In 1969, the Indian film Do Raaste was released. It was an immediate blockbuster, one of the 17 consecutive hits starring Rajesh Khanna during his 1969 to 1971 golden run.

The movie’s focus was on relations that are stronger than ties of blood irrespective of religion, caste or ethnicity.

In a powerful scene, the matriarch of the respectable, but destitute, Gupta family lies dying, abandoned by her successful son, Birju.

The family is facing a financial crisis, and there’s no money for the dying mother’s medicine, when Satyan (Rajesh Khanna) bursts into the room, announcing that they have received a large money order from an unknown benefactor.

Satyan calls the person a farishta (angel) and at this word, his mother calls in their Muslim neighbour, Khan (Jayant), and makes him confess that he is the mysterious benefactor, as he has been for a long time.

The lesson is simple: Love based on common bonds is stronger than blood.

Jayant, whose son Amjad Khan went on to play the greatest villain of Indian cinema, Gabbar Singh, was a journeyman known for small roles.

But as the saying goes, there are no small parts, and in this scene, he outshone Rajesh Khanna.

As Khan tearfully explained in Do Raaste, the Guptas were his family as well and their mother was the only mother he had known, Indian cinema once again made a case for interfaith harmony: No Muslim ghettos or sectarian riots, just neighbours living together in harmony.

Do Raaste was part of the moralistic and secular genre championed by Indian cinema during the first few decades after Partition.

It mirrored Jawaharlal Nehru’s socialist views, which included secularism and equality of caste, colour, creed, sex, religion, and language.

Although the word ‘socialist’ was added to the Preamble of the Indian Constitution through the 42nd Amendment Act of 1976 well after Nehru’s death; India, until the late 1980s, was firmly a Nehruvian construct.

This ideology naturally permeated into India’s most popular art form: cinema.

Cinema’s popularity and role in influencing society was well recognised by Nehru. In a mid-1950s speech, he said:

“The cinema, let us remember, is one of the biggest influences of the modern world. There are other things, which influence people- books, newspapers and so on. But I think it is perfectly correct to say that the influence of films in India is greater than the influence of newspapers and books combined.”

He then added, “Anything that has widespread influence is of the utmost important to society and to government.” The second part of the speech is crucial.

A 1963 UNESCO report on Indian cinema and culture quoted this same speech, as even at that early stage of cinema, the Indian filmgoers numbered over 25 million people a week.

Cinema reflected the tastes of Nehru, who describing himself in the following words:

“By education I am an Englishman, by views an internationalist, by culture a Muslim and a Hindu only by accident of birth.”

Showing Muslims as part of the natural fabric of India and creating positive roles, Hindi Indian cinema was able to play a role in interfaith harmony.

There were two different strands of this process. One was through the ‘Muslim Social’ genre, which focused on Muslims themselves and usually portrayed the Nawabi culture.

The other was through populist cinema, which depicted examples of harmony between Hindus and Muslims.

Belonging to the ‘Muslim Social’ genre, Mere Mehmoob, Chaudhvin Ka Chand and Pakeeza are among the most iconic movies of India cinema and transport audiences into a world of aristocratic expressions, Aligarh University, and Muslim traditions.

The actors who played the heroes were often not Muslims; Rajendra Kumar, Guru Dutt, and Raj Kumar starred in the movies mentioned above and were celebrated for their performances.

By connecting cinema to Muslim culture, movies of this genre created a glamorous but positive sensibility among general audiences of their fellow citizens.

These films were set in pre-Partition India or in a particular Muslim-only setting, and so a form in themselves.

However, the positive portrayal of Muslims was not just limited to this genre and was very much a part of contemporaneous populist cinema.

Yash Chopra’s direction debut was in 1959 with Dhool Ka Phool, which was steeped in Nehruvian secularism.

In this movie, a Muslim brings up an ‘illegitimate’ Hindu child as his own and croons to him, “Tu Hindu banega na Musalman banega, insaan ki aulaad hai, insaan banega [You will be neither a Hindu nor a Muslim; you’re the child of humans and you will be a human]”.

Chopra followed this in 1961 with Dharmputra, and the theme was reversed in this film as a Hindu family brings up an ‘illegitimate’ Muslim child.

The movie rejected hate and intolerance. Its song ‘Chahe yeh mano chahe woh mano’ [‘Whether you believe this or believe that’] reverberated the theme of intercommunal harmony.

Even when Indian cinema became angrier and grittier in the 1970s, Muslim characters and the theme of interfaith harmony continued.

Amitabh Bachan’s breakout movie Zanjeer had Pran play the role of Sher Khan, who befriends and saves the life of the movie’s hero, Vijay.

In Kranti, Shatrughan Sinha was a freedom fighter named Kareem Khan, who teams up with Hindu Sanga (Dilip Kumar) and others to fight the British.

Movies set in small towns and villages usually had a Muslim character such as the venerable imam of the mosque, Rahim Chacha (A. K. Hangal), in Sholay.

By including a Muslim character who, if not the protagonist, was at least on the good side, movie directors kept creating a more inclusive cinematic experience.

Director Manmohan Desai, whose star-studded mega hits combined popular cinema with multiculturalism, was a firm proponent of this tactic.

His movie Naseeb has a hero named Jaun Johnny Janardan (Amitabh Bachan), a name representing the three communities in India: Muslim, Christian and Hindus.

When someone asks Johnny how he has three names, he cheerfully sings:

Yeh teeno nam hain mere
Allah, Jesus, Ram hain mere
All these names are mine
Just like Allah, Jesus, Ram are mine

Johnny’s syncretism is shared by his father Namdev (Pran) who wears three rings with symbols from Islam, Christianity and Hinduism, which he gives away to the three leading men in the movie and eventually saves their lives.

Desai’s Amar Akbar Anthony is also based on the theme of religious tolerance. Its three heroes are brothers brought up in different faiths - Islam, Hinduism and Christianity - and it is full of intercommunal symbolism.

The moment that defines this syncretic spirit is the song Shirdi Wale Saibaba, sung by Akbar Allahabadi (Rishi Kapoor) at a veneration ceremony of Sai Baba. The symbolism is uncanny.

The song is sung by a Muslim for a 19th Century mystic, who is revered by both Muslims as a saint, and by Hindus as an incarnation of Shiva.

During the song, Akbar’s long lost blind mother, Bharati (Nirupa Roy), is pursued by villains, and finds protection at Sai Baba’s shrine, where a snake, sacred to Hindus, comes to her defense.

As the song comes to a climax, Sai Baba blesses Bharati and miraculously gives her sight, uniting her with her son.

It gets better; the song was sung by a Muslim and written by a Hindu, Mohammad Rafi and Anand Bakshi respectively.

These movies may not be undying works of art but they were huge hits and spread the message of tolerance to millions.

There are several factors for this direction in cinema. Nehru and the Congress Party were pushing the idea of a secular India built along socialist lines.

That is what a political party is; it influences everything from art to music, and all aspects of culture.

In that era, India had a Muslim education minister, two Muslim presidents, one acting president who was Muslim, a Muslim chief justice, and a Muslim vice president. The multiculturalism present in the halls of power was reflected in movie theaters.

Indian movies followed Nehru’s love for the Urdu language; his hometown Allahabad was a centre of Urdu poetry, and even Nehru’s wedding cards were printed in Urdu, a language developed in India, but now most associated with just Muslims.

Film Pyaasa has Guru Dutt as a poet who is inspired by Faiz and Josh Malihabadi, while Rajesh Khanna in Bawarchi devotes several lines to talk about Urdu as one of the principal languages of India.

Perhaps these movies were made to show Muslims that they belong in India and for Congress to garner Muslim votes. Perhaps. However, a political agenda alone would not have produced super hits.

Art reflects life, but life also reflects art. Everyone, from the moviemakers and producers, down to the public sitting in the general seats who paid hard-earned rupees for an evening show, took to the themes of intercommunal accord.

Directors took a conscious decision to create movies that brought people together while moviegoers relished the richness of an India of many hues and colours, sang songs that celebrated harmony over communalism, and fawned over actors who played characters that were above bigotry and hate.

That was the tolerant India I grew up hearing about, the India I so longed to visit. An India that did not celebrate Nuthuram Godse and Savarkar or their corrosive ideology, and saw them as the bigots and killers they really are. An India in which Rana Pratab did not supersede Akbar, and the Taj Mahal was an indelible national symbol.

Today that India does not exist. Today India tears itself up for a movie based on a Rajput princess who may not have even existed and is only known through a centuries-old poem.

Not so long ago, a Muslim freedom fighter conspired against the British in 1942: A Love Story, and another played cricket against them in Lagaan. Just a few years back a film about the love between Akbar and his Rajput wife was a hit.

Today even a hint of a connection between a 13th Century Muslim king and a Rajput princess has led hardliners to put up bounties for the people involved with the film Padmavati and pushing for its ban.

The movie does itself no favours and further exacerbates the issues of race and religion by making the Muslim king, Alauddin Khilji, a kohl-eyed, lecherous, barbaric villain instead of an ambitious king who conquered kingdoms regardless of whether they were ruled by Hindus or Muslims.

Religious fundamentalism is a slippery slope, one I am all too familiar with. Can a movie today show a Hindu boy brought up by a Muslim family?

As India struggles for its secular roots, now more than ever, cinema needs to play its role in bridging the ever-growing chasm between Indian communities so the India I once knew can once again sing, Chahe yeh mano chahe woh mano.

“Let’s open chapter two of our science books!” As pages flipped, some students raced to be the first ones to reach the right page, while others nonchalantly flipped the pages back and forth, until everyone had reached the same page.

A silence, then, came to wait inside my classroom. Students looked at me, expecting me to begin. To instruct them.

They waited for me to read the chapter and to arrive at the chapter questions, which they could then answer with their guides. And then, to feel relieved that they were now yet another chapter through their syllabus.

‘Chapter 2: Atoms and Molecules,’ was just that -- a chapter in the textbook, one they had to go through.

As we started reading the chapter, I stopped and shared examples to relate the topic to their daily lives, and to discuss alternate theories that have existed and continue to exist about matter and its building blocks.

My students, apart from a few, were disengaged. They were waiting for me to come back to the textbook, and to give them strategies to remember so they could later reproduce the content. They were actually doing nothing wrong, according to public classroom standards.

In fact, they were doing the only thing they’ve been allowed to do in Pakistani classrooms: listen. And by sixth grade, my students had accepted and mastered this role.

The role of a bystander to the activity that others call science. The role of storing whatever is in the textbook and ensuring they could retrieve information on the day and hour of an examination.

If science was a body of knowledge, and if this body were to ever appear in front of the students, they would have considered it an impostor, and continued to focus on each individual part, oblivious to its function and interconnectedness.

The scientific mindset is not only absent from classrooms and our national discourse, but misunderstood and even feared in some quarters.

Doubt, questioning, and entertaining and presenting alternate opinions has become tantamount to being opposed to faith.

Some people claim: Today, they are questioning the building blocks of matter, and who knows, tomorrow they might question the building blocks of faith.

An atmosphere of silence, blind acceptance, and the need for (continuous) shielding from criticism helps keep safe the pieces that have become fundamental to our culture: authority, patriarchy, and conformity.

But the scientific mindset with its reliance on reason, skepticism and evidence, directly disturbs this safety. The concern is that if this mindset is demonstrated and practiced in science classes, then it will easily and inevitably go on to disrupt systems of thought that have remained unquestioned in existing spheres of power.

Unfortunately, the low quality of science teachers in our public classrooms has ensured that the stagnancy that the teachers witnessed during their own schooling is perfectly reproduced in their teaching.

Thus, this collective attitude of apprehension towards the evolving field of science is continuously reinforced, even as the world around us changes at an unprecedented pace.

Also read: Why the 'science' we study is not really science

As my teaching experience progressed, I began to feel weak in the face of this system and culture that had slowly delegated the realm of critique to oblivion.

In my classroom, my students began to seem like mere spectators in a cricket ground—watching, understanding, even enjoying the game—but not realising that they were an essential part of it. Adding and changing rules, and potentially disrupting the game, were too absurd to even consider.

I shared these thoughts with a Pakistani friend in the US, and he commented that different scientific theories need to be discussed only so we can better understand the content of the science textbook.

Puzzled, I asked him about the role of the textbook in learning. He replied, “The textbook is a complete guide to what concepts and theories have worked best to describe our physical world. The science textbook is the authority on science.”

In my friend’s response, I saw a sense of security and sacredness that he attached to the textbook. He was cognizant of the multiplicity in opinions and their importance but only in respect to understanding the content of the textbook.

The way he described it, this textbook was considered complete, and the domain of science was considered a work of the past, by individuals who had completed the work for us and laid out whatever there was to be known.

Reading, memorising and understanding the textbook was our small but only attempt at repaying an enormous debt.

Read next: From kindergarten to CSS: The 'cram to pass' model abounds

I then turned to my fellow teachers and discussed my concerns.

I explained that I wanted our students to treat questions as an actual quest on which their curiosities were at times more desirable than the answers, where they could bring scientific discoveries from a foreign and unfamiliar sphere to a familiar one, where their participation could play a key role.

I found some supporters, advocates and doers.

We tried to lay seeds for a new culture where curiosity and inquisitiveness could find some ground. An empty tissue paper box was installed outside the principal’s office where students could submit questions anonymously.

A range of questions came forward:

Which is the highest peak in the world?
What is the name of the fastest animal?

And slowly, the which’s and what’s started to become why’s, who’s and how’s;

Why is there so much violence in our society?
If God has made us, who made Him?

Simultaneously, in classes, students were pushed to voice their opinions, reactions and ideas about the content. Discussing, questioning, and clarifying started to become classroom traits.

Science presentations became a requirement. Students had to speak to their class. They had to explain the content, and this repositioned the power dynamics in their classroom.

Those who were previously shy and inexpressive began to speak, gesticulate, walk around classrooms, and design assignments for their lessons. The class was becoming responsible for its own learning.

While presenting, students began to get frustrated and passionate. They, would grimace and smile. Learning was becoming personal.

Explore: No science culture

But there was something that we did not plan for.

In a few months, complaints began to filter in. In a weekly staff room meeting, teachers complained:

Bacche kharab ho rahay hain. (The kids’ behaviour is becoming erratic.)
Stick lagte hue aankhein neechay hi nai karte. (They don’t even lower their eyes when they are hit.)
Aagay se kuch tau sawaal bhi karte hain, kyun maara hai aap ne? (Some even ask, why did you hit?)

As they began to share these stories, a small wave of fear entered the staff room. Perhaps this fear had already been present there, lurking behind the metal benches, or in the dust that had gathered on the old clock.

Now, with everyone finding the words to discuss experiences they had neither imagined nor prepared for, fear came and settled on different hearts. For those with folded arms, it just stood next to them.

Another teacher chimed in, “Mein kuch din chutti par tha, aur class mein wapsi par mere se bachon ne poochha, “Sir aap ne chutti kyun ki? Hamari parhai ka kia ho ga?” (I took off for a few days and upon return my students asked, “Sir why did you take a leave? What will happen to our studies?”)

The principal was listening. She had also heard that students had begun to talk--first in whispers, then in sentences and most often through their eyes--about the school administration and their decisions about the school, and how it would affect the students.

It was then that we realised the distance a question travels and what it does along the way. How it permeates boundaries, stepping softly into new domains and disrupting conventional discourse and existing systems.

Additionally, we witnessed skills that exist in tandem with questioning: participation, activity, accountability and ownership.

