congested city.

For a young citizen, who has only known Pakistan, this name is likely to stand out. After Partition, this name would have been lost, just like the others, when the multi-religious Lahore of the past, with its several temples, gurdwaras, churches, mosques and dargahs, made way for a homogenous city.

Old names, guilty by association with what was seen as an “impure” past were hurriedly jettisoned to keep afloat a new nationalist project. Gulab Devi survived because the hospital is run by a Trust, and one of its conditions is that the hospital’s name cannot be changed.

Constructed in 1934, and inaugurated by M.K. Gandhi, the hospital is named after the mother of Lala Lajpat Rai, the prominent Indian National Congress leader and freedom fighter.

Gulab Devi had died in Lahore due to tuberculosis. Lala Lajpat Rai formed the trust in 1927, and intended to build a hospital in his mother’s memory. Unfortunately the following year, before he could see his dream come true, he died due to a blow to his head at the Lahore Railway Station where he was a leading a procession to protest against the Simon Commission.

The protest against the Simon Commission and the death of Lala Lajpat Rai prompted the Indian National Congress to form a commission to propose constitutional reforms for India.

The Nehru Report of 1928, written by Motilal Nehru, the president of Congress at that time, was a step towards the Congress’s demand for self-rule, or Purna Swaraj, from the British. The report demanded self-government under dominion status within the empire.

The Nehru Report was made possible because of Gandhi’s non-cooperation movement, which was launched in 1920 after his return from South Africa. As part of this movement, Lala Lajpat Rai founded the National College in Lahore to cater to the youth who were now boycotting British colonial institutes.

The road to self-rule

Located a few streets away from the office of the superintendent of police where freedom fighter Bhagat Singh and his comrades assassinated assistant superintendent of police John P Saunders to avenge the death of Lala Lajpat Rai, is the Bradlaugh Hall.

The red brick building is a beautiful amalgamation of colonial and indigenous architectural traditions, but is locked and has fallen into disrepair. This building used to house the National College that Lala Lajpat Rai set up. It is here that Bhagat Singh and his friends received their initial doses of nationalism. During Bhagat Singh’s trial in Lahore, his parents used to receive visitors and sympathisers outside this hall.

Even though Bhagat Singh had parted ways with the Indian National Congress after being disillusioned by what he perceived to be their passive nationalism, the impact of his revolutionary fervour resonated with the younger cadre of the Congress.

Jawaharlal Nehru had been appointed president of the Congress to take over from his father, Motilal Nehru, at the annual session of the Congress in Lahore in December 1929. Riding through the streets of the Lahore on a white horse, Jawaharlal Nehru, who had turned 40 just the previous month, arrived at the historic Congress session to proclaim “purna swaraj’ or complete independence, rejecting his father’s proposal for a new dominion status constitution for India.

The All India Home Rule League and the All India Muslim League too had favoured a dominion status, but leaders like Bal Gangadhar Tilak, Aurobindo and Bipin Chandra Pal argued for a complete separation from British rule. Jawaharlal Nehru and Subhas Chandra Bose agreed with them.

It was in this session in 1929 at Lahore that the Congress voted for complete independence as against a dominion status for India and passed a resolution fixing the last Sunday of January 1930 – which happened to be January 26 – as the Complete Independence Day.

On the midnight of December 31, 1929, on the eastern bank of the river Ravi, in the shadow of the Badshahi Masjid, Gurdwara Dera Sahib and the Lahore Fort, Jawaharlal Nehru raised the “swaraj” flag that was later adopted as the national flag of India. After Partition and Independence on August 15, 1947, Jawaharlal Nehru saw to it that India’s new constitution took effect on January 26, 1950, thus ensuring that it would not remain just a date in history.

Revisiting history

Not very far from where the Congress session took place, on the other end of the Ravi Road, is Iqbal Park, earlier known as Minto Park. At the centre of this historical park is a tall minaret, Minar-i-Pakistan. It commemorates the Lahore Resolution – that demanded provincial autonomy – which the Muslim League adopted here on March 23, 1940.

Gradually, after the creation of Pakistan, the resolution was appropriated as a demand for Pakistan, and was renamed Pakistan Resolution. Every year on March 23, the country celebrates Pakistan Day.

Every day, thousands of visitors descend upon Minar-i-Pakistan, paying homage to the founders of the country. In popular political discourse, politicians refer to the events of March 23 as a momentous moment in the history of Pakistan. Accolades are showered on Lahore, which is seen as the home of the movement that brought about Pakistan.

Perhaps consciously, or out of ignorance, Nehru’s declaration of independence, Lala Lajpat Rai’s protest against the Simon Commission, and Bhagat Singh’s sacrifice have now been forgotten in a city where these freedom fighters were warmly received once.

As India last week celebrated its Republic Day on January 26, the streets of Lahore carried on their business unaware of the role they once played in this shared history.

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

This blog was originally published on October 29, 2016.

The news first broke when I was in the north of Kashmir in Vijbal, a town of less than a hundred households.

My cousins had invited me for dinner as I was scheduled to leave for New Delhi right after Eid.

One of my friends from Tral, south of Kashmir, informed me through a Whatsapp text: Burhan Wani has been killed.

I didn’t believe him. It was just a rumour, I thought. Half an hour later, the Indian media erupted in celebration, announcing victory.

The party immediately began on Twitter and continued on television. “Burhan Wani elimination BIG NEWS,” tweeted Barkha Dutt of NDTV.

Abhijit Majumdar, the managing editor of Mail Today, chipped in: “with Burhan Wani's killing, Indian forces have eliminated entire gang of Facebook terror poster-boys of #Kashmir one after the other. Salute.”

Cars, trucks, and motorcycles began to honk mindlessly. My aunt worriedly asked her son to check if everything was alright.

Burhan gove shaheed (Burhan has been martyred), I told them.

They looked back at me in shock.

My aunt began to wail.

Ye kusu tawan cxunuth khudayoo (what tragedy did you send upon us, oh God), she lamented.

The heavens opened up at the same time and the sound of rain hitting the tin-roof of the house got louder.

I looked at my cousin, red-faced, eyes welling up, his body shivering.

His phone rang and he finally noticed on the fifth ring. It was my mother calling.

By the next morning, the internet was blocked. People were expecting mobile networks to be shut by the government as well in order to restrict communication in the valley.

People know how the state functions. The Indian state’s oppression is as routinised in war-time as it is in peace-time.

In-depth: The pursuit of Kashmir

People knew that in the coming days, the only way to communicate and find out what was going on would be to travel, on foot, from village to village. They knew that they had to avoid the highways which are constructed to allow smooth movement to Indian military convoys only.

'They know everything'

Rafiabad, the place where I live, is as militarised as any other place in Kashmir. Indian army camps are located every five kilometres from one another, allowing them to bring every village and its people under the army’s view.

The army knows the number of people in each household, including how many males and females, educated and uneducated, where they work, newborns, adults and old.

They have numbered our houses and categorised the localities. They have marked our streets, shops, playgrounds, even the apple orchards.

They know the size of our courtyards and backyards, as well as the the shape of our cowsheds.

They know everything.

As the protests and stone-pelting began, so did the congregational funeral prayers.

People began to count the dead. And the numbers kept rising.

The protest demonstrations kept swelling.

The campaign of killing, blinding, maiming and torturing people continued.

For more: Dispatch from Srinagar: Our nights are becoming longer and darker

The Pakistan bogey

The protests were a sign of the Indian state losing all ground. The divisions that they had constructed — Shia-Sunni, Muslim-non-Muslim, Kashmiri-Ladakhi, Tableeghi-Salafi, majority-minority — to obfuscate the truth went up in smoke as the air was now incensed with songs of freedom.

But in the newsrooms in India, it was the perennial threat that was being accused of fomenting the trouble. Pakistan, they said, was responsible for causing unrest in Kashmir.

Sometimes, one imagines, if Pakistan were to tectonically shift from here to Antarctica, where would the Indian state and its jingoistic media derive their narrative from?

Who will they blame for their own failure and guilt, their own deception and debauchery?

A confrontation

Soon after (dates have lost their significance) the death of Burhan Wani, people of Rafiabad assembled near the Eidgah in Achabal.

The announcement was made through the mosques’ loudspeakers. People from adjacent villages poured in as well. As the numbers kept rising, so did the volume of the slogans, causing panic inside the Indian army camp nearby.

As the protesters neared the army camp, two armoured vehicles blocked the way on one side.