It was then that we saw for ourselves how effectively questioning disentangles the ropes that conformity binds within and across systems, and noticed the faces of those who have not imagined a reality other than their own.

Rather than resisting the changes, the teachers were mostly surprised by the way the students now viewed themselves and their role in their classrooms. Eventually, many of the teachers began to loosen their conventional ways; their perspectives had significantly shifted, as had their instructional behaviour.

My experience at this particular school can be used to draw parallels across Pakistani classrooms. Orthodox approaches and environments frequently resist attempts at change.

However, being open to innovation, to new ideas, and to probing questions will allow students to be active participants in their education rather than passive bystanders.

Do you work in the education sector or have contributed to social change in any other way? Write to us at blog@dawn.com

There has been a tangible sense of despair among liberal and progressive commentators in the wake of the state’s capitulation to the Tehreek-e-Labbaik Ya Rasool Allah (TLYRA) at Faizabad.

It has been said that the state’s writ has been forfeited, mobs now dictate policy, and extremism has permeated deep into society’s roots.

While there is truth to such lamentations, there is also an urgent need to move beyond such cathartic grieving, to learn from what this moment signified, and strategise affirmatively for the future.

Fascism unbound

It is important to remember that the forfeiture of the state’s writ in Faizabad has not occurred without its own complicity. This is true both in a historical and a current sense.

The blasphemy and anti-Ahmedi laws, whose protection has animated the new surge of fanaticism, were strengthened and weaponised by the Pakistani state.

More recently, the spate of enforced disappearances of progressive bloggers, and the orchestrated campaign of vilification against them by state agencies earlier in the year, had insidiously conflated political dissent against the establishment with blasphemy.

In this context, the public affirmation of Khadim Hussain Rizvi’s demands by the state at Faizabad was the logical culmination of the anti-blasphemy hysteria collusively fomented by the state and the right.

Nearly all political or religious dissent against the majoritarian consensus was now deemed a legitimate target for lethal violence.

In other words, fascism.

Yet, even if the state is complicit in the rise of fascism, that does not imply it is in control of the passions that have been aroused.

Among the most chilling aspects of Faizabad was that it took us a step closer to public sanction for mass murder.

As the TLYRA leaders demanded the publication of an Ahmadi registry and the creation of state commissions dedicated to the persecution of the minority group, the state’s acquiescence signified its nod to steps that, historically speaking, have foreshadowed genocide.

The mesmerised mob-like euphoria that would greet Khadim Hussain Rizvi’s onstage invocation of rhetorical violence against religious ‘enemies’ also provided a legible blueprint for how such mass violence could easily be made to occur.

Fascist movements are not an uncommon sight in the world today – across the globe, movements have resurfaced that have transformed the economic and cultural anxieties of ordinary people into political projects that scapegoat racial and religious minorities.

Just months ago, American Nazis openly marched in Charlottesville, Virginia with torches in hand, chanting ‘Jews will not replace us’ and calling for the establishment of a white ethno-state in the US.

European streets from Greece to Poland have witnessed fascist marches seething with anti-Muslim and anti-Semitic hatred in the past year alone.

The crucial difference is that across the democratic world, such public displays of bigotry are usually met with organised resistance.

The Nazis at Charlottesville were met by larger numbers of anti-fascist and leftist activists, one of whom paid for her defiance with her life.

From anarchists in Greece to communists in India, the forward march of the organised far right has been opposed and defied on the streets, usually by political workers of a progressive disposition.

The fascist frenzy that lasted for three weeks at Faizabad however, saw no such street challenge, allowing for an impression that it represented majority sentiment.

Pakistani progressives – insufficient or ineffective?

Quite often, the explanation offered for such inaction in Pakistan revolves around a widely-prevalent idea that liberals and progressives in Pakistan are simply too minuscule a minority to exert any influence in an overwhelmingly conservative polity.

Articles abound in the international press about Pakistan’s permanently ‘beleaguered’ liberal minority while jokes habitually crop up on social media about how liberal and left Pakistanis can be counted on two hands.

This perception is understandable. But it is also something of a careless underestimation.

There is of course little doubt that the predominant political disposition in the Islamic republic is one that is conservative and authoritarian.

Yet, after a decade of deadly fundamentalist violence, with often visible links to state institutions and laws; frustration from the senseless bloodshed, and lost lives and opportunities has crystallised in a significant progressive minority, which is severely disenchanted with the destructive character of the state and its proxies.

Until now, the bulk of this minority is visible largely on social media.

If the content and volume of engagement on liberal and progressive social media platforms is anything to go by, Pakistanis who believe in a greater degree of individual religious liberty, democratic continuity, political freedoms, socio-economic justice, and liberties for women and minorities, number in at least the hundreds of thousands, if not more.

Yet one rarely sees even a fraction of such numbers amassed for these causes in the streets.

Also read: Surrendering to mob rule

As Aasim Sajjad notes in his recent column, it is this inability of most progressives to consciously act as members of a political community that constitutes a stiffer challenge than the supposed smallness of their numbers.

The TLYRA’s cadres too were not present in enormous numbers at Faizabad – there were a couple thousand of them at best at the height of the sit-in – yet they managed to cultivate the impression of representing popular sentiment.

Even if one accounts for the support of the deep state, they were simply much more organised than Pakistani progressives are today.

Why is this so? Popular opinion dictates that Pakistan’s descent into madness is the product of an ideological shift – one in which progressives have simply been marginalised by the rightward drift of political convictions.

But there is also a practical, material dimension to this shift -- it has also been a consequence of the loss of the left’s organisational forms and spaces, which has greatly weakened and diminished progressive politics over time.

In the 20th century, Islamism, while still a force, was kept in check by the presence of formidable progressive political and social forces.

Parties like the National Awami Party (NAP), social movements like the Khudai Khidmatgar, and the once-powerful left-wing labour, farmer, and student organisations, not only used to provide an ideological counterweight to the far right, but also channelled working people’s class and nationalistic grievances against an unrepresentative and exploitative economic and political system.

Editorial: Capitulation

As decades of both military and civilian authoritarianism destroyed those class-based organisations through violent repression and bans, they also undermined the organic reproduction of political subjects who self-identified and acted primarily through the secular categories of class and regional nationalisms.

The loss of these organisational spaces amid a global decline of left-wing politics after the Cold War was catastrophic for progressive politics in Pakistan.

Shorn of both their shared clout and interactive opportunities, progressives split up into disparate Marxist, liberal, and ethno-nationalist camps, each seeking their own form of accommodation with the state.

This often resulted in dubious political positions, from tacit support by some for the Musharraf coup to backing non-transparent military operations.

At the same time, the loss of progressive class-based organisations also meant a withering of the close relationships between progressive intellectuals and working classes that had fuelled the left-wing struggles of the 20th century.

Increasingly, it was the ideologues of the right that filled the space progressives had vacated. As the state and its American and Gulf benefactors patronised extremist mosques and seminaries, class grievances began to be morphed and politically mobilised through increasingly exclusionary and reactionary expressions of religious identity.

The earlier struggles against class exploitation by feudal, capitalist and imperialist elites were replaced with crude fundamentalist formulations about ‘Western cultural invasion’, often defined to mean anything remotely progressive as coming from the ‘West’, from women’s freedoms to music and dance.

Rizvi’s TLYRA is merely the latest iteration in this process of class contradictions being cynically mobilised in the service of totalitarian ideology.

Rebuilding progressive organisations and collective spaces – be it through joining existing ones, forming new ones, or overturning senseless legal restrictions like the 33-year-old student union ban – is critical if fascism is to be fought.

Agonising over the need for ‘counter-narratives’ is pointless if the social and political collectives that will popularise and enact these narratives are weak or non-existent.

As such collectives are rebuilt, so too will the possibilities of both class and inter-ethnic solidarity and indigenous cultural resistance that were the mainstay of the progressive politics of our past.

A return to a constructive class politics

However, even as progressives reorganise, it is also clear that they cannot simply do so under the banner of secularism and tolerance alone.

For a disaffected young generation whose subjectivity was forged by the post-Zia Pakistani state and the imperialist invasions of the 9-11 era, there is an overwhelming suspicion of such labels as being a cover for more sinister motivations.

While secular pluralism must remain central to the foundations of any progressive political project, progressives cannot rely solely on symbols of an ideological milieu that has not been experienced by a majority of the population, and that hence, carries few positive connotations for them.

To render such ideals palatable to a conservative majority, they have to be tied to and synonymised with political demands aimed at the redistribution of wealth and power.

This is not just important because Pakistan is one of the most obscenely unequal societies in the world, where millions of under-employed and poorly educated young men, living alienated lives with bleak prospects, become useful fodder for fundamentalist entrepreneurs, who convince them of the possibility of finding purpose in fighting imaginary threats to religious honour.

It is also important because in a populist era, in which the legitimacy of the political and economic status quo is crumbling, a progressive project can only succeed in blocking the right-wing onslaught with popular support if it actively seeks to transform existing relationships of power (rather than seek accommodation and ‘reconciliation’ with the status quo, as most formerly liberal-left parties have done).

Read next: The real surrender

There are two principal ways in which this political project can be constructed. The first has to do with undertaking conscious and collective resistance against excesses of political and economic power.

Anyone who stakes a claim to progressive politics must work to support those engaged in struggles for a more just distribution of resources – and there are many.

This includes, among others, workers protesting for living wages and formal contracts, katchi abadi residents struggling for dignified housing, farmers demanding rights to the land they till, women fighting against patriarchal violence, ethno-nationalist political workers protesting for the right to freely express their beliefs, and indigenous communities protesting the destruction of their local ecology by the state and private capital.

If such disparate struggles can be brought together as a collective movement for people’s rights, they can create the critical mass needed to revive the political clout of the left.

However, a politics of redistribution cannot solely be confrontational, be it on the question of the civil-military imbalance, extremism , or resource distribution.

In order to be effective, our politics must also be constructive. It must seek to mobilise and deploy common resources to meet people’s collective needs.

This is critical because the madrassahs and charity networks have exploited the survival needs of the poor to great effect.

Constructive programs rooted in an ethic of participatory and cooperative labour for the collective good are also part of both the progressive traditions from our region’s past, as well as contemporary revivals in progressive socio-economic movements on the left from Cuba to Nepal.

Such work is easier said than done and will require years to build. But the political worth of constructive forms of productive and redistributive work is undeniable.

Even in our recent context, the example of Edhi is instructive – till his death, Edhi remained an unapologetic humanist and avowed follower of Marx, speaking out for the liberation of the poor, women and minorities, while often taking unorthodox theological positions that could easily have landed others in the dock for blasphemy.

Yet, the peerless example he established through his constructive humanitarian work ensured that he could openly speak truth to power without fear.

Of course, not everyone can be Edhi. I am not suggesting that all progressives should rush to establish charitable institutions. The forms such interventions may take depends on the context, resources and capacity.

What is important is the principle of creating cooperative models of fulfilling people’s needs that can become vehicles for the transmission of egalitarian ideas and practices, and reflect the society progressives wish to see in the future.

If even small numbers of people around the country begin to engage in such forms of conscious collective practice over the next few years, it will help create the sense of purpose, community and identity required for the popular rejuvenation of progressive politics.

Read more: Skewed priorities

Perhaps more than anything, progressives must become conscious of the legitimacy and urgency of their cause.

There are a great many people who can sense things are going awry, and that violence and injustice in the name of religion, national security and petty political interests have gone on far too long.

Yet, there remains a certain timidity in thought and action, remnants of a political culture long afflicted with defeatism, and wracked by self-doubt and fears, about the reactions of a society that never fails to punish the mildest of critical thought and speech.

We are now at the point where we no longer have a choice. The state, the extremists, and their enablers in political society have pushed this society to the brink of collapse.

Faced with this realisation, their only answer is to further divert people’s frustrations toward imaginary foreign and domestic enemies.

The progressive agenda; of the democratisation of the state, of the redistribution of resources to meet ordinary people’s basic needs, of an end to the doctrine of national security and strategic depth, of the celebration of ethnic, national, religious and ideological difference and diversity, of the dismantling of patriarchal oppression, of the rejuvenation of the ecology; is a decisively better one.

More than anyone else, progressives themselves need to overcome their doubts to realise this and consciously act upon it.

Otherwise, our only choice is utter ruin and barbarism.

Were you part of or have you witnessed a distinctive period in Pakistan's political history? Write to us at blog@dawn.com

There has been a tangible sense of despair among liberal and progressive commentators in the wake of the state’s capitulation to the Tehreek-e-Labbaik Ya Rasool Allah (TLYRA) at Faizabad.

It has been said that the state’s writ has been forfeited, mobs now dictate policy, and extremism has permeated deep into society’s roots.

While there is truth to such lamentations, there is also an urgent need to move beyond such cathartic grieving, to learn from what this moment signified, and strategise affirmatively for the future.

Fascism unbound

It is important to remember that the forfeiture of the state’s writ in Faizabad has not occurred without its own complicity. This is true both in a historical and a current sense.

The blasphemy and anti-Ahmedi laws, whose protection has animated the new surge of fanaticism, were strengthened and weaponised by the Pakistani state.

More recently, the spate of enforced disappearances of progressive bloggers, and the orchestrated campaign of vilification against them earlier in the year, had insidiously conflated political dissent against the establishment with blasphemy.

In this context, the public affirmation of Khadim Hussain Rizvi’s demands by the state at Faizabad was the logical culmination of the anti-blasphemy hysteria collusively fomented by the state and the right.

Nearly all political or religious dissent against the majoritarian consensus was now deemed a legitimate target for lethal violence.

Yet, even if the state is complicit in the rise of fascism, that does not imply it is in control of the passions that have been aroused.

Among the most chilling aspects of Faizabad was that it took us a step closer to public sanction for mass murder.

As the TLYRA leaders demanded the publication of an Ahmadi registry and the creation of state commissions dedicated to the persecution of the minority group, the state’s acquiescence signified its nod to steps that, historically speaking, have foreshadowed genocide.

The mesmerised mob-like euphoria that would greet Khadim Hussain Rizvi’s onstage invocation of rhetorical violence against religious ‘enemies’ also provided a legible blueprint for how such mass violence could easily be made to occur.

Fascist movements are not an uncommon sight in the world today – across the globe, movements have resurfaced that have transformed the economic and cultural anxieties of ordinary people into political projects that scapegoat racial and religious minorities.

Just months ago, American Nazis openly marched in Charlottesville, Virginia with torches in hand, chanting ‘Jews will not replace us’ and calling for the establishment of a white ethno-state in the US.

European streets from Greece to Poland have witnessed fascist marches seething with anti-Muslim and anti-Semitic hatred in the past year alone.

The crucial difference is that across the democratic world, such public displays of bigotry are usually met with organised resistance.

The Nazis at Charlottesville were met by larger numbers of anti-fascist and leftist activists, one of whom paid for her defiance with her life.

From anarchists in Greece to communists in India, the forward march of the organised far right has been opposed and defied on the streets, usually by political workers of a progressive disposition.

The fascist frenzy that lasted for three weeks at Faizabad however, saw no such street challenge, allowing for an impression that it represented majority sentiment.

Pakistani progressives – insufficient or ineffective?

Quite often, the explanation offered for such inaction in Pakistan revolves around a widely-prevalent idea that liberals and progressives in Pakistan are simply too minuscule a minority to exert any influence in an overwhelmingly conservative polity.

Articles abound in the international press about Pakistan’s permanently ‘beleaguered’ liberal minority while jokes habitually crop up on social media about how liberal and left Pakistanis can be counted on two hands.

This perception is understandable. But it is also something of a careless underestimation.