Rest of the road was sealed with barbed wires. The demonstration came to a halt, but the sloganeering did not.

Soon, there was chaos.

Read next: What pellet guns have done to protesters in Kashmir

As stones were hurled at the armoured vehicles, more army men from the camp arrived and started moving toward the protesters with guns and lathis. A few protesters started to turn back.

A direct confrontation with the Indian army, we are told by our elders, should be avoided. But some among the protesters didn’t relent and stood their ground firm.

Several of them were later picked up. All security installations in Kashmir are equipped with high-quality surveillance cameras to keep watch on the people's every movement.

From the footage, they identified the persons who were at the forefront of the march. They knew who these men were. They knew their addresses. They could pick them up from inside their bedrooms.

Inside the camp, they were tortured. One of the boys later told me about how they were made to stand naked, abused, spat on, and beaten with guns, sticks and belts till their bodies bled. They were given death threats and some were even made to jump naked in the river. Yet, after he came out of the prison, he was determined to protest again.

Another boy, in his pre-teens, lying flat in his room, smiled as I entered to see him. He didn’t appear to have been affected by the torture at all.

He was waiting for a bandage to be removed from his back. “I remember the face of the army man who beat me up”, he said, “I won’t spare him”.

He was clearly enraged. He wanted to avenge what was done to him.

It is this anger and this sense of revenge, especially among the youth, which the ‘experts’ on Kashmir amplify and manipulate to present the issue as a problem of inteqaam (revenge) alone.

They also see in the youth a rage informed by religious extremism.

Building a false narrative

For years now, these Kashmir ‘experts’ have dedicated all their energy and resources to maintain control over the Kashmir narrative that comes on TV screens and newspapers.

In April this year, when an Indian army trooper was accused of molesting a teenage female student in Kupwara, a group of reporters were dispatched from New Delhi to report the aftermath in which five protesters were killed, including a woman.

The Kashmiri reporters working for various Indian media organisations, barring a few exceptions, were asked to stand down or take leave of absence or just assist the reporters airdropped from New Delhi.

While the reporters filed contradictory versions of the actual incident, India’s Kashmir ‘experts’ were quick to process the information and construct a narrative which helped the government to systematically shift the focus from the molestation to the protests.

Praveen Swami, one of India’s leading Kashmir ‘experts’, a journalist who has the audacity to tell Kashmiris that he knows more about Kashmir than Kashmiris themselves, tried to historicise the violent protests. For him, “the underlying crisis in Kashmir needs to be read against the slow growth, from the 1920s, of neo-fundamentalist proselytising movements.”

He implied that allegations of sexual violence against an Indian army man do not merit any protests as per secular traditions and only religious movements, like the Jamiat Ahl-i-Hadith and Jamaat-i-Islami, can inspire people to take such a recourse.

Two more ‘experts,’ David Devadas and Aarti Tickoo Singh, whose writings have a clear streak of right-wing bigotry, indulged in victim blaming and in theologising the movement for self-determination in Kashmir.

Also read: Modi has become a prisoner of his own image

Devadas wrote that the different “narratives emphasise that unarmed ‘civilians’ were killed by armed forces, with no reference to the fact that the mobs attacked an army bunker and a camp before the army retaliated”. Four months later, Devadas said that “it still isn't clear what exactly lies at the heart of the current unrest.”

Aarti Tickoo Singh believes that in 2010 “stone pelting phenomenon that led to the death of over 100 youth during clashes with the forces was restricted to urban poor Sunni Muslim youth in Srinagar”. She also cites a study by Indian police officials that “lack of entertainment resources and Saudi-funded religious radicalisation” motivate the youth towards violence.

These ‘experts’ have time and again warned the people of Kashmir about the capabilities of the Indian State: you will be killed if you come out on the streets.

For them, the responsibility of Kashmiris getting killed by an Indian soldier is on the Kashmiris and not on the Indian state.

However, their ideological manipulations have been of little consequence to the people of Kashmir.

Men, women, young and old, come out daily in the streets of Kashmir with the slogan: Hum kya chahtey? Azaadi!

Freedom, self-determination and the right to live in peace are innate to a people. No matter how much violence the Indian state resorts to and no matter how much the country’s media manipulates the narrative surrounding what’s going on in Kashmir, the people of Kashmir will keep coming out on the streets to demand for their rights.

In a police state, we all live on a knife’s edge. And the slightest error in judgment on part of a citizen may have lethal consequences. This ever-present fear is inconsistent with our vision of a free country.

Several things might happen as you drive your Corolla through a police check-post. One of them is death, as we recently found out, following the fatal shooting of a young man named Taimur who failed to stop his vehicle when reportedly flagged down. That is rare, but is in line with the culture of excess that inhabits law enforcement agencies in our country.

You’re driving an ‘Applied For’ vehicle around Islamabad and before you’ve had the chance to soak up the new car smell, you might find yourself being stopped by a police officer at a check-post. You may present all pertinent legal documents, none of which may dissuade the officer into letting you go. An exhausting verbal exchange may ensue, which the officer will attribute to the current ‘security situation’ and the need for them to thoroughly investigate you.

This ‘investigation’ may possibly culminate in a polite request for ‘chai’ as part of your celebration of a new car. At this point, you may decide that Rs200 is a fair price to effectively terminate this interaction and get back to your business, and you may choose to oblige the officer’s request.

On another occasion, you may find yourself being stopped on a highway being asked to present a mythical ‘No Objection Certificate’ that you never knew you required. Your car, with a license plate from Islamabad, may find itself being inexplicably flagged down in Lahore. Why? Ostensibly, you have violated a law that you had never heard of until that day. Again, you see, it’s because of your country’s terrible 'security situation'.

You may have had the misfortune of having a female colleague or friend in the passenger seat, and having a torch light flashed in your face by a police officer six minutes later, investigating your relationship with the “ladies” – always plural, for some reason. You may argue that this does not concern the officer, and the officer may argue back that this is somehow part of his job due to the dire 'security situation'.

When this has happened to you five or six times, even you – a law-abiding citizen – might find yourself cowering behind the steering wheel, and passing through a police check-post like you’re smuggling narcotics. You may even be tempted to ignore the police officer who’s telling you to stop, which we now know, may get you killed.

One may expect this drastic measure should a vehicle attempt to barge its way into the GHQ or the Secretariat. But when this starts happening at an ordinary police check-post – like the two or three you pass every day from home to work in the twin cities – you may end up reevaluating the value of a citizen’s life in Pakistan.

Generally speaking, we’ve been conditioned to direct the blame at ourselves foremost, before directing it at power structures that ought to change their mode of operation. Social media users have been quick to condemn Taimur for his own death, as part of a larger point about the need to obey rules, as if none of them ever ran a red light, or engaged in any other non-violent offence. This does not even address the controversy that, according to Taimur’s family, the CCTV footage does not show his car being flagged down by the police at all.

For the past decade, the authorities have been overplaying the ‘security’ card, steadily steamrolling one civil right after another before our very eyes. The ‘security’ card has been employed ad nauseum to justify the cumbersome bureaucracy and the most frightful corruption. And this has occurred simultaneously in open view of government’s own cavalier attitude toward security like continuing to use fake bomb detectors at airports and other high-value facilities.

In this political environment, it is not only a terrorist who attempts to run through a police check-post. Making the same error in judgment is also a disgruntled citizen who is fed up of police corruption and the relentless loss of personal and civil liberty. And while not stopping when flagged by police is not ideal behaviour, we ought to agree that in a civilised state, this error shouldn’t necessarily lead to death by gunfire.

Lamentably, our response is not to address the bureaucracy, corruption and the sheer despotism, but to have the public simply adapt to these chronic maladies. A good, productive citizen stuck at a check-post ought to blame nothing more than his own kismet, and think only of what he can do to adjust to the reality.

On February 3, Taimur was shot to death by the police who then reportedly fled the scene.

For whose security this police check-post existed, I do not know. But I know it did not keep this 27-year-old Pakistani safe.

Have you been unnecessarily inconvenienced by authorities in your day to day life? Tell us about it at blog@dawn.com

On January 27, US President Donald Trump signed an Executive Order which barred nationals of seven Muslim-majority countries from traveling to the US for 90 days, as well as indefinitely suspending the intake of Syrian refugees.

The controversial move was widely criticised. Most world leaders, large sections of the international media, and the general public voiced their disapproval in unison.

The strongest opposition came from within the US and, within a few days, the courts struck down the Order, at least temporarily.