There is of course little doubt that the predominant political disposition in the Islamic republic is one that is conservative and authoritarian.

Yet, after a decade of deadly fundamentalist violence, with often visible links to state institutions and laws; frustration from the senseless bloodshed, and lost lives and opportunities has crystallised in a significant progressive minority, which is severely disenchanted with the destructive character of the state and its proxies.

Until now, the bulk of this minority is visible largely on social media.

If the content and volume of engagement on liberal and progressive social media platforms is anything to go by, Pakistanis who believe in a greater degree of individual religious liberty, democratic continuity, political freedoms, socio-economic justice, and liberties for women and minorities, number in at least the hundreds of thousands, if not more.

Yet one rarely sees even a fraction of such numbers amassed for these causes in the streets.

Also read: Surrendering to mob rule

As Aasim Sajjad notes in his recent column, it is this inability of most progressives to consciously act as members of a political community that constitutes a stiffer challenge than the supposed smallness of their numbers.

The TLYRA’s cadres too were not present in enormous numbers at Faizabad – there were a couple thousand of them at best at the height of the sit-in – yet they managed to cultivate the impression of representing popular sentiment.

Even if one accounts for the support of the deep state, they were simply much more organised than Pakistani progressives are today.

Why is this so? Popular opinion dictates that Pakistan’s descent into madness is the product of an ideological shift – one in which progressives have simply been marginalised by the rightward drift of political convictions.

But there is also a practical, material dimension to this shift – it has also been a consequence of the loss of the left’s organisational forms and spaces, which has greatly weakened and diminished progressive politics over time.

In the 20th century, political Islamism, while still a force, was kept in check by the presence of formidable progressive political and social forces.

Parties like the National Awami Party (NAP), social movements like the Khudai Khidmatgar, and the once-powerful left-wing labour, farmer, and student organisations, not only used to provide an ideological counterweight to the far right, but also channelled working people’s class and nationalistic grievances against an unrepresentative and exploitative economic and political system.

Editorial: Capitulation

As decades of both military and civilian authoritarianism destroyed those class-based organisations through violent repression and bans, they also undermined the organic reproduction of political subjects who self-identified and acted primarily through the secular categories of class and regional nationalisms.

The loss of these organisational spaces amid a global decline of left-wing politics after the Cold War was catastrophic for progressive politics in Pakistan.

Shorn of both their shared clout and interactive spaces, progressives split up into disparate Marxist, liberal, and ethno-nationalist camps, each seeking their own form of accommodation with the state.

This often resulted in dubious political positions, from tacit support by some for the Musharraf coup to backing non-transparent military operations.

At the same time, the loss of progressive class-based organisations also meant a withering of the close relationships between progressive intellectuals and working classes that had fuelled the left-wing struggles of the 20th century.

Increasingly, it was the ideologues of the right that filled the space progressives had vacated. As the state and its American and Gulf benefactors patronised extremist mosques and seminaries, class grievances began to be morphed and politically mobilised through increasingly exclusionary and reactionary expressions of religious identity.

The earlier struggles against class exploitation by feudal, capitalist and imperialist elites were replaced with crude fundamentalist formulations about ‘Western cultural invasion’, often defined to mean anything remotely progressive as coming from the ‘West’, from women’s freedoms to music and dance.

Rizvi’s TLYRA is merely the latest iteration in this process of class contradictions being cynically mobilised in the service of totalitarian ideology.

Rebuilding progressive organisations and collective spaces – be it through joining existing ones, forming new ones, or overturning senseless legal restrictions like the 33-year-old student union ban – is critical if fascism is to be fought.

Agonising over the need for ‘counter-narratives’ is pointless if the social and political collectives that will popularise and enact these narratives are weak or non-existent.

As such collectives are rebuilt, so too will the possibilities of both class and inter-ethnic solidarity and indigenous cultural resistance that were the mainstay of the progressive politics of our past.

A return to a constructive class politics

However, even as progressives reorganise, it is also clear that they cannot simply do so under the banner of secularism and tolerance alone.

For a disaffected young generation whose subjectivity was forged by the post-Zia Pakistani state and the imperialist invasions of the 9-11 era, there is an overwhelming suspicion of such labels as being a cover for more sinister motivations.

While secular pluralism must remain central to the foundations of any progressive political project, progressives cannot rely solely on symbols of an ideological milieu that has not been experienced by a majority of the population, and that hence, carries few positive connotations for them.

To render such ideals palatable to a conservative majority, they have to be tied to and synonymised with political demands aimed at the redistribution of wealth and power.

This is not just important because Pakistan is one of the most obscenely unequal societies in the world, where millions of under-employed and poorly educated young men, living alienated lives with bleak prospects, become useful fodder for fundamentalist entrepreneurs, who convince them of the possibility of finding purpose in fighting imaginary threats to religious honour.

It is also important because in a populist era, in which the legitimacy of the political and economic status quo is crumbling, a progressive project can only succeed in blocking the right-wing onslaught with popular support if it actively seeks to transform existing relationships of power (rather than seek accommodation and ‘reconciliation’ with the status quo, as most formerly liberal-left parties have done).

Read next: The real surrender

There are two principal ways in which this political project can be constructed. The first has to do with undertaking conscious and collective resistance against excesses of political and economic power.

Anyone who stakes a claim to progressive politics must work to support those engaged in struggles for a more just distribution of resources – and there are many.

This includes, among others, workers protesting for living wages and formal contracts, katchi abadi residents struggling for dignified housing, farmers demanding rights to the land they till, women fighting against patriarchal violence, ethno-nationalist political workers protesting for the right to freely express their beliefs, and indigenous communities protesting the destruction of their local ecology by the state and private capital.

If such disparate struggles can be brought together as a collective movement for people’s rights, they can create the critical mass needed to revive the political clout of the left.

However, a politics of redistribution cannot solely be confrontational, be it on the question of the civil-military imbalance, extremism , or resource distribution.

In order to be effective, our politics must also be constructive. It must seek to mobilise and deploy common resources to meet people’s collective needs.

This is critical, in part, because the madrassahs and charity networks have exploited the survival needs of the poor to great effect.

Constructive programmes rooted in an ethic of participatory and cooperative labour for the collective good are also part of both the progressive traditions from our region’s past, as well as contemporary revivals in progressive socio-economic movements on the left from Cuba to Nepal.

Such work is easier said than done and will require years to build. But the political worth of constructive forms of productive and redistributive work is undeniable.

Even in our recent context, the example of Edhi is instructive – till his death, Edhi remained an unapologetic humanist and avowed follower of Marx, speaking out for the liberation of the poor, women and minorities, while often taking unorthodox theological positions that could easily have landed others in the dock for blasphemy.

Yet, the peerless example he established through his constructive humanitarian work ensured that he could openly speak truth to power without fear.

Of course, not everyone can be Edhi, nor is the suggestion that all progressives should rush to establish charitable institutions. The forms such interventions may take depends on the context, resources and capacity.

What is important is the principle of creating cooperative models of fulfilling people’s needs that can become vehicles for the transmission of egalitarian ideas and practices, and reflect the society progressives wish to see in the future.

If even small numbers of people around the country begin to engage in such forms of conscious collective practice over the next few years, it will help create the sense of purpose, community and identity required for the popular rejuvenation of progressive politics.

Read more: Skewed priorities

Perhaps more than anything, progressives must become conscious of the legitimacy and urgency of their cause.

There are a great many people who can sense things are going awry, and that violence and injustice in the name of religion, national security and petty political interests have gone on far too long.

Yet, there remains a certain timidity in thought and action, remnants of a political culture long afflicted with defeatism, and wracked by self-doubt and fears, about the reactions of a society that never fails to punish the mildest of critical thought and speech.

We are now at the point where we no longer have a choice. The state, the extremists, and their enablers in political society have pushed this society to the brink of collapse.

Faced with this realisation, their only answer is to further divert people’s frustrations toward imaginary foreign and domestic enemies.

The progressive agenda; of the democratisation of the state, of the redistribution of resources to meet ordinary people’s basic needs, of an end to the doctrine of national security and strategic depth, of the celebration of ethnic, national, religious and ideological difference and diversity, of the dismantling of patriarchal oppression, of the rejuvenation of the ecology; is a decisively better one.

More than anyone else, progressives themselves need to overcome their doubts to realise this and consciously act upon it.

Otherwise, our descent into barbarism is inevitable.

Were you part of or have you witnessed a distinctive period in Pakistan's political history? Write to us at blog@dawn.com

As a Pakistani who immigrated to Canada, I had always pledged to myself that the first country I would travel to after acquiring citizenship and a Canadian passport would be Israel.

Having heard stories of the Holy Land from friends, my excitement knew no bounds. That said, I was apprehensive aplenty because I had heard accounts of people who were denied entry by Israeli customs owing to their Pakistani and/or Muslim background.

On Feb 17, 2016, loaded with prayers and advice, I embarked on a British Airways flight to Israel. I arrived at the Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv at 5am local time.

Upon arriving at the Israeli customs, an officer interrogated me in a sombre voice: Do I know anybody in Israel? Do I know Arabic? Have I ever been to the Middle East?

He also asked to see my Pakistani passport, which I wasn't carrying with me since it had expired.

Taking my Canadian passport, he pointed me towards a waiting area. I had earlier anticipated such a scenario and hence had brought a copy of a Lonely Planet Guide on Israel, which I then proceeded to read.

After 30 minutes, I was called in a room by another customs officer, who asked me my purpose of visit, and why I had chosen to visit Israel and not some other country. Slowly and painstakingly, he typed my answers into his computer.

After peppering me with a few other questions pertaining to my move to Canada and my profession, the officer asked me to write my full name and e-mail address on a piece of paper and then told me to wait in the same waiting area.

An hour went by before I was called by a young lady officer for another question-and-answer session. Seated in a room which had a picture of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem and an Israeli flag on display, I answered just about every question under the sun.

The session lasted for about 45 minutes. In the end, I was told that she would verify all the information I had provided.

Following a wait of four hours since I had landed, a lady came to me with my passport in her hand. She handed me an entry visa on a separate piece of paper and directed me to the luggage machine.

I collected my backpack and immediately phoned my father to inform that I was finally going to Jerusalem!

A 45-minute drive from Tel Aviv, Jerusalem is the Holy city for Judaism, Christianity and Islam. The city is divided into Muslim, Jewish, Christian and Armenian quarters.

I arrived in my hostel, located in the old city, at noon. Not wanting to waste anymore time, I left my backpack in my room, I decided to go first to the Al-Aqsa mosque.

The passage to Al-Aqsa from Jaffa Gate (one of the many gates of the walled city) passes through the beautiful traditional markets of the old city.

Upon arriving at the entrance of Al-Aqsa, the guard on duty asked to see my passport and then told me to read Surah-e-Fateha as verification that I was Muslim (there are also designated hours for non-Muslims). I did and entered.

The capacious mosque was endearing in its simplicity, and sparsely filled with devotees. I explored its interiors and then said a prayer.

Opposite to the mosque is the gold-plated Dome of the Rock, one of the most stunning and photographed landmarks around the world. The gilded dome of the edifice stood out against a pale sky.

I gazed at it for a long time, mesmerised and utterly humbled, before going inside to see the place where Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) is believed to have ascended to the heavens during the journey called Mairaj.

Next, I visited the Wailing or Western Wall, which is the holiest place, where Jews are permitted to pray. Here, I saw locals Jews mourning and praying in front of the ancient limestone wall.

I then made my way to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, considered the place where Jesus' tomb is located.

A sacred place for Christians, many believe it is the site of the most critical event in history: The spot where Christ resurrected from the dead.

A quiet calm descended upon me as the day drew to an end. Watching these believers at each of the three sites filled me with a profound peace; moving me with their acts of faith.

After spending about three days in Jerusalem — I, along with a fellow traveller from India, whom I met at the hostel I was staying at — decided to go to Bethlehem and Hebron.

Bethlehem is a 30-minute drive south of Jerusalem. It's a predominantly Palestinian city, and is famous among travellers for the iconic Church of Nativity — the birthplace of Jesus.

From Bethlehem, we arrived in Hebron, which is under both Palestinian civil control and Israeli military control. The highlight of the city is the Cave of the Patriarchs. It is sacred for Muslims, Jews and Christians because it is where the shrines of Prophet Ibrahim, Ishaq and their wives are located.

After passing through two security checkpoints, we arrived at the Muslim side of the site. It was spiritually awakening to be inside the burial places of some of the most revered Prophets of Islam, Christianity and Judaism.

Also making the acquaintance of a Canadian traveller I met at my hostel from Lithuania, we decided to go to Ramallah, a Palestinian city in the West Bank. At a 35-minute drive from Jerusalem, we did not encounter any checkpoints

My hostel was just a minute's walk from the main bus station in downtown Ramallah. Deciding to spend a night in Ramallah, we wasted no time dumping our backpacks in the hostel, and heading off to explore the city.

Ramallah is a lively and bustling Palestinian stronghold. It is where the mausoleum of Palestinian Liberation Organisation (PLO) leader Yasser Arafat is located. We cruised through a few local bazaars, before making a perfunctory stop at a museum and smoked, by far, the best sheesha I've ever had at the popular Baladna Café.

We were fortunate to befriend some interesting locals. One wouldn't think so but they lead a fairly normal life. In fact, I hadn't seen the amount of luxury cars anywhere else in Israel as I did in the city of Ramallah in the West Bank.

That said, there are refugees camps situated at a 15-minute drive from Ramallah, where a lot of Palestinians are living in abject poverty.

The next day, I went to the Palestinian city of Nablus. It takes me a little over an hour to get there on a local bus. Both Ramallah and Nablus have remained conflict zones during clashes between Israeli soldiers and Palestinians in the past.

I found it a bustling, robust city during my few hours of stay. After losing myself in the bazaars of Nablus for a while, I tried the famous dessert kunafeh, which is a cheese pastry soaked in sweet and sugar-based syrup, famous in Arab countries.

Safely, it was the most delicious thing I had tasted since my arrival in Israel.

Later, I treated myself to a calming Hammam experience (Turkish bath) at the Hammad Al Shifa. I left there feeling mentally cleansed.

Nablus is revered for its production of olive oil soaps and I was eager to see what the fuss was about. Much to my dismay, all the factories were closed since it was late in the afternoon, but I did later manage to grab some locally-made olive oil soaps from a small shop, and found them to be worth the hype!

It was time for me to leave the city. I hopped on a bus and returned to Ramallah. From there, I took another bus to Jerusalem and then to Tel Aviv, where I spent the last day of my sojourn.

I sampled what I could in a day. In the old part of Tel Aviv, known as Jaffa — a pre-dominantly Muslim-populated area — I had the best tuna pizza, bought last-minute souvenirs and also managed to soak up the wonderfully warm Mediterranean sun at the Old Jaffa beach.

It was a Friday night which, in Israel, denotes Shabbat: Judaism’s day of rest. There was sparse traffic on the roads and everything started to close early in the evening.

The next day, I reluctantly packed to leave the Holy Land for Canada; nonetheless, thrilled to finally have Israel checked off my bucket list.

—All photos by the author

Siran Valley, a lesser-known valley in Mansehra District, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, is one of my favourites in Pakistan. Not because I hail from there, but because I have seen and explored some of the most magnificent landscapes in the valley that are seldom visited.

Last year, my cousin insisted on taking me to the Pleja Meadows, a part of the Siran Valley, which is by far one of the best places I have ever seen. This was in July of 2016.

After that visit, we made plans to go again the following year. But this time, we wanted to explore the other side of Siran Valley — the villages of Mandagucha and Jacha — travelling through forests and then taking the snow line all the way to the Khanda Gali peak and Neeli Nadi.

Whenever I plan for a trip, my friends get excited and almost always want to tag along. But this time, none of my friends from my usual posse could join me, most likely because the trip was very physically demanding, involving hiking all the way up into the forest.

However, three of my cousins from Jabori and two friends, Adeel and Babar, all the way from Karachi, joined me in my adventurous undertaking.

One of my cousins Hammad, a guard for the forest of Mandagucha — which was to be our first stop — had invited us.

An hour after I left Mansehra, I had travelled 40 kilometres and reached Jabori where my cousins were getting ready to accompany me.

From Jabori, we hired a minivan for Mandagucha which was 19 kilometres away. The driver said that he was pressed for time and had to reach somewhere else in a short while, so he drove at a very brisk pace.

The way he drove, like a man possessed, literally had us on the edge of our seats. Half an hour later, we had reached our destination. It’s fortunate that none of us get travel sickness or that could have been a very messy journey.

Upon our arrival, we were greeted by the sight of a beautiful house that belonged to a friend of Hammad’s. This is where we were to spend the next three hours.

It was here that Hammad called upon the assistance of a babaji as we had plenty of luggage. Babaji arrived a short while later with his donkey, and soon he was off with all our luggage, making his way to Dhor, a village located 10 kilometres away alongside the Siran River, and the place where we would be spending our first night.

All our luggage went except my camera bag; I prefer to keep this little treasure with me at all times.

While there, we made an astounding discovery: walnuts. We found walnuts everywhere!

The walnut is a common fruit in Siran Valley but I learnt that the best walnuts can be found in Mandagucha. We ate plenty of these and then hit the road, eager to continue our adventure.

From Mandagucha to Jacha is a distance of five kilometres. And another five from Jacha to Dhor, a nice parallel track to the Siran River. Although this was a pleasant walk, when we reached Jacha it began to rain, which made the journey forward somewhat harder.

By early evening, we reached Dhor, but by then the temperature had dropped. When we got there, we met Shah Hussain, our host for the night. He took us to a tea shop where they make tea for travellers.

After thoroughly enjoying the hot beverage, we went to Shah Hussain’s guest room. My cousin Hammad and his fellow guards often use this room when they are visiting the fields. After resting for some time, we went to the river to try our luck at fishing.

As I tried to document the adventure through photography, my cousins attempted to catch some fish, while a local played a tune on his flute. By then, the weather had begun to get cold.

Having had no luck with fishing but some luck with photography, we headed back to our guest room. We lit a fire to warm our cold bones from the chill we’d felt outside, and sat down for dinner.

Dinner was a simple affair: all organic vegetables washed down with buttermilk, with yoghurt and cream on the side. It was still raining as we lay down to rest for the long day ahead of us.

The next morning, after having a nice breakfast with Shah Hussain, we began walking. We were determined to to reach Araam Gali, some 13 kilometres away, and spend the night there.

As the donkey was struggling to climb uphill, we were left with no choice but to take our luggage on our backs. Shah Hussain arranged a guide for us, Shafi, a resident of Thanda near Araam Gali.

After a two-hour walk we reached Kaalu Aala Kalaas (a name given to the place by its residents in the Gojri language), which was a pleasant meadow in the middle of the forest, five kilometres away from Dhor. We spent plenty of time there and I even joined some children there to play gilli danda.

We were served some delectable cookies with tea to fuel up for the hike ahead; the journey was going to be tough and we had to be prepared for it. We had to climb for the next five hours.

Hammad and Babar walked with ease, unperturbed by the terrain. Hammad is no different from a resident of the area we were traversing, because it was his own territory of inspection and he was used to it.

Babar, is a great hiker having explored most of the places by foot and has the stamina to hike all day.

Adeel and I, on the other hand, are not good hikers. Many a time we lost our way whilst hiking.

The ascent was an extremely trying experience. But shortly after crossing the snow line, the glorious sight in front of our eyes was enough for us to forget the ordeal of getting there.

Kunaali, the site we had reached, is almost 15-20 kilometres from Dhor, and is far steeper than Kaalu Aala Kalaas. There we had to cross the forest line to enter the snow line.

After spending an age just taking in the fresh air of Kunaali, it was time to start taking some photographs. By now we were also feeling the pangs of hunger, so Shafi went to get some food.

Would you believe that they had run out of rice and vegetables, but were kind enough to make some fresh roti for us? This was accompanied by a glass of yoghurt with salt for seasoning.

It was not a culinary delight by any means but being ravenous meant we didn’t have a choice. We still had to hike for two hours to reach Thanda, two kilometres away, where we stayed overnight. We thought it best to buy a chicken from Kunaali and take it with us for our dinner.

The next couple of hours were very rough, but before nightfall descended, we reached Thanda. We rested in a guest room at Shafi’s house, where he served us some tea.

We were right in front of the Moosa ka Musallah peak. From Dhor, we had to reach Khori and then travel on to Musallah summit.

But we wanted to explore the meadows ahead of Moosa ka Musallah first. There is a place there called Panj Nadi, a sight of five big glaciers that originate from the Siran River.

After finishing our tea, we headed toward a mosque. The houses people there live in are called taara in Hindko. A taara is made of stone, and usually three are built: one for the family, one for livestock, usually sheep and goats, and a third for the mosque where travellers can stay for the night.

The mosque where we stayed had no doors or windows. We built a fire indoors as the weather was becoming very chilly. As evening turned to night, even colder weather enveloped the little taara, which felt like a loving mother, protecting us from the horrible, icy tendrils of the invisible cold.

In a few moments, our taara was lashed with heavy rainfall accompanied with loud thunder. That night, Shafi cooked some highly flavourful rice with kidney beans along with the chicken we had brought from Kunaali. We had some butter and cream as well.

The tempest outside, coupled with the fact that our taara didn’t have any doors or windows, was ample encouragement that we should slip into our sleeping bags as soon as possible. We were spent from the day’s hike anyway, and soon fell asleep.

The next morning we were greeted by an amazing, rejuvenating sunrise over the Moosa Ka Musallah peak, a far cry from the previous night’s doom and gloom. After having a hearty breakfast, we had to say goodbye to Shafi and set off in order to reach Aram Gali, where we were going to meet our next guide.

Jahanzeb, along with his nephew Yasir, met us at Araam Gali and we resumed our journey from there. The next four hours were spent in an extremely steep hike, which to amateurs like ourselves, felt nigh vertical.

Adeel, Yasir and I were slowly making our way to the top whilst the other three guys vanished from our sight as soon as we hit the trail. Somehow, after a really tiring five kilometre-long trek, we reached Khanda Gali.

It was now two in the afternoon. Situated at around 14,200 feet above sea level, Khanda Gali is a beautiful place and one of the tallest peaks of Siran Valley. The meadows are unbelievably gorgeous and resemble Pleja Meadows a little.

In Khanda Gali, we met a few travellers and spent some time there resting and taking pictures. Another peak that is around a half-hour journey from Khanda Gali is Darwaza Gali, but we were so exhausted we couldn’t even contemplate going there.

The next step in our journey was Chorr, some five kilometres from Khanda Gali. As we were not sure whether we would make it to Neeli Nadi that day, we all agreed to visit Chorr first.

Aurangzeb’s (our new guide) father-in-law lives in Chorr and he was awaiting us at his residence. So once again, we hit the road on foot.

The journey from Khanda Gali to Chorr was not a bad trek, but we had to first reach a water stream and climb uphill to get to the place where we were to spend the night.

When we reached the stream, we had a meeting about how much time we had left of our trip. There was lots to think about. We had badly wanted to include Neeli Nadi to our list of places we would visit.

But Babar had to return to work as soon as possible and he did not want to spend another day travelling, so we made the decision to go to Neeli Nadi first.

On our way to Neeli Nadi, we had to climb another mountain and then go down a hill. Although we were hungry and tired, we knew we didn’t have much time to sit down and eat and had to press on to reach Neeli Nadi.

It took us another three hours before we finally reached the spot, but the view that awaited us was so serene and beautiful that it made the journey absolutely worth it. We spent a lot of time just taking in the beautiful sights.

Around Neeli Nadi, there is a picturesque meadow. The water that makes its way over from Sira Da Kach in Kaghan Valley is blue. It drops into the Indus River near Dasu, Kohistan to make its way into Neeli Nadi.

We were in Alai, Batagram District and had already crossed District Mansehra. The territory of Kohistan comes right after Neeli Nadi. We had spent nearly two hours at Neeli Nadi.

We spent time resting and chatting away as a goat herder played music on his flute for us. Then it was time for us to move again and head to Chorr. By 6pm we had reached the glacier there.

It took us another 30 minutes before we reached the place we were going to stay for the night. We were extremely tired and ravenous.

The final stretch to the top seemed to be the most difficult of our hike. Fortunately, when we reached it, our host was already there waiting for us.

He had prepared some revitalising tea and served it with cookies. We sat in front of the mosque where we going to stay the night. It was colder, as we were at the top of the hill, so our host provided us with some blankets to keep us warm.

After relaxing for some time, we proceeded to play cards. Later that evening, we entered the mosque and lit a fire to warm the place up. After a scrumptious dinner, I came outside and the sight of the skyline took my breath away.

Normally, we don't get to see many stars because of all the bright city lights, but here the sight was stunning and crystal clear. I took out my camera to do some night photography and dedicated the next two hours to setting up my tripod and snapping away.

As the temperature started to drop, we called it a night. The past three days had left us completely drained.

The next morning, Jahanzeb woke us up and we had a nice breakfast of organic bread and butter, after which we kicked off our journey back. We had planned to stay in Thanda or Kunaali but Babar was keen to reach Dhor.

It was a tough task, as we had to walk the distance in one day, which we had previously covered in two. At first we had to walk downhill for some time.

When we reached the glacier, we opted to catch our breath and spend some time there. A short while later, we resumed climbing.

Our next stop was Khanda Gali and the trek was tough, especially for me because somehow I was having pain in my left knee. It was getting harder to continue walking.

Four hours later, we reached Khanda Gali. Babar, Hammad, Jahanzeb and Yasir declared that they were going to keep going on to Darwaza Gali. However, Adeel and I chose to stop and take a break.

Darwaza Gali is a half an hour hike from Khanda Gali. The gateway to Khanda Gali is a stone that resembles a door and that is where the place gets its name.

When they got back, we picked up right where we had left off. We reached Thanda where we met Shafi again. He brought us lunch and we rested there for some time.

After lunch, we began walking again and reached Kunaali. Here, we had tea and then set on our journey downhill to Kaalu Ala Kalas.

It was already getting dark in Kaalu Aala Kalaas but we continued, as we had to reach Dhor where Shah Hussain was waiting for us. Walking along the Siran River in the dark was not an easy task. And walking with a painful knee meant each step was even tougher.

By the time we reached Dhor, we were walking in complete darkness. We came across a snake, but fortunately for us it slithered away.

Shah Hussain greeted us when we arrived at Dhor. Once again, we were served a mouth-watering dinner, followed by tea.

We were not too worried as it was the last day of our trip, and we were only 10 kilometres away from Mandagucha, and 30 kilometres from Jabori.

That evening, I thought to gift my hiking stick to Waqas, Shah Hussain’s youngest son, as he seemed to like it and this was a way for me to show my gratitude for their hospitality.

After having breakfast with Shah Hussain, we all bade him farewell and started our journey for Jacha and then on to Mandagucha. As we had been hiking for a few days now, 10 kilometres didn’t sound too daunting.

We reached Jacha around 11am and by 1pm we were in Mandagucha. After another tea stop, every hiker’s go-to drink, we sat on the top of a Hiace van to continue our journey.

By 2pm we were in Jabori. Here, I hired a minivan and reached my home city, Mansehra, by 5pm.

It had been an amazing journey full of exploration, discovery, laughter, fun and mind-blowing sights. Our one regret was that we couldn’t spend longer exploring all the places we had visited.

As Babar and Adeel had to get back to work, we had to keep this trip short. But nevertheless, it had been a truly memorable one.

We had totally immersed ourselves into the experience, hiking from the very first day, enjoying lots of organic food, and making plenty of new friends.

Best of all, we got to see some of the most glorious landscapes any traveller’s eyes can have the fortune of beholding.

Have you explored any off-the-beaten tracks across the world? Share your journey with us at blog@dawn.com

Are you sitting comfortably?

Good, then we’ll begin.

Once upon a time there was a little girl who wanted to be independent and successful and yearned to leave her somewhat provincial home town for the big bright lights of the capital.

She was determined and hard-working and learnt from her mother’s example that one needed to be self-sufficient. She didn’t want to rely on any other and in her rather strong-willed way, she eventually got what she wanted.

And she did become successful, working at an investment bank and after a faltering start, she became one of the youngest Managing Directors of the firm.

And life was great and she was enjoying the fruits of her labour and she really had no complaints. Even during the financial crisis of 2008, she kept her head, making a pact with her Other Half, that if their employer fell like a domino, they would retreat to the mountains and lead a Simple Life.

But their bank survived, a true Titan of the financial world, attracting awe and vitriol in equal measure. And she and her Other Half continued merrily on their upward path.

Then, one day, it all changed. Puff! Just like that. A little switch in her mind flicked off. Financial success, the rewards that it reaped, didn’t matter anymore. They were mere atom-sized particles disappearing on the horizon.

Related: What I learned about marriage after getting divorced

In a way, it was a skin that she shed. An identity that she was happy to discard. She no longer wanted to be beholden to sales and revenue and profitability.

She didn’t want to kowtow to people she didn’t particularly like, all in the name of Career Progression.

She no longer wanted to board yet another plane, to stay overnight in an anonymous hotel room, to wake up in the morning and for a split second wonder where the hell she was.

So why this sudden change?

Whereas before she believed she lacked any kind of maternal instinct, out of the blue, she was confronted by a desire so strong, a pulse beating deep in her womb – a soul crying out for a body, a life.

She wanted to be a mother, to forge an enduring bond with a little human that was part her and part her Other Half. She wanted to experience maternal love, the highs, the lows, the pain and the suffering of bringing another person into this over-populated, polluted and dangerous place we call Planet Earth.

So she and her Other Half went forth and multiplied. She bore three children. Three girls to be precise. A treasure and a curse, whichever way you look at it. Because girls are disadvantaged from the start.

Females are supposedly the weaker sex. While in the developed world, girls have access to education, their counterparts in the developing world, often do not. Poverty plays its part.

For many families in Pakistan, a daughter is no better than a yoke around her parents’ necks. School isn’t an option when their daughter can earn money as a young domestic servant from an early age.

But then she’ll have to be married off, a handsome dowry raised – a financial burden if ever there was one.

That said, life in the developed world isn’t that much rosier for women. While we have access to education and a whole host of careers, we are still marginalised, bullied or abused. Just take a look at social media and the insecurity it engenders.

We are first judged by our looks; the grey matter in our brain comes a distant second. In the arts, sport, commerce – you name it – women are compensated less than their male counterparts.

And to make matters worse, some of us are overcome by a wish to have children, putting a spanner in the works and stalling that thing called Progress. Many mothers go back to work either out of necessity or a desire to fulfil their career ambitions.

And I wholeheartedly salute those who do because I think it’s a feat to balance motherhood and a career. To all the working mothers out there, I’m in awe and I think you’re brilliant.

I knew I wouldn't be able to have a career in finance and have children. Something would have to give, and even though my Other Half would have fully supported my career, knowing myself like I do, my job would have still been all encompassing.