People in Pakistan were also critical of Trump’s decision, especially since it was suggested that the ban might be extended to Pakistan as well.

But Imran Khan, whose Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf governs Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and is the third-largest party in the National Assembly, had a different take on the issue.

Addressing a party rally, Imran Khan said he “prayed” that the US stops granting visas to Pakistanis so that “we could work for fixing our own country”.

I was not surprised at all. Imran has a habit of saying ludicrous things, which he either has to retract or clarify later.

Time and again, Imran has proven is a reactionary leader. He is keen on riding populist waves and feeds on nationalist rhetoric, all the while ignoring the realities of the country.

His views here are not too different from those of Trump, who proposes the isolationist agenda of 'America First'.

Before making such statements, it would have helped if Imran had checked the facts.

According to the State Bank of Pakistan, the country's foreign exchange reserves were $23.19 billion at the end of 2016. Remittances by expats stood at $19.91 billion, which is roughly 85 percent of the total foreign reserves.

Of these $19.91 billion, the highest contribution came from Pakistan’s living in Saudi Arabia at $5.96 billion. Pakistanis in the US sent around $2.52 billion back to their home country. This amount is higher than the $1.77 billion at which K-Electric was sold to Shanghai Electric.

Travel restrictions on visa and green card holders will not only be a blow to concerned individuals and families, but will also have a crippling effect on the Pakistani economy.

No sane leader would pray for such a situation, let alone a leader who promises to develop Pakistan.

According to Imran Khan, “The day there is a government that decides it has to live and die in Pakistan, it will fix this country. The biggest issue here is the corruption of bigwigs who ... become ministers and loot this country, taking the money abroad.”

Yes, but the bigwigs of corruption do not need visas to stash their money abroad. There are plenty of other ways to send money to foreign bank accounts or offshore companies. If Pakistanis are banned from living and working in the US, it is the lower-middle and middle classes and students who will suffer the most – not the rich and the powerful.

Questioning the loyalty of Pakistanis living in the US is distasteful. Hardworking immigrants deserve to be respected and honoured instead of being demeaned. Their contributions to both the US and Pakistan should be celebrated.

Even if Pakistanis were barred from the US, it doesn’t necessarily mean that they will shift their wealth and families back to Pakistan. They would rather look to move to another Western country, where they will continue to find better opportunities.

Pakistan’s economic ills cannot simply be blamed on the lack of investment in the country. To attract investment from its citizens living abroad, Pakistan needs to create favourable economic and political conditions. Forcing expats to bring their money to Pakistan is no magic solution when the overall situation of the country remains dismal.

During a time of globalisation, we should be looking for Pakistanis to gain international experience. Lack of global exposure for its people will make the country a poorer place in terms of human resources.

We need to accept that Pakistan’s education system is abysmal and the country’s job market doesn't have the absorption capacity. It’s normal that in such a situation, people will move to look for a better life. It’s their right to do so.

Imran has hit another low after his disparaging comments on Pakistani immigrants. His statement drew criticism and shock not only from within Pakistan, but also from overseas Pakistanis. One Pakistani-American attorney said that such a demand from a national leader was beyond comprehension.

In an age where the reputation of a country is measured by how many countries its citizens can enter without visas, we should be striving for Pakistanis to have an easier right of way when it comes to international travel.

Imran should realise that a ban on Pakistanis travelling to any country will only bring further humiliation and shame, not benefits.

Have you been affected by Trump's Muslim ban? Tell us about it at blog@dawn.com

My grandfather Morris wasn’t even 14 years old when he had to flee Kozmyn, a small village in Russia, by himself in 1904. Geopolitics had invaded the young boy’s life. The Czar’s soldiers had come to take him and all the Jewish boys away to fight the Japanese east of Siberia, thousands of miles from the home he knew and loved.

If he had gone with them, he would have never come back. Even if he had somehow managed to survive the Czar’s expansionist war with Japan in East Asia and return home, him and his family would have met the same end as the Jews of Kozmyn a few decades later. They were all brutally murdered by the Nazis and their Ukrainian collaborators.

My grandfather knew what his fate would've been if he didn’t escape, and so he ran in the opposite direction. He kept running until he found refuge in America, the goldeneh medinah (promised land) for Eastern European Jews around the turn of the last century. He never saw his parents again, but he lived and was blessed to start his own family. Refuge in America saved my grandfather.

That’s my story. And that’s why I cannot stand idly by when my government slams its doors on others desperate for refuge in our times.

As a believing Jew, God’s word in the Torah tells me to be kind to strangers and I take the Torah to heart. Ideally, people everywhere should know the heart of the stranger. Every one of our hearts should feel the burdens and pain of others. All of us should stand up for the oppressed even if we ourselves haven't had to face insecurity, exclusion or worse.

However, it seems to be human nature to do the opposite. So many of us close our eyes and pretend we just don’t see the suffering of others. But I simply cannot close my eyes.

I know my own family’s and my people’s historical experience, and it's echoing in what's happening to others today. I imagine my grandfather as 14-year-old Morris from Kozmyn and I think of 14-year-old Muhammad from Kobane, whose home was bombed, lives in a refugee camp, and now needs medical treatment in America – but is being kept out either through outright bans or by other forms of restrictions.

As the Torah tells me, I cannot stand idly by. I must stand strong in militant solidarity to protect him and thousands upon thousands of others. I know the heart of the stranger, for we have been strangers – more times than we can remember.

Besides being born a Jew, I had the good fortune to come into this world 65 years ago with all the rights and responsibilities of an American citizen. This gives me particular opportunities and, consequently, obligations to act.

When the singular intricacies of the arcane US electoral system bizarrely places the levers of state power into the hands of an unconscionable madman, I'm privileged to be able to respond as an American. And, because I can, I must – until this dark storm passes.

Along with millions of other Americans, I'm doing what I can to resist. Acting together in thousands of different ways, we'll turn back the onslaught of chaos erupting all around us.

In the past two weeks, I’ve marched in protests with hundreds of thousands in the streets. I've written and called my members of Congress. I deleted the Uber app when its CEO exploited the plight of refugees stranded at JFK airport in New York City to make a few more bucks.

And, I made a special point of ordering a Starbucks cappuccino for a stranger on the street when its CEO announced that he'll hire 10,000 refugees to work at his stores in the next two years. I’m tweeting, writing and protesting.

Yet, protest isn't enough. I'm committing myself to more long-term engagement on a grassroots level in cleaning up the Democratic Party. We need winning candidates in the future who'll inspire voters to reverse the unparalleled assault on freedoms and civil liberties in America.

I've decided to run in an internal Democratic Party election in March so we can replace the establishment wing of the party that imposed the nomination of Hillary Clinton upon us, a nomination which failed and brought this unprecedented turmoil.

But at the same time, effective political action, vitally important as it is, is not enough. As a believer and a religious person, I can do more than politics. And, because I can do more, I must.

My own soul’s connection with God gives me a deep, heartfelt connection with religious people of all kinds. I know I'm one with all others on a far deeper level than shared politics. I resonate deeply with others when God fills their hearts and moves them toward compassionate action.

I feel that especially with my Muslim brothers and sisters. It's a connection that surprises other Americans and Jews. I know that I can walk into a masjid anywhere and pray together with others, whose souls are yearning to open the channels of love and righteous action.

I can bend my knees and bow my head to the floor, submitting my physical presence in this world, shoulder to shoulder with many brothers of different mothers, whether they were born in Karachi or California, in Peshawar or Pennsylvania.

A few nights ago, I walked into the masjid in my neighbourhood in Vancouver, Canada, where I've been living for the past 20 years. In response to the murder of six Canadian Muslims at prayer in their masjid in Quebec City, hundreds gathered in our local mosque, the Masjid al-Jamia, founded by Pakistani immigrants more than 50 years ago. We opened our hearts to each other and to the One above us. We prayed, simply stood and sat still together in love and solidarity in space that was safe for everyone.

With the blessing of the imam and trustees of the masjid, I brought my shofar – a ram’s horn that issues a call known to Jews across the world. Our Jewish religious tradition has wielded the shofar for 3,000 years to raise a cry of alarm, wake the slumbering, and alert us in times of danger.

Most importantly, the wordless cry calls us to attention and militant resistance to the dangers attacking our communities, whether internal or external. Hearing the shofar, we look inwardly to clear any fog in our minds and see clearly what we must do to respond.

The shofar also calls us to remember the promise that one day in the future – may it not be distant – we will be called to live with each other everywhere in a world filled with universal peace and love.

Until that time, I must do what I can for all those in need, just as my grandfather Morris was all those years ago.

Have you ever participated in inter-faith solidarity? Tell us about it at blog@dawn.com

From a Pakistani TV soap character

Dear … sob sob … Sartaj Trump …

Please …sob sob … sartaj, don’t put a travel ban on us. Please don’t behave like my mother-in-law … sob sob … even though, I think it is my fault, all my fault … sob sob.

Dear sartaj sir, my husband is having an affair and sob sob … well, I think it is my fault, all my fault. Ban me, just me. Not him … sob sob.

As I write this, tears are rolling down my sunken-pale cheeks … sob sob. But then, tears roll down my cheeks even when I am ordering pizza or just passing the ketchup on the dinner table. Sob sob … always rolling down, always, always … sob sob … my fault, my fault, sartaj, just mine.

Ban me, but not the men from Yemen … just the women. They deserve it. Just like I do. Sob … sob.

Dear, Saddar sartaj I … I … sob sob … I … I understand why you are doing this. Men know best. You are a man thus you know best. Best man. Sartaj man … sob sob.

Tears are rolling down my boney cheeks thinking about what evil people did to good people of United Men of America. The horror, the pain, the barbarity of the Bowling Green Massacre! Sob sob Must be the evil refugee women. It’s always the women.

Ban them, deport them, sartaj. But not the men. They will repopulate Bowling Green with more men. Cute little men. With nappies and goo-goo sounds. And then they will grow up and beat and cheat stupid refugee women. They deserve it. The only good woman is a sobbing woman!

Yours in tears, sobs & hiccups,

Saleema … sob sob.

From a Pakistani TV talk show anchor

Dear Mr Trump (dramatic music)

It is surprising that you have not uttered a single word on Panama Leaks. Why? Indeed, you are a better person than that liberal-fascist Obama, but it is important that you condemn corruption. In Pakistan. On my channel.

I like your style. It’s just like mine, even though I believe I foam in the mouth a lot more quickly than you do. But you are getting there.

Sir, Panama Leaks is a major international issue. In Pakistan. On my channel.

Yet, you have said nothing about it. Why? Are you trying to defend your asset in Islamabad?

We know our PM is a US stooge. He’s an Indian stooge as well. So, logically, you would like to protect him. But, sir, let me warn you, he is also a Chinese stooge and an Iranian stooge. He is being hypnotised by a very dangerous man Najam Sethi, who is a member of a secret illuminati Manchurian think-tank called Apas Ki Baat. He is the one who planned the Bowling Green Massacre. I have proof of this. Check my tweets.

So, if you want to put a travel ban on Pakistan, put it on our PM first.

You must rage foam-in-the-mouth about the corrupt mafia of Pakistan. You must call us the most corrupt country in the world. Sir, all I am trying to do is set a positive image of Pakistan.

Anyway, I’ll be back after this commercial break.

Zalima Coca-Cola pila dey …

Did you see that? The hold Jews have in Pakistan? Yes, they pay for TV shows like mine, but I never ever use their products. Never. *Burp … excuse me.*

So, Mr President, when are you going to give a statement on Panama Leaks? Or will you send a letter to defend our corrupt PM, like that Qatari prince did?

However, if you are planning to send a letter, please send one for my boss too, the owner of the TV channel I work for. He is being attacked by a diabolical Yemeni liberal-fascist conspiracy! I’m sure you can understand and empathise with that.

Rest assured, if you do send a letter in the defence of my boss, then my channel will hail your Muslim travel ban. We will support all of your polices, and even dye our hair orange.

Until then, I am sending you cuttings on the corruption of our PM from the most popular, credible and influential newspaper in the world: Roznama Rona (Daily Whining). In Pakistan. On my channel.

Yours fellow foaming-in-the-mouth chum,

Sohail Jan (dramatic music).

From a ‘Liberal’ Pakistani:

Dear President,

Even though I am opposed to oppose your policies, I understand and even support your stand against radical Muslims. I believe your travel ban is a good move, even though I can’t stand your other moves. I am mostly politically correct in my thinking, but I am willing to change that for this.

However, Mr President, keep in mind that there are good folks like me in Pakistan too. We are only a handful, but we can help you identify radical Muslims. But for this, we need to be in the US. In other words, by all means ban Pakistanis, but not us.

If you agree, then, who knows, we might also decide to support some other policies of yours which we are opposing. Or should be opposing. Should we? Kindly guide.

I totally agree that radical Muslims are a menace. However, dear President, though you may let loose your racist pooches on them, but you’ll be needing liberals like me as well. A liberal pooch will not be trampled by the media like a racist pooch would. Think about it.

I can be of great service to your cause because I can rationalise your travel ban by highlighting the dangers of serving halal food in the economy class of a plane. And I believe, this is exactly what caused the Bowling Green Massacre. This and falafel! I plan to read a paper on this at a university on my next trip to the US.

Down with terrorist Muslims (disguised as refugees). Ban them all. But please, Mr President, save the whales.

Thank you.

Yours selectively,

Hamid Sheikh (aka Hammy)

From a reactionary Pakistani troll

Deer Trump,

Hails from bastion of Muslim faith in Asia!! Want to inform you that you will be surprise to know that thousands of Pakistanis like me, in factual fact, millions and billions patriot Pakistani faithfuls hail your ban!!!

Surprise?? Hahaha. Let me explaining. If you put ban on travel of Pakistanis to America, this way there will be no drain brain. All brains will remain in Pakistan. Drain, brain, remain. Poetry! Hahaha.

We have finest brains in whole wide earth. But most of fine brains are in heads of traitors and liberal fascists. So I urge you to put ban on Pakistani. Because then they remain in Pakistan and not be able to drain to US. And when they remain in Pakistan and not drain to US, we can smash their heads, pull out brain and put brain in heads of true Pakistani patriots and faithfuls, making them jeaniuses.

Trump, we know you hates us. We fine with that. We want you to hate us. In factual fact tell us what else can we do to make you hates us more and more?! The more and more you hates us the more and more we get strong more and more we able to stop drain brain and more and more smash heads. Jeanius plan, right?

This will do wonders for bastion of faith and patriots. For exemplary, look at me. Of course you can’t look at me because I am writing letter. Hahahaha.

But see how well I write. Remember poetry in upper sentence? This because I once smash head of poet and put his brain in my head.

I wanted to smash head of another liberal fascist but he run away to US. Why I wanted to smash?

Because when I put fine brain in my head, he laugh. I ask, why you laugh, you traitor? He said ‘brain go in head, not in knee.’ What that means? Not poetry at all. Keep him.

Yours surprise ally,

@ShaukatPakJan007_666

Letter from Adnan Sami Khan

Dear Mr President,

First of all, I want to clarify that I am an ex-Pakistani. Please, bear this in mind, when you read this letter. I am now a full-fledged citizen of India and no more the miserable Pakistani that I once was.

I am writing to you to congratulate you on your fantastic victory in this year’s election; and, more so, on your brave, bold and visionary decision to ban travelers from seven Muslim countries. However, I must confess, I was rather surprised and shocked to note that Pakistan’s name wasn’t on the list.

Being a former Pakistani, I can tell you with certainty, Pakistan is a terrorist state. It has always been a terrorist state. Every Pakistani is a terrorist. This is not to suggest that I too was a terrorist when I was a Pakistani. I was kept in that country against my will and was fed lots of beef dishes.

Truth is, I tried to escape from Pakistan the moment I was born. But, alas, I was caught by a terrorist nurse who then tortured me by lifting me from my tiny feet and slapping me across the backside. Can you imagine the horror and the humiliation?

Well, I was forcibly beefed up by toxic terrorist meat, but never did I let go of my dream of one day escape and settle in the only true country in the region: India.

You see, Mr President, all our ancestors, yours including, came from India. This was told to me by one of the greatest scientists of India, Dr H Gobin Chandrasekhar. Yes, the same guy who first discovered and proved that ancient Indians were using nuclear-powered vacuum-cleaners more than 10,000 years ago.

I also want to thank you for planning a fruitful working relationship with our Prime Minister, the great and mighty Narendra Modi. He has promised me that after India annihilates Pakistan with its brilliant strategic strikes, he will personally punish that cruel nurse who tortured me when I was just a few minutes old. Terrorist witch!

Mr President, I urge you to put Pakistan’s name on the ban list. Pakistani travelers will destroy your great country like they destroyed me. My backside still hurts, you know.