I wouldn’t have been prepared to go part-time, to leave the office bang on the dot at 6pm, or to travel less. I wouldn’t have been prepared to switch off, period.

The children would have lost out, reared by nannies 24/7. And then what would be the point of having children?

Read next: My life as a little brown girl growing up in Scarborough, UK

So yes, I gave up one career. Correction: I had the luxury to give up a career (something I’ll be eternally grateful for), to embark on another: parenthood. The toughest job known to humankind. And one that comes unpaid.

Yes, you get hugs, kisses, laughs, which are priceless, and as my cousin said to me, the wisdom you gain from having children is the most precious thing in the world.

But equally, there’s the food thrown in your face, the exorcist vomits, the explosive poops, the screaming, the tantrums, the vitriol flung at you.

You are simultaneously their idol and Public Enemy Number One.

I also lost that thing called financial independence. I will hold up my hand and proclaim at the top of my voice that it galls me.

I absolutely hate – with a capital H – being dependent on my Other Half and that my current account is barren.

While I don’t have a husband who pathologically monitors my every expenditure, I miss the freedom that comes with having my own income stream.

And, moreover, I still can’t come to terms with the fact that I’m unable to share the financial burden of our household.

And here’s another conundrum: how, as a woman, do I pair giving up my career with the goal of encouraging my daughters to become independent women? They are blissfully unaware of my life before they arrived on the scene.

As far as they’re concerned, from time to time I sit in my study, typing away on my computer, doing what, they haven’t the faintest idea.

While I love writing and it’s something I can happily do at home, any income I may accrue will hardly pay for a sock, let alone two.

Yet at the same time it engages the few remaining grey cells in my brain and it’s fulfilling. Having children has unlocked the door to an avenue that I wouldn’t have explored if I’d continued in finance.

And in all honesty, being outside of that world, I feel more confident and secure than I have ever felt before. My little ones have given me perspective, helped me cut the wheat from the chaff.

There are far more important things in life than a look-at-me career and the money that goes with it.

And that, my friends, is key.

Being an independent and successful woman isn’t about maximising one’s financial wealth. Nor is it the volume of likes you get on social media and a need for self-display, ad-nauseam.

It’s about being confident, knowing who you are, seeking out what you’re good at and doing your very best at it. It’s about being able to fight for what you want, to stand on your own two feet, and to think differently and independently from everyone else.

And if you have those things in your armoury, you can fight off the misogyny and do very well indeed. You can raise your head above the parapet and stand tall and have skin thick enough to shrug off the swipes thrown your way, of which there will be many.

Also read: Diary of a divorced Pakistani girl: How money, not family, saved me

A confident woman is seen as smug; a confident man, isn’t. A woman needs to be likeable to win affection (Hilary Clinton); a man can behave like an abhorrent chauvinist pig and still win over hearts and minds (Donald Trump).

A woman who speaks her mind, who dares to expose a wrong is often gagged (see the fallout from the Harvey Weinstein scandal).

It seems that women are more susceptible to criticism than men, that they have a longer way to fall and people will happily watch them fall and fail.

Men can trip up and show their ugly side and the public will forgive them (Bill Clinton, Mel Gibson), but can the same be said of women?

What about the prospect for girls living in Pakistan, a country which once boasted a female (albeit flawed) leader? This is a country where people in power are content to watch women be treated like dirt.

Honour killings still continue and women who are raped are less the victims and more the ones who committed a wrong.

In so many ways the human race has progressed, but all over the world, women remain second class citizens.

In that regard, I’m glad I’ve given up my first career so that I have the time to nurture my girls, to give them the wherewithal to survive in this wretched world. If I was working in finance, I wouldn’t have been able to.

Or at the very least, I would’ve probably scheduled 15 minutes each day during which I’d expect my girls to perform like dancing monkeys and tell me everything that’s going on in their life.

But children don’t work like that. They’re not robots, who, at the push of a button do as you command.

It could be during our journeys to or from school, at mealtimes or bedtimes, or, more often, at the most inopportune time that my daughters, unprompted, will talk about something that happened to them.

A passing comment giving insight into the depths of their complex minds, that if I was preoccupied with work, I would’ve missed. Those are the things that I treasure.

And yes, there are plenty of occasions when, my head spinning from the screaming and wailing and general complaining, I yearn for my life back in the office far away from the craziness.

Then again, I know my daughters wouldn’t bat an eyelid if I had a great job nor would they acknowledge the fat-cat salary. They may, however, remember when I read them Harry Potter at bedtime, and when I told my oldest child that in a few years time she’ll be running rings around Mean Boy from school.

My middle daughter may well recall the time I broke every speed limit known to man to race her to the hospital after she cracked her head on the coffee table.

And one day, I hope they’ll remember that alongside the tenets of kindness and generosity, their mother encouraged them to believe in themselves, to give their best, to fight, and to never ever give up.

If they don’t, then I would have failed as a mother, and that would be a very bad thing indeed.

Have you had to make a significant career change to follow your dreams? Share your story with us at blog@dawn.com

My interest in South Asia, and specifically Pakistan, started when I finished my degree in Islamic studies in Madrid.

It was not easy to pursue South Asian studies as a Spanish scholar; unlike other European countries such as the UK, Spain still does not have a university department for this area.

I moved to India for PhD research for two years (2001-2002) when 9/11 clearly marked a change. Islam came to the forefront of international academic and non-academic interests, often for the wrong reasons.

When I returned from India, I observed that my friends in Barcelona often talked about the increasing presence of Pakistanis and other people of South Asian origin in the city.

To the delight of the British nationals in town and other more adventurous citizens, the proliferation of curry houses was a reason to celebrate the formerly less diverse culinary scene.

It was clear that the Pakistani community in Barcelona had become a talking point. Their presence was unavoidable, particularly after the prayers on Fridays. And nowhere were they more visible than in the neighbourhood of El Raval.

Many wondered where these men were from, why they dressed like that (shalwar kameez), and why they were seldom accompanied by their womenfolk.

In 2008, Casa Asia, an institution of the Spanish Ministry of Foreign Affairs that promotes knowledge of Asia in Spain, awarded me a grant.

My project was to conduct a piece of research that would be called Atlas of Pakistani Migration in Spain.

I took this opportunity to visit Pakistan and travel around Spain to go to the different places where Pakistanis had settled.

More than half of all Pakistanis in Spain lived in Catalonia, especially Barcelona, which is why I moved there in the summer of 2008.

Pakistanis in Spain

Compared with other European countries, Spain has not always been a country of immigrants.

Pakistanis, for example, have traditionally preferred to migrate to the UK, USA, Canada, and the Gulf because of the better economic prospects in those nations.

Spain has a population of approximately 46.5 million, of which 9.5% are foreigners. The main foreign nationalities represented in the country are Romanians, Moroccans, British, Italians and Chinese.

Pakistanis are 1.2% of all foreigners and barely 0.1% of the population in Spain. How have they managed, then, to attract so much attention?

One of the explanations can be found in their local concentration, in terms of both origin and destination.

Gujaratis make up 44% of all Pakistanis in Spain, while in other destinations in the EU, they are about 11%.

As for destination, more than half of all Pakistanis in Spain are in Barcelona.

At their peak, in 2012, there were about 68,000 Pakistanis in Spain, although the Spanish Institute of Statistics only accounts for those legally resident.

Several thousand others are thought to have resided there illegally.

The Pioneers

The first Pakistanis to arrive in the country were a group of about 300 Gujaratis who migrated from other European countries in the 1970s and landed initially in Barcelona.

Some of the migrants had experience working in mines elsewhere in Europe and Pakistan; some had lost their jobs in factories or mines in the UK where the industrial crisis had begun; others had working experience in oil refineries in Libya.

Those were the last days of Franco’s dictatorship and Spain’s industrial labour market was small. Some migrants opened shops and boarding houses; others looked for jobs in industry or manufacturing.

Those who had no previous experience in mining had to learn from scratch. The main mines where they began to work were El Bierzo (coal) and Linares (lead), and others in La Rioja and Teruel.

Most of the Pakistani newcomers were men between 20 and 28 years old from Gujarat, predominantly from the village of Puran.

They are known among the wider Pakistani community in Spain as los pioneros (The Pioneers), being the first to venture into the Spanish labour market.

The Spain of those days was a very traditional country with only basic infrastructures. One of the Pioneers told me they found themselves in quite familiar surroundings in the 1970s:

“We came from a place where there was also a dictatorship, where you would not talk about politics and you knew you had to keep your mouth shut.”

Many were surprised to find that people in Spain hardly spoke any English and that they had to learn Spanish if they were to be understood by the locals.

Not surprisingly, traditional Pakistani codes were misinterpreted. The shalwar kameez attracted unexpected attention in the villages near the mines, with many old ladies believing that the men were wearing dresses.

While it was acceptable for Spanish couples to walk hand in hand, Pakistani men doing the same was misunderstood as homosexuality.

Blas, a teacher at a high school in Linares, told me that as a child their only entertainment was playing in the streets.

The sight of Pakistani men walking hand in hand was an amusement for naughty kids who would follow them around and scream “Mariquitas! Mariquitas!” (Pansies! Pansies!)

Most of these Pioneers worked for about 15 or 20 years. The majority had to retire due to work-related illnesses, mainly respiratory ones such as silicosis. They usually worked as drillers and explosive experts and did the night shifts.

There was a death in a mine in June 1977 of a Pakistani worker named Abdul Razaq. The whole village of Bembibre joined the funerary court and the company helped send his body back to Pakistan.

In those early years, the economic situation was better. Spain had just joined the European Union (in 1986). Job opportunities increased and the welfare state was at its most supportive.

Some of those who had secured their retirement pensions travelled back to Pakistan and spread the idea that Spain was a land of opportunity. As proof of it, they had their big houses to show off.

But at the same time, these migrants were exponents of a myth that others could not fulfil. When the mines started closing in the 1980s and 1990s, many lost their jobs and had to change occupations or moved to different towns.

Destination Barcelona

The main question everyone asks is why most Pakistanis are concentrated in Barcelona.

To begin with, while the first wave of Pakistani migrants largely worked in mines and industry in other parts of Spain, the next generation of migrants preferred cities as they offered job opportunities in occupations that Pakistanis have become specialised in: the services sector and self-employment.

We must also consider the fact that Barcelona has a more buoyant economy than other Spanish cities. Furthermore, the kinship networks developed by the migrants themselves provide an important degree of social security for the newcomers.

The migrants, typically men, would bring over their brothers, then their cousins and uncles. After establishing themselves, it would be the turn of wives and children.

El Raval was the main point of arrival for most of the Pakistani migrants and it was here where their initial experience in Barcelona took place.

Formerly known as El Barrio Chino (Chinese quarter), El Raval was at that time a tough working-class neighbourhood where drug trafficking and prostitution were rife, turning it into a no-go zone for locals and tourists.

When Pakistanis arrived, they were attracted by El Raval’s central location, low rents and affordable business premises, where shops and restaurants could be established. Some more adventurous entrepreneurs bought flats there.

The flow of immigrants turned El Raval into one of the most international neighbourhoods in Barcelona. The primary and secondary education institute Miquel Tarradell is proof of this.

I used to live just across the street and loved to see from the balcony how Pakistani, Moroccan, Senegalese, Latin American and Catalan parents, all with their different attires and languages, would drop their kids off.

Pakistani kids would arrive speaking Punjabi to their parents, only to instantly switch to Catalan or Spanish at the school gates.

When Barcelona staged the 1992 Olympics, El Raval became a tourist hot spot, even more so with the economic boom of the early 2000s. Like most neighbourhoods in the city, El Raval also became increasingly gentrified.

The area’s Pakistani population has decreased over the years. Many have remained in Barcelona but have taken their families to other areas.

Some Pakistanis I talked to mention that they like their new neighbourhoods and prefer their children to grow up here, but they miss the feeling of proximity and neighbourliness they had while in El Raval.

Many can still be seen on the Rambla del Raval boulevard, where they meet on Fridays after prayer at the nearby mosque run by the Minhaj-ul Quran association, the one with the biggest attendance in Barcelona.

Pakistani associations

The religious and cultural associations are the main means through which the diaspora organises and presents itself to the local government.

These organisations help Pakistanis find their way through life, get guidance regarding bureaucratic formalities, and assist them with Spanish and Catalan language classes.

The vast majority of the Pakistani associations are religious in nature and are anxious to be seen as legitimately representing the whole community.

Survival of an association depends not only on the total number of its members but also on grants available from the local government, whose demands have to be complied with.

In Barcelona, these demands include speaking Catalan and expressing support for the region’s agitation for greater autonomy or even independence.

Pro-autonomy or pro-independence parties often see these associations as a useful source of votes and a means by which to spread their ideologies in the Pakistani community.

Although local politics is a topic of discussion at association meetings, members are mainly concerned with matters back home.

There are taboos that locals know cannot be discussed openly with Pakistani acquaintances. One is religion; another is the low visibility of women in public life; the last is the exploitation and abuse that occurs by some members in the Pakistani community towards the newly-arrived migrants from Pakistan.

Knowledge about Pakistan among the Spanish population is rather limited but it would be true to say that the country has had a very bad press. Interest is often limited to the presence of Pakistanis in Barcelona.

The academic world in Spain has paid the country scant attention; when it has done so, it’s only in the context of immigration. The press is seemingly obsessed with Pakistan’s role in the War on Terror.

Some of the Pakistani associations have worked to change the stereotypes, but it has proved to be a difficult task. However, there is a growing interest in Pakistani culture, albeit mainly in its English language manifestation (literature, cinema, music).

Writers such as Nadeem Aslam, Mohsin Hamid, Mohammed Hanif, Kamila Shamsie or Bapsi Sidwa have been translated into Spanish, thereby creating an impression far more positive than that given by the press.

Some of these authors have also visited the city and presented their work at different cultural centres.

The lives of women

From 2000 onwards, Pakistani women started to arrive in Barcelona, although in lower numbers than the menfolk. It is very striking to the Spanish eye to see the lack of participation of women in general.

Women from other migrant communities are out and about, taking part in all sorts of activities, and in many cases, acting as pioneers in the migrant experience.

Even those from other Muslim countries like Morocco participate more actively than their Pakistani coreligionists.

This is no doubt the most controversial aspect when we deal with the Pakistani community in Spain.

Although many associations tend to organise family events, women participate in these in the traditional roles of mothers and homemakers, and account for less than 1% of those attending.

Some of the women have told me they had more freedom back in Pakistan, where they could visit relatives within their village, go shopping and roam relatively freely.

“Here,” one of them told me, “we are sometimes prisoners in our own houses. I sometimes leave home only to drop my boys off at school and pick them up. But if my husband can do it a certain day, not even that.”

Pakistani men in Barcelona usually explain that they will not allow their women to become ‘contaminated’ by local norms of behaviour. This vision is very pronounced in the case of daughters reaching puberty.

Under Spanish law, it is compulsory for all children to study until they are 16 years old. Some schools, however, complain that Pakistani girls sometimes disappear from their classes when they reach the age of 14 or 15.

This is a great shame as most teachers agree that Pakistani girls are usually among the best students.

Exploitation in the community

Starting in 2002 and 2003, there have been rumours that legal settlement is available more easily in Spain than anywhere else in Europe.

Some greedy elements among the Pakistani community have taken the chance to profit from the arrival of their compatriots from different countries in the EU seeking such settlement.

Compatriots with few qualms deceive the new migrants, charging them high rents for a bed in a shared room, a bed sometimes used only for a few hours.

In the first phases of the migration experience, newcomers minimise costs in order to save money to send back home and pay back the fees to those who brought them to Spain.

They are forced to accept long shifts in corner shops or any other odd jobs (12-14 hours) for a meagre €300-400 a month (if they are paid at all) while they are made to pay at least €100 per month for their beds.

One of those newcomers told me in 2009 that the owner of the flat where he lived, another Pakistani, took away his passport and made him stay indoors for weeks at a time.

The owner would do the shopping for the tenants and then make even more money by charging them exorbitant prices for it.

He and a friend, a fellow exploited flatmate, managed to leave, something that was only possible with the help of an NGO.

A great number of well-off Pakistanis have found a lucrative business in the exploitation of vulnerable compatriots, many of whom are family members or neighbours from back home.

In such a close-knit community with tight social control, it can be very difficult for those caught up to break the circle of abuse. Everything they do will be made known and the price of dissent is ostracism.

Austerity

As is the case in the rest of southern Europe, austerity measures have badly affected the welfare state and the job market in Spain. Decreasing salaries and growing prices paint a bleak future.

Some immigrant communities have decided to leave Spain and go back home. Others are moving elsewhere in Europe.

Pakistanis are part of Barcelona but it remains to be seen how the younger generations will respond to the new challenges.

Nonetheless, they fare better than other nationals: they are known to be resilient and their extensive, worldwide kinship network allows them a great deal of mobility.

I am sure they will get through these difficult times. As many of them say, “we’ve seen far worse than this.”

Are you a Pakistani who grew up in the diaspora? Share your experiences with us at blog@dawn.com

My interest in South Asia, and specifically Pakistan, started when I finished my degree in Islamic studies in Madrid.

It was not easy to pursue South Asian studies as a Spanish scholar; unlike other European countries such as the UK, Spain still does not have a university department for this area.

I moved to India for PhD research for two years (2001-2002) when 9/11 clearly marked a change. Islam came to the forefront of international academic and non-academic interests, often for the wrong reasons.

When I returned from India, I observed that my friends in Barcelona often talked about the increasing presence of Pakistanis and other people of South Asian origin in the city.

To the delight of the British nationals in town and other more adventurous citizens, the proliferation of curry houses was a reason to celebrate the formerly less diverse culinary scene.

It was clear that the Pakistani community in Barcelona had become a talking point. Their presence was unavoidable, particularly after the prayers on Fridays. And nowhere were they more visible than in the neighbourhood of El Raval.

Many wondered where these men were from, why they dressed like that (shalwar kameez), and why they were seldom accompanied by their womenfolk.

In 2008, Casa Asia, an institution of the Spanish Ministry of Foreign Affairs that promotes knowledge of Asia in Spain, awarded me a grant.

My project was to conduct a piece of research that would be called Atlas of Pakistani Migration in Spain.

I took this opportunity to visit Pakistan and travel around Spain to go to the different places where Pakistanis had settled.

More than half of all Pakistanis in Spain lived in Catalonia, especially Barcelona, which is why I moved there in the summer of 2008.

Pakistanis in Spain

Compared with other European countries, Spain has not always been a country of immigrants.

Pakistanis, for example, have traditionally preferred to migrate to the UK, USA, Canada, and the Gulf because of the better economic prospects in those nations.

Spain has a population of approximately 46.5 million, of which 9.5% are foreigners. The main foreign nationalities represented in the country are Romanians, Moroccans, British, Italians and Chinese.

Pakistanis are 1.2% of all foreigners and barely 0.1% of the population in Spain. How have they managed, then, to attract so much attention?

One of the explanations can be found in their local concentration, in terms of both origin and destination.

Gujaratis make up 44% of all Pakistanis in Spain, while in other destinations in the EU, they are about 11%.

As for destination, more than half of all Pakistanis in Spain are in Barcelona.

At their peak, in 2012, there were about 68,000 Pakistanis in Spain, although the Spanish Institute of Statistics only accounts for those legally resident.

Several thousand others are thought to have resided there illegally.

The Pioneers

The first Pakistanis to arrive in the country were a group of about 300 Gujaratis who migrated from other European countries in the 1970s and landed initially in Barcelona.

Some of the migrants had experience working in mines elsewhere in Europe and Pakistan; some had lost their jobs in factories or mines in the UK where the industrial crisis had begun; others had working experience in oil refineries in Libya.

Those were the last days of Franco’s dictatorship and Spain’s industrial labour market was small. Some migrants opened shops and boarding houses; others looked for jobs in industry or manufacturing.

Those who had no previous experience in mining had to learn from scratch. The main mines where they began to work were El Bierzo (coal) and Linares (lead), and others in La Rioja and Teruel.

Most of the Pakistani newcomers were men between 20 and 28 years old from Gujarat, predominantly from the village of Puran.

They are known among the wider Pakistani community in Spain as los pioneros (The Pioneers), being the first to venture into the Spanish labour market.

The Spain of those days was a very traditional country with only basic infrastructures. One of the Pioneers told me they found themselves in quite familiar surroundings in the 1970s:

“We came from a place where there was also a dictatorship, where you would not talk about politics and you knew you had to keep your mouth shut.”

Many were surprised to find that people in Spain hardly spoke any English and that they had to learn Spanish if they were to be understood by the locals.

Not surprisingly, traditional Pakistani codes were misinterpreted. The shalwar kameez attracted unexpected attention in the villages near the mines, with many old ladies believing that the men were wearing dresses.

While it was acceptable for Spanish couples to walk hand in hand, Pakistani men doing the same was misunderstood as homosexuality.

Blas, a teacher at a high school in Linares, told me that as a child their only entertainment was playing in the streets.

The sight of Pakistani men walking hand in hand was an amusement for naughty kids who would follow them around and scream “Mariquitas! Mariquitas!” (Pansies! Pansies!)

Most of these Pioneers worked for about 15 or 20 years. The majority had to retire due to work-related illnesses, mainly respiratory ones such as silicosis. They usually worked as drillers and explosive experts and did the night shifts.

There was a death in a mine in June 1977 of a Pakistani worker named Abdul Razaq. The whole village of Bembibre joined the funerary court and the company helped send his body back to Pakistan.

In those early years, the economic situation was better. Spain had just joined the European Union (in 1986). Job opportunities increased and the welfare state was at its most supportive.

Some of those who had secured their retirement pensions travelled back to Pakistan and spread the idea that Spain was a land of opportunity. As proof of it, they had their big houses to show off.

But at the same time, these migrants were exponents of a myth that others could not fulfil. When the mines started closing in the 1980s and 1990s, many lost their jobs and had to change occupations or moved to different towns.

Destination Barcelona

The main question everyone asks is why most Pakistanis are concentrated in Barcelona.

To begin with, while the first wave of Pakistani migrants largely worked in mines and industry in other parts of Spain, the next generation of migrants preferred cities as they offered job opportunities in occupations that Pakistanis have become specialised in: the services sector and self-employment.

We must also consider the fact that Barcelona has a more buoyant economy than other Spanish cities. Furthermore, the kinship networks developed by the migrants themselves provide an important degree of social security for the newcomers.

The migrants, typically men, would bring over their brothers, then their cousins and uncles. After establishing themselves, it would be the turn of wives and children.

El Raval was the main point of arrival for most of the Pakistani migrants and it was here where their initial experience in Barcelona took place.

Formerly known as El Barrio Chino (Chinese quarter), El Raval was at that time a tough working-class neighbourhood where drug trafficking and prostitution were rife, turning it into a no-go zone for locals and tourists.

When Pakistanis arrived, they were attracted by El Raval’s central location, low rents and affordable business premises, where shops and restaurants could be established. Some more adventurous entrepreneurs bought flats there.

The flow of immigrants turned El Raval into one of the most international neighbourhoods in Barcelona. The primary and secondary education institute Miquel Tarradell is proof of this.

I used to live just across the street and loved to see from the balcony how Pakistani, Moroccan, Senegalese, Latin American and Catalan parents, all with their different attires and languages, would drop their kids off.

Pakistani kids would arrive speaking Punjabi to their parents, only to instantly switch to Catalan or Spanish at the school gates.

When Barcelona staged the 1992 Olympics, El Raval became a tourist hot spot, even more so with the economic boom of the early 2000s. Like most neighbourhoods in the city, El Raval also became increasingly gentrified.

The area’s Pakistani population has decreased over the years. Many have remained in Barcelona but have taken their families to other areas.

Some Pakistanis I talked to mention that they like their new neighbourhoods and prefer their children to grow up here, but they miss the feeling of proximity and neighbourliness they had while in El Raval.

Many can still be seen on the Rambla del Raval boulevard, where they meet on Fridays after prayer at the nearby mosque run by the Minhaj-ul Quran association, the one with the biggest attendance in Barcelona.

Pakistani associations

The religious and cultural associations are the main means through which the diaspora organises and presents itself to the local government.

These organisations help Pakistanis find their way through life, get guidance regarding bureaucratic formalities, and assist them with Spanish and Catalan language classes.

The vast majority of the Pakistani associations are religious in nature and are anxious to be seen as legitimately representing the whole community.

Survival of an association depends not only on the total number of its members but also on grants available from the local government, whose demands have to be complied with.

In Barcelona, these demands include speaking Catalan and expressing support for the region’s agitation for greater autonomy or even independence.

Pro-autonomy or pro-independence parties often see these associations as a useful source of votes and a means by which to spread their ideologies in the Pakistani community.

Although local politics is a topic of discussion at association meetings, members are mainly concerned with matters back home.

There are taboos that locals know cannot be discussed openly with Pakistani acquaintances. One is religion; another is the low visibility of women in public life; the last is the exploitation and abuse that occurs by some members in the Pakistani community towards the newly-arrived migrants from Pakistan.

Knowledge about Pakistan among the Spanish population is rather limited but it would be true to say that the country has had a very bad press. Interest is often limited to the presence of Pakistanis in Barcelona.

The academic world in Spain has paid the country scant attention; when it has done so, it’s only in the context of immigration. The press is seemingly obsessed with Pakistan’s role in the War on Terror.

Some of the Pakistani associations have worked to change the stereotypes, but it has proved to be a difficult task. However, there is a growing interest in Pakistani culture, albeit mainly in its English language manifestation (literature, cinema, music).

Writers such as Nadeem Aslam, Mohsin Hamid, Mohammed Hanif, Kamila Shamsie or Bapsi Sidwa have been translated into Spanish, thereby creating an impression far more positive than that given by the press.

Some of these authors have also visited the city and presented their work at different cultural centres.

The lives of women

From 2000 onwards, Pakistani women started to arrive in Barcelona, although in lower numbers than the menfolk. It is very striking to the Spanish eye to see the lack of participation of women in general.

Women from other migrant communities are out and about, taking part in all sorts of activities, and in many cases, acting as pioneers in the migrant experience.

Even those from other Muslim countries like Morocco participate more actively than their Pakistani coreligionists.

This is no doubt the most controversial aspect when we deal with the Pakistani community in Spain.

Although many associations tend to organise family events, women participate in these in the traditional roles of mothers and homemakers, and account for less than 1% of those attending.

Some of the women have told me they had more freedom back in Pakistan, where they could visit relatives within their village, go shopping and roam relatively freely.

“Here,” one of them told me, “we are sometimes prisoners in our own houses. I sometimes leave home only to drop my boys off at school and pick them up. But if my husband can do it a certain day, not even that.”

Pakistani men in Barcelona usually explain that they will not allow their women to become ‘contaminated’ by local norms of behaviour. This vision is very pronounced in the case of daughters reaching puberty.

Under Spanish law, it is compulsory for all children to study until they are 16 years old. Some schools, however, complain that Pakistani girls sometimes disappear from their classes when they reach the age of 14 or 15.

This is a great shame as most teachers agree that Pakistani girls are usually among the best students.

Exploitation in the community

Starting in 2002 and 2003, there have been rumours that legal settlement is available more easily in Spain than anywhere else in Europe.

Some greedy elements among the Pakistani community have taken the chance to profit from the arrival of their compatriots from different countries in the EU seeking such settlement.

Compatriots with few qualms deceive the new migrants, charging them high rents for a bed in a shared room, a bed sometimes used only for a few hours.

In the first phases of the migration experience, newcomers minimise costs in order to save money to send back home and pay back the fees to those who brought them to Spain.

They are forced to accept long shifts in corner shops or any other odd jobs (12-14 hours) for a meagre €300-400 a month (if they are paid at all) while they are made to pay at least €100 per month for their beds.

One of those newcomers told me in 2009 that the owner of the flat where he lived, another Pakistani, took away his passport and made him stay indoors for weeks at a time.

The owner would do the shopping for the tenants and then make even more money by charging them exorbitant prices for it.

He and a friend, a fellow exploited flatmate, managed to leave, something that was only possible with the help of an NGO.

A great number of well-off Pakistanis have found a lucrative business in the exploitation of vulnerable compatriots, many of whom are family members or neighbours from back home.

In such a close-knit community with tight social control, it can be very difficult for those caught up to break the circle of abuse. Everything they do will be made known and the price of dissent is ostracism.

Austerity

As is the case in the rest of southern Europe, austerity measures have badly affected the welfare state and the job market in Spain. Decreasing salaries and growing prices paint a bleak future.

Some immigrant communities have decided to leave Spain and go back home. Others are moving elsewhere in Europe.

Pakistanis are part of Barcelona but it remains to be seen how the younger generations will respond to the new challenges.

Nonetheless, they fare better than other nationals: they are known to be resilient and their extensive, worldwide kinship network allows them a great deal of mobility.

I am sure they will get through these difficult times. As many of them say, “we’ve seen far worse than this.”

Are you a Pakistani who grew up in the diaspora? Share your experiences with us at blog@dawn.com

My interest in South Asia, and specifically Pakistan, started when I finished my degree in Islamic studies in Madrid.

It was not easy to pursue South Asian studies as a Spanish scholar; unlike other European countries such as the UK, Spain still does not have a university department for this area.

I moved to India for PhD research for two years (2001-2002) when 9/11 clearly marked a change. Islam came to the forefront of international academic and non-academic interests, often for the wrong reasons.

When I returned from India, I observed that my friends in Barcelona often talked about the increasing presence of Pakistanis and other people of South Asian origin in the city.

To the delight of the British nationals in town and other more adventurous citizens, the proliferation of curry houses was a reason to celebrate the formerly less diverse culinary scene.

It was clear that the Pakistani community in Barcelona had become a talking point. Their presence was unavoidable, particularly after the prayers on Fridays. And nowhere were they more visible than in the neighbourhood of El Raval.

Many wondered where these men were from, why they dressed like that (shalwar kameez), and why they were seldom accompanied by their womenfolk.

In 2008, Casa Asia, an institution of the Spanish Ministry of Foreign Affairs that promotes knowledge of Asia in Spain, awarded me a grant.

My project was to conduct a piece of research that would be called Atlas of Pakistani Migration in Spain.

I took this opportunity to visit Pakistan and travel around Spain to go to the different places where Pakistanis had settled.

More than half of all Pakistanis in Spain lived in Catalonia, especially Barcelona, which is why I moved there in the summer of 2008.

Pakistanis in Spain

Compared with other European countries, Spain has not always been a country of immigrants.

Pakistanis, for example, have traditionally preferred to migrate to the UK, USA, Canada, and the Gulf because of the better economic prospects in those nations.

Spain has a population of approximately 46.5 million, of which 9.5% are foreigners. The main foreign nationalities represented in the country are Romanians, Moroccans, British, Italians and Chinese.