Yours,

Adnan Sami (aka Indiana Jones)

Letter from Tahir Shah

Dear Mister Trumpet,

Greetings from ann-gel country of mankind. My heart beated loudly when an ann-gel tell me that United Kingdom of America might keep my beloved Pakistan name on a travel band list. Mister Trumpet, don’t do that.

We are peaceful country, Mr Tambourine, lonely for youuuu, like an ann-gel, our heart is like a rooosse, mankind’s owwwn …

I remembers, first time when I travel to United Kingdom of America city of New Zealand, and my jet plane land on runaway of Tom F. Kidney Airport, I was greeted by powdery white womens and cute, snowy childrens. There was peace and love and harmony and joyful singings of two countries’ national anthems. It felt like teen spirit. Mr Tom, don’t band.

Dearful President, band list mirror terrible hate between mankinds of two humankinds. After all, within every humankind is an ann-gel. All one has to do is look inside his throat in the belly deep bellow to finds him. Only then will you understand what I am sayings. Lonely for youuuu, like an ann-gel, our heart is like a rooosse, mankind’s owwwn …

My strings of the heart weep loudly when I hear about Bowling Alley Massacre. Dear President Toblerone, it wasn’t ann-gels of mankind country. It wasn’t mankinds of Yemen, Somalia, Sudan, Iran, Syria, Iraq, Babylon or Aladdin. But, dearest Mr Chairman of the Board, they may be also peoples of Ethiopia, Guatemala or even planet Pluto. But ann-gel in my belly bellow tells me, why blame one mankind or another humankind for bum blasts?

All have ann-gels and devils. But why punish innocent peaceful ann-gels? Mr Toblerone, don’t band. Or you will become alone. Like a mermaid.

Yours eye-to-eye,

Tahir Shah

BS: Keep following in mind, Mr Tim: Don’t be like lonely mermaid. All mankind are ann-gels hugging lovely peoples at United Nations Council. Piece.

Disclaimer: This article is categorised as satire.

From inside a straw hut she had built, Meeran pulled out a small, woven basket and opened the lid covered in a swatch of azure blue fabric. With quick, nimble fingers she nudged the coiled cobra sleeping in the folds of a dusty pale cloth. The four-foot-long snake rose up, and, displeased at being awakened, began to sway, spreading its hood. Its eyes were level with Meeran’s steady gaze.

I was in Sobharo Shah, a small village 50 kilometres from Mithi, the capital of the Tharparkar district in Sindh. Sobharo Shah is one of the many small settlements in the vast desert where Meeran and her nomadic Jogi tribe live.

The Jogis make a living working the land during harvest season, earning a tidy sum in the process. During the rest of the year though, they trek by foot in the Tharparkar desert, performing snake shows and selling handicrafts. They can be identified by the quilted bags slung on their shoulders, in which they carry cobras and the snake charmer’s flute, a been.

As an anthropologist from Tharparkar who has worked with the Jogis, I had heard about a female snake charmer – the first female jogi or jogan, a fearless woman who had caught some of the finest cobras. My search for her had begun in Mithi.

“The jogan lives in the village by the tube well,” said the locals I met by the roadside, as I drove along the endless sand dunes of Tharparkar with my photographer. It was wintertime, and the temperatures during the day were a comfortable 25 degrees Celsius. The nights were cooler.

From the beginning

Amid a cluster of small huts made of mud and straw, we found Meeran, 50, tending to her two goats and cow. She was friendly. A smile broke out on her face, as we came closer.

She laid down a rilli, a handmade patchwork quilt, that was much too small for all of us, so we ended up sitting on the sand. In the winter chill, the grains felt biting cold on the palms of my hands. Meeran seemed perfectly at ease.

Locals walked past us, wrapped in black shawls shot through with glowing coloured thread. Meeran stood out among them – she was dressed simply in an ajrak print ghagra and a top called a polka. Around her neck was a beaded necklace, and on her finger was a dull gold ring. She lit a cigarette and called to her daughter to bring tea. Smiling, she began her story.

“My husband was a Jogi, but he was afraid to touch the cobras,” said Meeran. “Whenever he ventured into the desert to catch snakes, he would take me along.”

Upon spotting a burrow, her husband would lure out the cobra, using the techniques the Jogis have perfected over generations. When the snake would surface out of the pit, he would pin its head down with a stick – and then call his wife. Meeran would reach over and grab the cobra with her bare hands and help place it in a basket.

After her husband died in 2007 from a heart attack, Meeran decided to continue catching snakes. But her first chance came two years later.

Meeran was working in the cotton fields with her daughter when a snake slithered past the daughter’s foot. “All the workers ran away from the field,” Meeran told me. Terrified, her daughter kept exhorting Meeran to get away. Meeran had another idea: “I wanted to keep the cobra.”

Breaking a branch from the nearest tree, Meeran followed the snake’s trail. Snakes are at an advantage in the sand, which allows them to move faster and disappear easily into the shifting earth. But there was no sand here, only a river nearby and the stony ground. Meeran soon caught up with the cobra.

Pinning its head to the ground with the branch, she lifted it with her hands. Her daughter screamed and begged her to drop the serpent. Other workers stood around stunned. Meeran took her quilt bag and, placing the cobra inside, hung the satchel from a tree branch.

She then calmly resumed her work in the field. Later, she took the cobra home and kept it in the basket that once belonged to her husband.

Meeran’s fearlessness was evident on the day we met.

The cobra in the basket was a recent catch and easily provoked. It shared the basket with some gems, trinkets and a small smooth stone called a mann.

The mann, the Jogis believe, has powers to heal. It is formed when the sand accumulating in the belly of the snake mixes with its poison. Snake bites are often treated by placing the mann on the wound, which “sucks the poison out of the body”.

Meeran slowly began to push the cobra back down into the basket. There was a second, younger snake in the quilt bag, she told us. “If the basket is left open, the cobra will eat the younger snake.”

Everything in the basket was for sale, other than the cobra and the mann, Meeran said, as she closed the lid, the cobra retreating into the basket.

I had spent years following the Jogis, writing about their culture and lives. But there was still much about their rituals and beliefs that remained mysterious.

On Meeran’s forehead, for instance, was a tattoo of a celestial body, which she said was the moon. To my eyes, it appeared like a star. On each of Meeran’s eyebrows was a tattooed line. She would not tell me their meaning, other than saying that the heavens were an inextricable part of the Jogis’ belief system.

Life had not been easy for Meeran. She had seven daughters and one son. Two of her daughters – both married within the community – had been abandoned by their husbands, a common occurrence among the Jogis.

There was no ostensible reason for the abandonment, said Meeran. “There are a lot of problems in our homes. But we seldom go to the police. We try and solve the issues amongst ourselves.” Meeran’s daughters had moved back in with their mother.

As we were chatting, her youngest daughter, a 20-year-old, came to sit by her side. I asked the young woman if she had ever tried to catch a snake. “No,” she replied. “Even my brother cannot catch snakes. It is very dangerous.” Meeran smiled.

It was this past fall that Meeran became really famous. She had moved to Nagarparkar, near River Hakra in Tharparkar district. She was busy setting up her straw home when a cobra appeared. There were many Jogis present, but no one had a stick to pin the snake down. It was a large-sized serpent, more than five feet long. The Jogis there decided it was dangerous and futile to catch it. Meeran disagreed.

She asked a Jogi to play the been before the cobra. The snake paused. No one dared approach it. Meeran crawled up stealthily from behind and caught the cobra by its head with her hands. “I felt immense pride that day, being a woman amongst all the snake catchers. I felt I had proven myself to the community.”

The women of the Jogi tribe mostly tend to crops and the home. At times, they go out begging. Catching and training snakes was the men’s domain.

The harvest season in Tharparkar was coming to an end. The Jogis were going to migrate again soon. Meeran’s family would join the caravan, taking along their goats and cow.

Along the way, the Jogis would look out for snakes. Meeran was hoping to catch a big cobra for herself.

“The cobra is our identity,” Meeran said, with a smile, taking a deep puff of her cigarette.

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

Last month, North America witnessed instances of blatant Islamophobia and religious and racial hatred.

Not long after the new American president Donald Trump announced a visa ban on seven Muslim-majority countries and a hold on the intake of Syrian refugees, a mosque in Quebec City, Canada, was attacked by a shooter that killed half a dozen worshippers.

Trump's ban has since been made non-functional by a court and the Quebec shooter apprehended, but the shock doesn't subside so easily.

The following is a selection of reactions by Dawn.com's readers in Canada and the United States after what happened in their respective countries.