Pakistanis are 1.2% of all foreigners and barely 0.1% of the population in Spain. How have they managed, then, to attract so much attention?

One of the explanations can be found in their local concentration, in terms of both origin and destination.

Gujaratis make up 44% of all Pakistanis in Spain, while in other destinations in the European Union, they are about 11%.

As for destination, more than half of all Pakistanis in Spain are in Barcelona.

At their peak, in 2012, there were about 68,000 Pakistanis in Spain, although the Spanish Institute of Statistics only accounts for those legally resident.

Several thousand others are thought to have resided there illegally.

The Pioneers

The first Pakistanis to arrive in the country were a group of about 300 Gujaratis who migrated from other European countries in the 1970s and landed initially in Barcelona.

Some of the migrants had experience working in mines elsewhere in Europe and Pakistan; some had lost their jobs in factories or mines in the UK where the industrial crisis had begun; others had working experience in oil refineries in Libya.

Those were the last days of Franco’s dictatorship and Spain’s industrial labour market was small. Some migrants opened shops and boarding houses; others looked for jobs in industry or manufacturing.

Those who had no previous experience in mining had to learn from scratch. The main mines where they began to work were El Bierzo (coal) and Linares (lead), and others in La Rioja and Teruel.

Most of the Pakistani newcomers were men between 20 and 28 years old from Gujarat, predominantly from the village of Puran.

They are known among the wider Pakistani community in Spain as los pioneros (The Pioneers), being the first to venture into the Spanish labour market.

The Spain of those days was a very traditional country with only basic infrastructures. One of the Pioneers told me they found themselves in quite familiar surroundings in the 1970s:

“We came from a place where there was also a dictatorship, where you would not talk about politics and you knew you had to keep your mouth shut.”

Many were surprised to find that people in Spain hardly spoke any English and that they had to learn Spanish if they were to be understood by the locals.

Not surprisingly, traditional Pakistani codes were misinterpreted. The shalwar kameez attracted unexpected attention in the villages near the mines, with many old ladies believing that the men were wearing dresses.

While it was acceptable for Spanish couples to walk hand in hand, Pakistani men doing the same was misunderstood as homosexuality.

Blas, a teacher at a high school in Linares, told me that as a child their only entertainment was playing in the streets.

The sight of Pakistani men walking hand in hand was an amusement for naughty kids who would follow them around and scream “Mariquitas! Mariquitas!” (Pansies! Pansies!)

Most of these Pioneers worked for about 15 or 20 years. The majority had to retire due to work-related illnesses, mainly respiratory ones such as silicosis. They usually worked as drillers and explosive experts and did the night shifts.

There was a death in a mine in June 1977 of a Pakistani worker named Abdul Razaq. The whole village of Bembibre joined the funerary court and the company helped send his body back to Pakistan.

In those early years, the economic situation was better. Spain had just joined the EU (in 1986). Job opportunities increased and the welfare state was at its most supportive.

Some of those who had secured their retirement pensions travelled back to Pakistan and spread the idea that Spain was a land of opportunity. As proof of it, they had their big houses to show off.

But at the same time, these migrants were exponents of a myth that others could not fulfil. When the mines started closing in the 1980s and 1990s, many lost their jobs and had to change occupations or moved to different towns.

Destination Barcelona

The main question everyone asks is why most Pakistanis are concentrated in Barcelona.

To begin with, while the first wave of Pakistani migrants largely worked in mines and industry in other parts of Spain, the next generation of migrants preferred cities as they offered job opportunities in occupations that Pakistanis have become specialised in: the services sector and self-employment.

We must also consider the fact that Barcelona has a more buoyant economy than other Spanish cities. Furthermore, the kinship networks developed by the migrants themselves provide an important degree of social security for the newcomers.

The migrants, typically men, would bring over their brothers, then their cousins and uncles. After establishing themselves, it would be the turn of wives and children.

El Raval was the main point of arrival for most of the Pakistani migrants and it was here where their initial experience in Barcelona took place.

Formerly known as El Barrio Chino (Chinese quarter), El Raval was at that time a tough working-class neighbourhood where drug trafficking and prostitution were rife, turning it into a no-go zone for locals and tourists.

When Pakistanis arrived, they were attracted by El Raval’s central location, low rents and affordable business premises, where shops and restaurants could be established. Some more adventurous entrepreneurs bought flats there.

The flow of immigrants turned El Raval into one of the most international neighbourhoods in Barcelona. The primary and secondary education institute Miquel Tarradell is proof of this.

I used to live just across the street and loved to see from the balcony how Pakistani, Moroccan, Senegalese, Latin American and Catalan parents, all with their different attires and languages, would drop their kids off.

Pakistani kids would arrive speaking Punjabi to their parents, only to instantly switch to Catalan or Spanish at the school gates.

When Barcelona staged the 1992 Olympics, El Raval became a tourist hot spot, even more so with the economic boom of the early 2000s. Like most neighbourhoods in the city, El Raval also became increasingly gentrified.

The area’s Pakistani population has decreased over the years. Many have remained in Barcelona but have taken their families to other locations.

Some Pakistanis I talked to mention that they like their new neighbourhoods and prefer their children to grow up here, but they miss the feeling of proximity and neighbourliness they had while in El Raval.

Many can still be seen on the Rambla del Raval boulevard, where they meet on Fridays after prayer at the nearby mosque run by the Minhaj-ul Quran association, the one with the biggest attendance in Barcelona.

Pakistani associations

The religious and cultural associations are the main means through which the diaspora organises and presents itself to the local government.

These organisations help Pakistanis find their way through life, get guidance regarding bureaucratic formalities, and assist them with Spanish and Catalan language classes.

The vast majority of the Pakistani associations are religious in nature and are anxious to be seen as legitimately representing the whole community.

Survival of an association depends not only on the total number of its members but also on grants available from the local government, whose demands have to be complied with.

In Barcelona, these demands include speaking Catalan and expressing support for the region’s agitation for greater autonomy or even independence.

Pro-autonomy or pro-independence parties often see these associations as a useful source of votes and a means by which to spread their ideologies in the Pakistani community.

Although local politics is a topic of discussion at association meetings, members are mainly concerned with matters back home.

There are taboos that locals know cannot be discussed openly with Pakistani acquaintances. One is religion; another is the low visibility of women in public life; the last is the exploitation and abuse that occurs by some members in the Pakistani community towards the newly-arrived migrants from Pakistan.

Knowledge about Pakistan among the Spanish population is rather limited but it would be true to say that the country has had a very bad press. Interest is often limited to the presence of Pakistanis in Barcelona.

The academic world in Spain has paid the country scant attention; when it has done so, it’s only in the context of immigration. The press is seemingly obsessed with Pakistan’s role in the War on Terror.

Some of the Pakistani associations have worked to change the stereotypes, but it has proved to be a difficult task. However, there is a growing interest in Pakistani culture, albeit mainly in its English language manifestation (literature, cinema, music).

Writers such as Nadeem Aslam, Mohsin Hamid, Mohammed Hanif, Kamila Shamsie or Bapsi Sidwa have been translated into Spanish, thereby creating an impression far more positive than that given by the press.

Some of these authors have also visited the city and presented their work at different cultural centres.

The lives of women

From 2000 onwards, Pakistani women started to arrive in Barcelona, although in lower numbers than the menfolk. It is very striking to the Spanish eye to see the lack of participation of women in general.

Women from other migrant communities are out and about, taking part in all sorts of activities, and in many cases, acting as pioneers in the migrant experience.

Even those from other Muslim countries like Morocco participate more actively than their Pakistani coreligionists.

This is no doubt the most controversial aspect when we deal with the Pakistani community in Spain.

Although many associations tend to organise family events, women participate in these in the traditional roles of mothers and homemakers, and account for less than 1% of those attending.

Some of the women have told me they had more freedom back in Pakistan, where they could visit relatives within their village, go shopping and roam relatively freely.

“Here,” one of them told me, “we are sometimes prisoners in our own houses. I sometimes leave home only to drop my boys off at school and pick them up. But if my husband can do it a certain day, not even that.”

Pakistani men in Barcelona usually explain that they will not allow their women to become ‘contaminated’ by local norms of behaviour. This vision is very pronounced in the case of daughters reaching puberty.

Under Spanish law, it is compulsory for all children to study until they are 16 years old. Some schools, however, complain that Pakistani girls sometimes disappear from their classes when they reach the age of 14 or 15.

This is a great shame as most teachers agree that Pakistani girls are usually among the best students.

Exploitation in the community

Starting in 2002 and 2003, there have been rumours that legal settlement is available more easily in Spain than anywhere else in Europe.

Some greedy elements among the Pakistani community have taken the chance to profit from the arrival of their compatriots from different countries in the EU seeking such settlement.

Compatriots with few qualms deceive the new migrants, charging them high rents for a bed in a shared room, a bed sometimes used only for a few hours.

In the first phases of the migration experience, newcomers minimise costs in order to save money to send back home and pay back the fees to those who brought them to Spain.

They are forced to accept long shifts in corner shops or any other odd jobs (12-14 hours) for a meagre €300-400 a month (if they are paid at all) while they are made to pay at least €100 per month for their beds.

One of those newcomers told me in 2009 that the owner of the flat where he lived, another Pakistani, took away his passport and made him stay indoors for weeks at a time.

The owner would do the shopping for the tenants and then make even more money by charging them exorbitant prices for it.

He and a friend, a fellow exploited flatmate, managed to leave, something that was only possible with the help of an NGO.

A great number of well-off Pakistanis have found a lucrative business in the exploitation of vulnerable compatriots, many of whom are family members or neighbours from back home.

In such a close-knit community with tight social control, it can be very difficult for those caught up to break the circle of abuse. Everything they do will be made known and the price of dissent is ostracism.

Austerity

As is the case in the rest of southern Europe, austerity measures have badly affected the welfare state and the job market in Spain. Decreasing salaries and growing living costs paint a bleak future.

Some immigrant communities have decided to leave Spain and go back home. Others are moving elsewhere in Europe.

Pakistanis are part of Barcelona but it remains to be seen how the younger generations will respond to the new challenges.

Nonetheless, they fare better than other nationals: they are known to be resilient and their extensive, worldwide kinship network allows them a great deal of mobility.

I am sure they will get through these difficult times. As many of them say, “we’ve seen far worse than this.”

Are you a Pakistani who grew up in the diaspora? Share your experiences with us at blog@dawn.com

It is an immaculate white building, double storeyed, with a small dome on the top. A nishan sahib (flag) on a pole next to it signifies that a community of Khalsa now occupies the precincts.

All year round, Sikh pilgrims visit this gurdwara, choosing to spend a few days in the rooms facing the shrine.

Every day, the Guru Granth Sahib is recited and then, following rituals, placed in a special room reserved solely for the holy scripture, the living guru.

Activities at the Gurdwara Shaheed Ganj in Lahore are always low key, with just a handful of people around at any given time.

But outside its walls, there is a great big rush with several workshops of ironsmiths and beyond those, a market selling all kinds of second-hand goods, Lahore’s famous Landa Bazaar.

As Sikh pilgrims walk in and out of the gurdwara, sometimes venturing into the market, the ironsmiths and other shopkeepers barely spare them a glance, having gotten used to their presence after the construction of the shrine in 2004.

The Gurdwara Shaheed Ganj – much like the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya in Uttar Pradesh – has a long and tumultuous history, having been a bone of contention between the city’s Sikhs and Muslims.

Mosque or gurdwara?

The gurdwara is located a little outside the walled city of Lahore, in an area called Nalaukha that is believed to have once housed the fabled palace of Prince Dara Shikoh.

Shikoh served as governor of Lahore before his assassination at the hands of his younger brother, Aurangzeb.

The Sikhs believe that it was at this site that hundreds of thousands of innocent men, women and children from the community were massacred on the orders of Mir Mannu, the governor of Lahore and representative of the Mughal Empire.

Coming to power in 1764, Mir Mannu inherited a staunch anti-Sikh sentiment that had dominated Sikh-Mughal relations since the time of Guru Gobind Singh, the 10th Sikh guru.

Throughout his lifetime, the guru had fought several battles against Emperor Aurangzeb and lost all his sons in the struggle.

After the guru, his devotee Banda Singh Bahadur took up the mantle and continued the fight. After causing much havoc, he was captured and executed.

Mani Singh, the priest of the Harmandir Sahib (Golden Temple), took up the political affairs of the community after his execution.

Annoyed by the ever increasing military strength of the Sikhs, the Mughals and their governors began persecuting innocent members of the Sikh community.

Not far from the Gurdwara Shaheed Ganj lies the spot where Mani Singh was hacked to death by Zakarya Khan, who was Lahore’s governor a little before Mir Mannu’s time.

Soon after, Mani Singh’s disciple Bhai Taru Singh, too, was scalped by the governor, once again close to the vicinity of the gurdwara.

Mir Mannu, after being appointed governor, followed his predecessors’ policy with great vengeance. Sikh traditions note that he took a vow to exterminate all Sikhs and hold him responsible for the death of over 250,000 members of the community.

Most of these deaths happened at the site of the gurdwara, in what was then a vacant space facing the historical Abdullah Khan mMosque, constructed by Abdullah Khan, believed to be the cook of Dara Shikoh.

After the ascension of the Sikhs in Punjab, the entire complex, including the mosque, was granted to the Sikhs and a gurdwara constructed here in memory of the innocent people killed on the orders of Mir Mannu.

The Sikhs claim Mir Mannu himself allowed them to set up a gurdwara here after they agreed to help him in the conquest of Multan at the behest of Diwan Kaura Mal who was consequently given charge of Multan by Mir Mannu.

Muslims, however, maintain the Sikhs forcibly took over the mosque, which was functional, after they came to power in Lahore following the demise of the Mughal Empire.

When the British colonised Punjab, the Muslim community felt they could wrest control of the mosque/gurdwara by asking the new rulers to intercede.

A case was filed in the Lahore High Court asking that the mosque be reinstated. But the court ruled that since no one in living memory could recall offering prayers at this mosque, it was hence a gurdwara.

Two other cases were filled but they were both dismissed.

Riots and court battles

Matters came to a head in 1935 when the property was handed over to the Shiromani Gurdwara Parbandhak Committee, an Amritsar-based organisation responsible for the functioning of gurdwaras in accordance with Sikh principles.

After taking control of the gurdwara, the committee decided to demolish all “un-Sikh-like deviations and non-Sikh usages” of the gurdwara, which included the remains of the mosque.

Several Muslim organisations rose in protest against this desecration of the mosque, leading to the worst Sikh-Muslim riots in pre-Partition Lahore. Curfew was imposed in the city.

However, the British maintained that the disputed structure was a gurdwara and would remain so.

After Partition, part of the gurdwara came under the control of the Auqaf Department, a government organisation tasked with looking after abandoned Hindu and Sikh property in the country.

In the late 1950s, another petition was presented in the Lahore High Court asking for the conversion of the gurdwara into a mosque.

With the creation of a Muslim country, there was much hope that such a conversion was now possible.

But, surprisingly, the court upheld its decision made under colonial rule. Though the property was abandoned, Muslims were barred from turning it into a mosque.

Another petition was made in the late 1980s but that too was turned down.

In the 1990s, as the number of Sikh pilgrims coming into the country increased, the expatriate Sikh community in Britain took up the case of the gurdwara, asking the government of Pakistan for permission to renovate it and convert it into a functioning gurdwara.

The government hesitated for a few years but permission was eventually granted.

With the Gurdwara Shaheed Ganj back in the news, fresh objections to it also arose. The protestors said that if they were not given permission to construct a mosque here, they would also not allow the renovation of the gurdwara.