"Inshallah this madness will be stopped"

"I am Canadian, Jewish, born in Egypt, raised in Montreal and married to a Protestant from Scotland. Our children are proud to be enriched by so many different cultures.

I, like many Jews, decry the horrible terrorist attack on the mosque in Quebec City which claimed the lives and well being of so many, including the sense of security and peace of mind of the community.

Like many of my generation, my parents fled persecution in Nasser’s Egypt, a country which my parents loved and where they had felt welcome. The Cairo synagogue where my parents were to be married was burned to the ground. Fortunately, it was empty at the time. By comparison to the annihilation of our European brethren at the hands of Hitler and his Nazi murderers, our journey was relatively easy.

Once in Quebec, suspicion and intolerance of the ‘other’ amongst a small group of racist pure laine [those of 'pure' ancestry] was present. In those days, when the Catholic church still held sway, we were not allowed to attend French schools although we were French speaking. Sal Juif (dirty jew) and swastikas were part of our experience. On the whole, however, Canada was and is a great and welcoming country.

Sadly, the former government of Quebec, Marine Le Pen in France, Trump in the US and others have fanned the flames of hatred against Muslims. Terrorism perpetrated by Al Qaeda, IS, Boko Haram, Assad and others towards fellow Muslims primarily, but also towards others, has contributed to the creation of a very hostile environment for law-abiding Muslims in our country and elsewhere.

Inshallah, this madness will be stopped.

"These policies and speech do not represent us"

"I live in California and the current political climate has made things very uncertain for Muslims and Pakistanis. I follow Pakistani media and although the media in Pakistan portrays as if everything is going south, I would like to share what my neighbours just sent me:"

"I worry about tomorrow"

"Last semester, my biggest worry was what grade I would get in my next assignment. This time around, I worry about whether I am even going to be here tomorrow. It scares and saddens me to know that so many others just like me have been denied the opportunity to live the dreams they worked so hard to achieve."

"I am angry!"

“I am angry! My husband and I discussed moving back to Pakistan and we are both grateful to have that option. This entire thing just shows how ridiculous people were who said not to take Trump seriously.”

"I feel really unsafe"

"I am terrified because despite hearing about Islamophobia, this is the first time I feel that I am personally targeted. There are people who have worked really hard to build their lives here and they are not allowed to come home. For the first time since moving to the US, I feel really unsafe and it feels as if I can’t plan my future."

"These policies have heightened my concerns about my future"

"As a Muslim student studying in the United States, I believe Trump’s discriminatory policies regarding the Muslim community are very disturbing. These policies have heightened my concerns about my safety and future in the country."

"It makes no sense"

"It makes no sense. The choice of countries for this ban, the time duration – nothing makes sense. But I don’t feel any less unsafe than I did when I first moved here. I never expected a warm welcome being Pakistani and Muslim. I would just like to see how Trump’s foreign policy shapes up now. I feel horrible for the people who have been detained at airports and who find themselves suddenly belonging nowhere."

"I am inspired by how people have responded"

"I am frustrated by how the ideals an entire country claims to embody can be forgotten, and such blatant discrimination can be made lawful overnight. However, I am also very inspired by how the people of New York have responded. They stood up even though they were not directly affected by this policy. I am frustrated, but at the same time I want to express my gratitude for getting to live in a city with a strong sense of community and responsibility.”

"I am stunned"

"I am not concerned or scared for myself, but I am stunned by the way people are being treated across the country – people who had proper visas. I am also concerned for those Pakistanis who are looking for jobs here."

"We are living in a different America now"

"Seeing the collapse of liberal America right in front of my eyes has been heart-wrenching. President Trump was sworn into office on a Friday and I saw a police officer stationed outside the local mosque during the Friday prayers. This was only the second time during my stay that there had to be an officer present during the prayers. The first time was in late 2016 when the mosque was shot at in the middle of the night. The ensuing outpouring of love from the local community didn't let the incident get to us. We shrugged it off as an act of a deranged individual. But seeing the officer outside the mosque on inauguration day for no apparent threat gave me a much-needed dose of reality. It was then that I realised that things aren't going to be the same anymore. We were living in a different America now."

"The Executive Order meant to create division but it created unity"

"It is true that every action has a reaction, but sometimes, actions bear unwanted reactions. Trump's Executive Order meant to create division but it created unity. The long-term consequences of this order are yet to be established, but it is clear that currently it has created harmony and support in favour of Muslims. American people are seeing the tolerant aspect of Muslims. This is in direct contradiction of what the media has been portraying about Islam and Muslims."

For many members of threatened minority communities, places of worship offer solace. Last year, more than 70 Christians were killed while celebrating Easter in a park in 2016. The forced conversion of Hindu girls and the marginalisation of community members have been among other factors fuelling feelings of insecurity and isolation for minorities.

At the same time, places of worship also represent an important lesson for Paksitan’s fragmented society. This can most clearly be seen in the religious crossover, known as syncretism, between Hindus and Christians, who both venerate the Virgin Mary in Karachi.

It serves as a vital message of the need to co-exist and create structures that minimise discrimination.

A look back in history

The history of Tamil and Goan Christian devotees in Karachi can be traced back to nearly 50 years ago when A M Anthony, a Tamil Christian, established Saint Anthony’s Club at his house on Somerset Street, in the town of Saddar, a neighbourhood of Karachi.

As described to me by his granddaughter, devotees would gather to recite novena, or nine-day, prayers to ask the Virgin Mary for blessings and good health. The Virgin Mary is known as Our Lady of Valenkanni, based on apparitions she is believed to have made in the Indian town of Velankanni, in Tamil Nadu state, 2,000km south of Karachi.

After his landlord objected to the loud singing and recitation, Anthony and his fellow Christians, many of them immigrants from Chennai and Goa, were allowed a hall space in the premises of St. Anthony’s Church.

The Christian devotees then invited both Hindus and Zoroastrians to join them in asking for benediction. In this way, novena prayers to Our Lady of Valenkanni became a part of Catholic churches’ ceremonial activities across Karachi, and opened up the veneration of the Virgin Mary to new faiths.

For some Hindu devotees, Our Lady of Velankanni symbolises prosperity, aspirations, well-being, while providing answers to their prayers.

The origins of Our Lady of Velankanni

Of course, the home of Our Lady of Velankanni is in the town of Velankanni itself, which also demonstrates the intersection of Hindu and Catholic practices in contemporary religion.

The basilica attracts millions of devotees each year. As in Karachi, these include both Catholic and Hindu residents. Some Catholic devotees from Karachi embark on a spiritual journey to the basilica of Our Lady of Valenkanni to ask the Mother for favours and intercessory graces.

Three accounts of the apparitions of the Virgin Mary in Velankanni have been documented over the years, and subsequently narrated by her devotees.

The first story dates back to the end of the 16th century and is about a Hindu shepherd boy’s sighting the Virgin Mary by a pond. She asked the boy for milk for her son, Jesus. The boy readily offered the milk. Locals remain intrigued until the Mother appeared at the site again. Thereafter, the pond was known as “Matha Kulam” or “Our Lady’s Pond”.

The second event is said to have happened a few years later. A crippled boy in Nadu Thittu was apparently cured by the Virgin Mother after he offered her buttermilk. The Catholic residents of a nearby town then built a shrine in recognition of the healing.

In the late 17th century, Portuguese sailors transformed this early construction into a chapel, based on vows made during rough seas between China and Colombo on a merchant vessel.

Today, Our Lady of Valenkanni has special meaning for both Hindu and Christian devotees because of the miracles she is associated with, including the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami which caused massive destruction in Tamil Nadu. Basilica officials were quick to report this as a miracle, as 2,000 pilgrims were attending mass when the town of Valenkanni was hit. News sources and official disaster reports showed that the basilica was the only building to escape this large-scale catastrophe.

Acts of devotion

Some devotees make offerings to the Virgin Mary through purchases of expensive fabric for a sari. This is associated with the historical and symbolic depiction of the Virgin Mary draped in a saffron sari, a common garb across the subcontinent. There are others who make sari offerings to the poor upon fulfilment of their vows.

One woman I spoke to as part of my research, a Goan Christian born in Karachi, was taught devotion by her grandmother. In 2004 when she was visiting Valenkanni, she prayed to Our Lady of Good Health to be blessed with the gift of a child.

Nearly a year and half after her return to Karachi, she gave birth to a boy. A few years later, she and her family completed rituals to fulfil their vow. She cut off four inches of hair while her husband and son shaved their heads. They bathed in the sea as part of the ritual. These practices are taken from the Hindu faith, showing that interfaith exchanges go both ways.

Since then, the woman has worn a head-covering during prayer times as a lifelong promise to the mother for the graces received through her son.

I heard other tales of devotion from A M Anthony’s granddaughter:

There was a lady who would not wear shoes. She would be spotted even at weddings without shoes … Imagine going everywhere barefoot in Karachi’s heat. But that is how she fulfilled her vow and everyone knew about it.

Spirituality and togetherness

Annually, hundreds of devotees come together in the premises of churches across Karachi and in Tamil Nadu to hoist a flag bearing an image of Our Lady of Valenkanni and partake in a short prayer followed by other rituals including the distribution of blessed medals by a priest.

The ceremony devoted to Our Lady of Valenkanni occurs on September 8, marking the birthday of the Virgin Mary.

Each year, Our Lady of Valenkanni’s statue in Karachi is decorated with fresh flowers and streamers.

This day sees some members from the Hindu, Zoroastrian, and Muslim communities all venerating the Virgin Mary.

As the parish priest told me, “Mary brings everyone together and it makes sense why you would see Muslims here who can tell you a lot about Surah Maryam.” Named after Virgin Mary, Surah Maryam appears in the 19th chapter of the Holy Quran.

“Muslims do not partake in novena prayers, but on September 8, they come here to respect Mary as the Mother of Jesus”, Rodrigues said.

For believers, miracles are not just about healing of ailments and turning water into wine. They can be a way of dealing with the dominant, narrow and bigoted narrative prevalent in Pakistan’s society.

This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.

Whose mischief created a world of beseechers?
Each petitioner is seen wearing a garment of paper

This line from Ghalib refers to what he claimed to be ancient Persian tradition of petitioners wearing paper before entering the courts to get justice.

Indeed, for a country that has a low literacy rate, the written word is a central part of Pakistani society. All over Karachi, “wall chalking”, as it is called, lines the streets with announcements of political meetings, informal advertising and messages in support of or against political leaders.

Intelligence agencies and the press pick up writings that appear overnight as a show of political strength or indicators of political party infighting. Sometimes walls carry threats against specific people, such as “ainda na dehkoon” (this should not happen again) written by “bosses” to keep the local heavies in check. These are usually written in Urdu calligraphic style.

An unusual message stands out for its untidy spray painted phrase “Perfume Chowk”. Curious viewers discovered it was a message written by the heroic owner of a small stall selling *attar* in Gulistan-i-Jauhar, whose stall was regularly destroyed by people to whom he refused to give protection money.

A people’s narrative

Countries have many narratives: the official state narrative, the narratives of friends and allies, that of enemies, of moral custodians; and then there is the complex, layered narrative of a country’s people. These occupy sociologists, historians, literary critics, artists, film-makers, musicians, novelists and poets. Beneath the surface waves, one has to dive deeper to understand the true nature of the soul of a people, but occasionally the hidden becomes visible and lends itself to decoding.

This is most true of the place occupied by poetry in Pakistan. Classic forms can be of religious songs such as naats, qawalis and marsias.

But often poems are also more worldly love songs of film; colourful metaphors that take place during mushairas or poetry events. The preferred form of Urdu poetry is the ghazal, or couplet, which has its origins in Arabic literature via Persian poetry. Ghazals are composed as sophisticated conceits, ostensibly about love, longing, separation and loss, but imply commentaries that range from Sufi love of the divine, to local politics.

Hearing the voice of the individual

The decorated transport of Pakistan is much celebrated for its excessive colourful adornment and painted images. Less noticed are the embedded verses that are an essential part of all trucks, buses and rickshaws.

These are attempted conversations with “someone out there”, an amplification of one’s presence in a society that renders the common man invisible. “Whispering in our ears”, these writings express personal feelings, outrage or simply indignation, loss, desire, or a moment of reflection.

Hungarian philosopher Ferenc Hörcher has suggested that conversation “liberates the human self from the bondages of practical life and brings about a sense of equilibrium”. Intimate expressions are externalised in the public sphere addressing an assumed community. These writings symbolise an attempt to wrest authorship by marginalised citizens.

As Pakistani poet Noon Meem Rashid (1910-1975) wrote:

From amidst the crowd of men
The voice of the individual is heard

There are 600,000 commercial vehicles, which include buses, trucks and three wheelers (among them rickshaws), that circulate on 260,760 km of roads according to 2010 data published by the government. Most of these vehicles carry writings.

Pakistan is portrayed as a belligerent, angry country, churning out extremists. The poetry on decorated transport tells another story. The most commonly used phrase is Maan ki dua Jannat ki hawa (A mother’s prayer is a breeze from heaven) followed by Dekh magar piyar say (You can look, but with love), and a newcomer, Jiyo aur jinay do (Live and let live).

The themes of the poetry varies with the type of transport. The poetry on long-distance trucks transporting good across the country reflect the insecure journeys they face and the loneliness of being away from their families:

Road se dosti safar se yaari
Dekh pyaray zindgi hamari

I befriend the road, my companion is the journey
See the life I lead, my dear friend

The city buses are usually more light-hearted and risqué:

Dil Barai farookht. Qeemat aik muskarahat

My heart is for sale. The price: one smile

Aaghaz i jawani hai hum jhoom kay chaltay hain dunya yeh samajhti hai hum pi kay nikaltay hain

I swagger because I am young
The world thinks I reel because I am drunk

But occasionally the concerns are serious:

Pata kiya khaak batain nishan hai be nishan apna laga baithay bistar jahan wahin samjho makan apna

How can I tell you my address, I have left no mark
Wherever I lay down my bags, that is home

Mohabbat na kar ameeron say jo barbad kartay hain mohabbat kar ghareebon say jo hameesha yaad kartay hain

Do not love the rich who only ruin you
Love the poor who always remember you

Buses and trucks are usually a lucrative business. The rickshaw on the other hand is usually owner-driven and provides an insight into Pakistani society’s least privileged communities.

Rather than the ghazal couplet seen on trucks and buses, rickshaws have boldly written enigmatic poetic phrases such as Kaash (if only), Bikhray Moti (strewn pearls), zakhmi parinda (wounded bird), akhri goli (the last bullet). Sometimes a rickshaw simply carries the name of a beloved daughter or a Sufi saint.

Funny poems or phrases are common to all forms of transport, making life’s problems and suffering bearable if only for a while. This is a feint that compels us to read between the lines, an essential component of the layered and often esoteric nature of Pakistani society.

Arabic poetry also gave Urdu the influence of Hija or satiric poetry. While the -qit'ah (a light-hearted fragmentary poetic phrase) extolled the virtues of tribal heroes, the hija denigrated rival tribes.

Another influence is that of Sufi poetry. The majority of Pakistani Muslims are of the Barelvi sect, which is interwoven with Sufism. Most decorated vehicles carry messages and prayers collected from Sufi shrines.

This penchant for bitter-sweet or dark humour pervades Pakistani society and may spring from the loss of agency in a region that has been repeatedly invaded since at least 1800 BC, each invader creating a powerful ruling elite imposing its culture and ignoring, for the most part, the lives of ordinary citizens.

In this sense these subtexts are essentially a protest, reaching out to a community longing for social justice and recognition. As poet Noon Meem Rashid wrote:

We are a solitary letter of the alphabet
At once silent and eloquent

This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.

We have been warned over and over again about terrorists and extremists. These warnings are entirely biased. They only speak of stereotype terrorists and extremists; or those who may actually be, and most probably are, good guys.

In fact, they are phantoms. They really do not exist, but were created as a hoax to distract our minds away from the real terrors. Such as, Valentine’s Day!

A dangerous spectre has been rising on the horizon of our great bastion of morality. It goes by the name of Valentine!

Valentine tempts womans to crave chocolates, pink balloons and flowers – from MANS!!!

And when mans give womans these on a day called Valentine’s Day, womans become loose characters because chocolate loosen their teeth until they (the teeth) are no more …

As you can see, brothers and sisters and sisters who became brothers, Valentine's make womans lose her natural beauty. She starts to age quickly. And then, tragedy! No one is willing to marry her. Old hag!

Shame and sadness falls on her family. She is left with just memories of an old pink balloon. And that too bursts in her face.

As responsible parents and honourable brothers of womans, you must report evil sellers of obscene Valentine’s balloons to the police. Help the government, police and the courts eliminate this terror.

But remember, it is okay for mans to make Valentine’s Day. After all, it is always gallant mans who make most noise about womans morality issues. What bravery and gallantry, indeed. Go, boys. Go forth and cleanse society of womans obscenity. Muuah!

But Valentine's is a clever, clever devil. He can tempt womans in the most clever, clever ways. So you have to become clever, clever as well.

For example, keep eye on flowers in pots. Are they sending scent in air that is making womans woozy and dreamy and craving for chocolate and romantic talk? Are they too red, too pink or too yellow?

If so, then with great manly anger, tear flowers out, throw them out with pot and set them on fire, while shouting ‘Go, Nawaz Go!’

Clever, clever, no? What a mans.

Also check womans breathing on Valentine’s Day. Is she breathing too fast or too slow? If possible, try to hold womans breath for whole Valentine’s Day.

And if she passes away because of breath-hold, well, then, she die for good cause. Clap hands.

And as good moral mans say, no womans, no cry. Meaning, no womans, no Valentine's. Only brave mans, talking about how to hold breath of weak womans and saving nation from obscenity. So, brave.

Disclaimer: This blog is categorised as satire.

The blog was originally published on January 9, 2017.

At least once a month, I drive down to Lahore from Islamabad using the Motorway. Just before the Jhelum River, as the Salt Range and Potohar Plateau gradually merge into the plane of Punjab, I always a notice a small isolated shrine located on the top of a hill. A flag swaying atop the shrine testifies that pilgrims still visit it.

Scattered all over the Potohar Plateau, there are several such Sufi shrines on hilltops, to which pilgrims are expected to hike. The difficulty of the journey is part of the spiritual process. The tradition is similar to other religious pilgrimages in the region.

A little north from here is the historical temple complex called Tilla Jogian, a pilgrimage site for jogis in Punjab, abandoned at the time of Partition. There is still no path that leads to the top. Visitors to the site are expected to climb the mountain as pilgrims once did.

Further north, deep within the Hazara territory is the shrine of the Muslim Sufi saint Wali Qandhari, who had a confrontation with Guru Nanak and was humbled.

The Gurdwara Panja Sahib, at the base of the mountain, atop which is the shrine of Wali Qandhari commemorates this interaction. Every day, dozens of pilgrims climb this steep mountain, a trek of about two hours to pay homage to the Sufi saint. Before the technology of pumps, pilgrims used to carry water pots to the top for other pilgrims, as a religious duty.

“The shrine is called Khara Peer,” said my driver, as he noticed me observing the shrine’s silhouette on the top of the mountain on one of these trips.

A young man, my driver belongs to a small village not far from here. Not inclined towards institutional religion, he is particularly attracted to Sufi shrines, referred to as folk religion by academics, where the freedom allotted to its devotees is more aligned with his rebellious nature.

I wasn’t surprised. This entire mountain range, known as Salt Range, is one of the largest depositories of rock salt in the world. Khara in Punjabi means salty. The shrine was attuned with its geographical surroundings.

The Peacock Shrine

This is a particular feature of small Sufi shrines. Just a few kilometres from here, in the small town of Kalar Kahar, atop another mountain is the shrine of Mooranwali Sarkar (Master of the Peacocks).

At the time of sunrise, when the tourist rush at the shrine is at its lowest, dozens of peacocks waltz around the courtyard of the shrine that overlooks the natural lake, around which the town of Kalar Kahar is populated.

A handful of devotees offer them food and seek their blessings, regarding them to be the loyal pets of the saint interred here. Till a few years ago, before the construction of Motorway brought along an influx of tourists, peacocks would strut around the shrine all day along. With the arrival of tourists and their irreverent fascination with the peacocks their number decreased here.

The shrine of the peacocks at Kalar Kahar too highlights the fact that such folk religious traditions adopted local geographical features into their devotional framework. It represents the unique relationship that these shrines developed with their surroundings.

Connected by a cable wire, there is another Sufi shrine on the top of a neighboring hill. It is a modest structure, less visited by tourists. A plaque on one of the walls of the shrine identified it as Rori Peer. “There is nothing but rori [small rocks] here and this shrine,” said a lone devotee sitting there.

On the bank of river Chenab is the village of Takht Hazara, believed to be the home of Punjab's legendary folk hero Ranjha. In the surroundings of this village is a settlement of a few houses referred to as Apal Moori.

The fame of this settlement comes from the massive banyan tree that stands next to it. It is an enormous structure, a forest within itself, with its branches disappearing into the ground and emerging anew.

There is no main trunk of the tree but several of them. At the centre of the tree is the grave of a Sufi saint regarded as sacred by the locals and people of the surrounding areas.

While the grave becomes the object of veneration, it is nothing but a symbol of the worship of this massive banyan tree, sacred in almost all of the religious traditions of South Asia, including folk Islam. The grave is an indirect way of worshipping the sacred geography, much like most of these shrines.

Vital symbols

Combined, these folk religious traditions serve as an important symbol. One of the oft-repeated accusations of right-wing Hindu nationalists against Islam has been its foreignness in the Indian peninsula.

Even 1,300 years after the arrival of this religion into the region it is asserted by some that it does not belong here. Such a criticism lacks an understanding of the cultural development of the religion in India.

As it reached the peripheral towns and villages of India, it was adopted, owned and indigenised. It is these folk religious shrines mentioned above that emerged out of this process, all of them deeply linked with their geographical surroundings.

In fact, it is not just Islam, but Christianity that also underwent a similar process. About a 100-odd kilometres from Lahore is the small town of Maryamabad developed around the shrine of Mary.

A little before Partition, a couple of local Christian men said they saw the figure of Mary appear here. A small shrine was constructed at the spot. In the 1980s, it was reported that a few children said they saw an image of Mary once again.

As the story of these sightings spread to other parts of the country, the number of pilgrims to the shrine increased. Since then many saints have been reportedly sighted here.

Much like folk Islam that used the geography of the region to evoke spirituality, folk Christianity too, represented by this shrine, found an actual geographical legitimisation, as a counter to Christianity or Islam being foreign to this land. A statue of Mary was raised on a small mound here and a shrine was constructed around it.

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

What's the most impressive place of religious significance that you have visited ? What did it teach you? Share your experience with us at blog@dawn.com

It hurts, deeply. Lahore. Quetta. Mohmand. Peshawar. Sehwan.

I wonder if we'll ever live without this sense of fear – the fear that you or your loved one will never return as they step out of the house.

One of the ways I spend quality-time with my younger brother is to go to the cinema together. There have been times when I’ve been struck by this anxiety and seized by apprehension.

What if someone blows this place up? What if terrorists burst in? Where is the nearest exit that I will be able to push Abdullah towards? How can I hide him? No, he’s too tall now to be hidden. We shouldn’t be here. What if something happens? What if?

I wonder. I worry.

I worry that someday even the Badshahi Mosque or other monuments of historical and cultural significance might get attacked.

Nothing is sacred anymore.

I worry my cultural heritage will irrecoverably be taken away from me.

There are texts and emails every now and then. Security alerts and warnings. Places to be avoided.

I wonder how long we will continue to hide in our houses while our homeland burns.

After the APS attack, I thought it couldn't get worse after this, but after the spate of bombings this week, I learned that what’s broken can be shattered further.

The past few days brought back memories of 2009, a year in which Pakistan witnessed 500 bombings.

I thought we were past this. I had hoped. I had prayed.

The rising death toll. The call for blood donations. The full impact of the attack. The same old condemnations. The same old rhetoric. The same old statements. The same lies, the same passing of the buck. Forming commissions. Ordering inquiries.

Thousands and thousands of deaths. And counting.

We have come to a point where cities are symbolic of the violence, loss and tragedy they have borne. Peshawar is not its culture and beauty. Nor is Peshawar Fort Bala Hisaar or Khyber Pass. Peshawar is the APS attack.

Quetta is not Quetta. Quetta is Hazara killings.

Cities are no longer cities; they are signifiers and signposts of tragedies. Of losses borne, of lives mourned.

These are tragic ruptures in our collective identity, and cultural and social lives.

Everything is a reminder of what we face. There is no distraction, there is no relief.

I am at a point where I shut my social media when a tragedy occurs. But while I can shut down my social media accounts for a while, I cannot control the torment of my heart.

There are times when I want to escape Pakistan, perhaps not physically, but certainly emotionally.

There are times I want to close my eyes, my ears, my mind and my heart to the suffering in this land, for my own sanity and survival. Only to realise that its suffering is inseparable from mine.