However, the ironsmiths and shopkeepers who worked in the area supported the gurdwara renovation, recognising its economic potential, and the protests gradually fizzled out.

The new building of the gurdwara was completed in 2004.

While the history of the country is rampant with tales of Hindu, Sikh, Jain and Buddhist shrines being taken over and ignored, the Gurdwara Shaheed Ganj serves as a unique reminder of when the judiciary and the local community came together in its support.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let him in,” someone replied from inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The author is a former student of the Army Public School in Peshawar.

Once you enter the gates of the school, there is a long straight road ahead of you, with a playground to the right of the road and the school wall to the left. Perhaps it would not seem so long now, 13 years later.

In my mind’s eye, the length of the road remains the same, but I struggle to recall it without the images of little dead bodies superimposed over it.

Also read: Militant siege of Peshawar school ends, 141 killed

It was library period. Class 7E walked single file down the corridor, past the auditorium, up a flight of stairs into wood-paneled doors. A library that was too cold and too dark, the librarian too forbidding.

The chairs were quite comfortable, though, and I sat in one of them reading a book I can’t remember the name of. It was a story about a soldier in enemy territory, trying to escape back into his own. It was deathly cold, but he could not ask for shelter. Instead, when he got tired, he would lie on the ground and will himself to believe that it was warm. It worked for him. Even in the crippling cold, he could use the power of his mind to believe it was warm and that it would all be fine.

Thirteen years later, some child would be sitting on that same chair, willing himself to believe that the cold in his attacker’s heart would turn to warmth. Maybe, after getting shot, he would have spent a few moments thinking about the warmth of his mother’s embrace.

When I was reading that book, I remember finding it impossible to believe that we could use the power of our minds to ignore the stark facts before us. Now, I see how it is possible and how we have all been doing it for so long.

We have been, for the most part, warm despite the cold, unflinching terror before us.

They say the attackers scaled a wall separating the school and an adjacent graveyard. On my way back home from school, I would pass by this graveyard; it was impossible to miss. I remember wondering what it would be like to visit the graveyard as someone whose loved one was buried in it.

I do not remember there being a lot of empty space in that graveyard. Thirteen years of urban sprawl have happened since. Will there be enough space for the bodies, small and big? When will we run out of space?

Peshawar attack: Most of victims shot in the head

Walking past the administrative block towards the car park at the end of a school day, I would often encounter some teachers and students praying on straw mats strewn on the grass in front of the senior school block. There would be about 10-15 people, and my Islamiat teacher was usually one of them. His head was always tilted slightly to the left. For him, probably a marker of added involvement and concentration in the prayer. For me, an unnecessary display of piety.

I wonder if he still taught at the school. I wonder if he still tilted his head to the left when he prayed. I wonder if the tilt saved his life today. I wonder if the lack of a tilt cost the others on the prayer mats their lives.

From the windows of class 7E, we could see a lot of trees and shrubs within the school boundary walls. Sometimes, to skip class, or sometimes in break-time, we would walk into the stretch of what I thought of as woods, lining the back wall of the school. We would crack silly jokes and look for interesting objects left behind by others as if we were scavenging in a forest. When a member of the staff saw us, we would be summoned back to class.

Did any of the children run to the trees to hide?

Sometimes they would cut down the shrubs and bushes, but if they hadn’t recently been cut, there might have been space to hide. But the green of their sweaters is too bright, so maybe the ones with the big black boots would have seen them trying to hide. (But, sometimes in the winter months there would be fog!).

Months from now, when another kid walks into the trees to look for interesting objects left behind by others, would they find a pencil sharpener, a chewed-up pencil, a pack of gum they weren’t allowed to chew in class?

Would there be dried blood on these objects? How much care will be taken to remove these traces of blood?

There was a small canal in front of the school, running parallel to the main road. There was a period of one or two weeks when we would see soldiers standing on either side of the canal, knee-deep in mud, clearing out the excess deposits. ‘Bhal Safai’, they called it. I remember thinking our soldiers must not have a lot else to do if they were clearing out canals.

How long will it take them now to clear out the blood and the insides of children strewn all over the school?

They say the metric class students were taking exams in the auditorium when the attackers entered the school. There are five exits in that auditorium.

Two on either side in the front. Two on either side in the middle. One in the back. Reports state that all their moves were calculated. Did they enter through all five of the exits simultaneously or did they leave any unattended? The one at the back would have been the best one for a quick exit. Run across a few feet of concrete (past the chalking of quotes attributed to Quaid-e-Azam) down a dozen steps, and into the trees.

The samosas at the canteen were usually soggy, but there was something wonderful about the chutney that I have not seen replicated elsewhere. I excitedly made my mother have a plate of samosa chat when she once came to school for a parent-teacher meeting. She was not impressed. It’s too watery, she said, and probably really unhealthy.

If there were any children in the canteen, they would probably not have survived. It was too open. There was no place to hide.

Grief

What are the boundaries of grief?

In time, does it start right away, or does it take a couple of days for the shock to settle in and then be replaced by grief?

Maybe it starts earlier for some and later for others. Of course, it never happens for most. Because in space, the boundaries of grief are quite ambiguous.

Humanity never grieves in its entirety. “There are so many children beneath the benches, go and get them”, one of them shouted.

Will he, with the big black boots, ever grieve this?

What do we grieve for? Deaths, the deaths of children? At what number does grief begin? 141 dead, 132 of them children, they report. When was the last time you grieved? What was the number then? Do we need more than numbers to grieve? Pictures, details of how it happened?

Over the years, the bodies have accumulated. From tens to hundreds to thousands to tens of thousands. We have not grieved them enough. The world has grieved them even less.

Which is the bigger atrocity? The millions who grieve or the billions who will never grieve?

It is impossible to grieve every single time. For every single one. It is impossible to grieve for too long.

Blame and Condemnation

The one with the big black boots says he did this because of what others with big black boots did to him. In apportioning blame, how far back in history do we go and how wide do we cast our net?

We know that if we cast it too wide, it will capture us or those close to us or those we do not want to be seen disagreeing with.

And so we start off cautiously, taking one incident at a time, trying to trace the path between cause and effect. When we do go beyond single incidents, we go for neat, comfortable narratives.

Russian invasion in Afghanistan. American funding of Mujahideen. The Army’s games in Afghanistan and Kashmir. Indian infiltration. Saudi money. Poverty. Lack of education. Lack of development. Apathetic politicians. Insensitive middle classes.

If X causes Y and Y causes Z, can we blame Y for Z or is only X to blame? Where do we start and where do we stop?

Perhaps monsters are created because we need a visualisation of the evil that our minds cannot capture. Monsters are useful because they distance blame from ourselves. Monsters are simple, neat and horrific. There is no need for nuance. Evil is useful because if evil exists then good does too, and we embody the good because we define the evil.

The condemnations come pouring in.

COAS Raheel Sharif. Chairman PTI Imran Khan. Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif. Prime Minister Narendra Modi. Prime Minister David Cameron. Ambassador Richard Olson. President Obama. Secretary General Ban Ki Moon.

Each with their own idea of good and evil, of the nature of the beast. Each outside the circle of blame, within the circle of grief.

“Our resolve has taken new height. Will continue (to) go after inhuman beasts, their facilitators till their final elimination,” says COAS Raheel Sharif.

Who is this beast, where and when does it begin, and where do we need to go to eliminate it?

Is it within our borders or outside them as well?

Does it end where we begin or does it extend to within our souls?

Is there someone else left to blame, before we finally turn on ourselves?

Mourning

The Chief Minister of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa declared three days of mourning.

Now, we will mourn for three days. And then, we will stop mourning.

We forget our own 9/11’s (there have been too many). How can we expect anyone else to remember?

2017 will go down in history as the year mainstream discourse on sexual violence was finally forced to confront the universal impunity enjoyed by perpetrators of assault.

Unfortunately, these global developments have failed to trigger any corresponding debate on the inability of Pakistan’s criminal justice system to provide redress to survivors.

In a country where conviction rates for rape are less than 4% and the National Police Bureau records an average of over 3,000 reported cases every year, the need for gender-sensitive legal and policy reform has never been more critical.

In recent years, any attempts to end impunity have focused on the introduction of piece-meal legislation, which whilst important for political visibility of the women’s movement, has failed to translate into increased conviction rates.

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

Key amongst the reasons underlying the limited impact of legislative developments in sexual assault is the central role played by gender stereotypes and biases in judicial proceedings in Pakistan.

From the time of the registration of the complaint by the police to the sentencing of the perpetrator, whether or not the victim’s character is in line with what is deemed ‘chaste’ or ‘pure’ has a far greater bearing on the outcome of the case rather than the nature of the violation she has suffered.

Stereotypes pertaining to what is a ‘good woman’ remains the primary consideration for police, prosecutors and judges to decide whether or not a victim’s claim of rape deserves reliance.

In many ways, the decision to come forward and report the crime is the first instance where the criminal justice system begins to view the victim with suspicion.

It is presumed that a woman with honour would never bring shame upon herself by admitting that she had been raped. A ‘true victim’ in many ways is one that never comes forward.

Read next: Rape is not a number and it should never become only digits in a report

Under the Pakistan Penal Code, Section 375, lack of consent on the part of the alleged victim is the primary ingredient for categorising an act of intercourse as rape.

The existence of consent or lack thereof cannot be objectively quantified and thus it falls on the judge to decide whether or not to believe that a victim’s account is reliable.

Reported judgments are littered with references to a victim’s ‘loose morals’ and ‘easy virtue’ which are taken as irrefutable evidence that she consented to the alleged act and thereby rendering her testimony as false.

For instance, the Lahore High Court in Fahad Aziz v State (2008) disregarded the victim’s rape complaint as “she appeared to be a woman of easy virtue [and] indulged in sexual activities”.

Similarly in another decision by the Federal Shariat Court in 2006, the accused was acquitted of all rape charges as the “victim girl was of easy virtue and though she was unmarried and of 16 years, but had lost her virginity”.

The determinative nature of the victim’s character to judicial decision making is reinforced by reliance on outdated ‘medical’ tests called two-finger rape tests.

A relic of British India, the archaic test involves inserting two fingers into the vagina of the victim in order to determine whether or not she is “habituated to sexual intercourse”.

The test is not a legal requirement but a medical practice that has become part of legal jurisprudence

The affirmative findings of a test i.e. deeming the victim to be habituated to sexual intercourse if her vagina admits two fingers, are relied upon by courts to presume consent.

Thus a woman with a sexual history is assumed to consent forever more and therefore can never be raped.

For instance, the Lahore High Court in Naveed Masih v The State (2008) refused to rely upon the statement of the victim as the “medical report revealed that hymen of victim was torn and vagina admitted two fingers easily”.

On the other hand, the Lahore High Court accepted the testimony of the victim in Amanullah v. State (2009) as “vagina admitted two finger tight fully and painfully which showed that sexual intercourse had been firstly committed with her [committed for the first time] and further that she was not a woman of easy virtue and was not used to committing sexual intercourse” [explanation added].

Long read: When nothing could stop Karachi's trans community: not Chanda's murder, Muskan's rape, nor Payal's kidnapping

Former British colonies including India, Malaysia and Bangladesh have progressively began banning reliance on these tests.

There is a growing recognition that not only is there no scientific link between the laxity of one’s vagina and sexual history, a victim’s ‘character’ is irrelevant on the alleged act being adjudicated upon.

Additionally, in order to protect victims, most countries have promulgated character-shield laws that bar the introduction of evidence pertaining to the character or sexual history.

However, not only does Pakistan continue to hold on to the two-finger test but its victims must withstand aspersions on their character and sexual histories during the course of the rape trial which often lasts for several years.

In fact, the character of the victim is the primary accused in the trial, with the conduct of the accused being a secondary consideration.

It is thus little surprise that not only are convictions low, but victims themselves prefer to reach informal settlements with accused rather than put up with a trial.

Legal and policy reform barring gender stereotypes pertaining to the character of the victims from legal proceedings on sexual assault is urgently needed.

Whilst social norms pertaining to acceptable behaviour will not change overnight, the criminal justice system has an obligation to institute gender-sensitive mechanisms that provide adequate redress to victims without subjecting them to additional violations of their privacy and dignity.

Only then can the recent legislative amendments achieved their desired impact.

Are you a researcher or an activist working on issues of discrimination? Share your insights with us at blog@dawn.com

In Pakistan, politicians and bureaucrats have visibly – and gradually – deprived the citizenry of their voices and their resources.

Those in power and authority view local representation as a burden, but they use it as a means to pamper and oblige their pocket constituencies.

By compromising the electoral process, decision-makers of the provincial and federal governments are easily able to divert resources to specific voter constituencies as opposed to the general public.

Challenges faced by local governments in implementing the Local Government Ordinances 2013 are due to the limited operational space given to them by the federal and provincial governments.

As part of my Phd thesis, I had a chance to interact with various stakeholders and interest groups as well as witness firsthand the mistrust towards local governments in Pakistan.

Our risk-averse politicians, who presently control resources in league with district bureaucracy, are accustomed to the politics of thana and tehsil.

Read next: Give LGs a chance

They view any change to the status quo as a threat to themselves. These are people who were born and nurtured by the same local councils of the erstwhile Zia-ul-Haq dictatorship.

The bitter taste of Musharraf-era local governments still lingers in their mouths; those were the times when the zila nazim-dominated areas were as big as five to six constituencies of a Member of National Assembly.

The nazims had vast resources at their disposal. The use of these nazims for raising a new political leadership, by-passing political parties, is another powerful factor.

Fast forward to today and the current democratic dispensation – at the centre and provincial levels – is creating hurdles in one form or the other to stop devolution of power to the grassroots.

In all four provinces, local governments are, in one way or another, subordinated to the dictates of provincial governments.

So much so, even basic functions – which can be turned into lucrative contracts, such as garbage collection – have been taken off the list of subjects on which local authority can act.

All financial powers now rest with the deputy commissioners' offices. As representatives of provincial governments, they have the authority to release funds, and audit zila councils.

Explore: Local governments are key to effective implementation

If the local representation is to have any real meaning in contributing to the lives of citizens, it needs to have the resources and authority to address the provision of services and the challenges of development.

This requires a change of heart by provincial governments towards their respective local governments in the true spirit of the 18th Amendment, along with the empowerment of the local government structures.

Secondly, synergy between bureaucracy and local representatives is a prerequisite for a meaningful solution to local problems.

Playing favourites can hinder and distort the flow of service delivery to citizens.

As always, the average individual remains deprived of solutions to problems of local nature.

Self governance through local bodies is in the true spirit of the constitution. Provincial governments' leverage over local governments should be done away with to help them dispense services to the people.

A district chairman who can serve as the regulator for the entire district should be directly or indirectly elected.

Elected mayors and councilors should also be empowered as ‘justices of peace’ to assist the police in the control of law and order.

Councilors should have a lead role in initiatives like community policing and neighbourhood watch, in addition to serving the people of the area by providing civic amenities and development at local level.

Councilors and mayors need vision and perseverance to achieve this goal. They need to remember that no one gives up powers voluntarily.

Also read: Sindh local government set-up explainer

There are many ways for local government representatives to gain recognition from constituents and the trust of provincial and central governments.

It could be one of many things like dovetailing city/council plans to the execution of provincial government initiatives in polio eradication, elimination of dengue, anti-food adulteration drive, price control, anti-quackery, crack down on child labour, elimination of illiteracy, land revenue collection, and federal causes such as census.

Local communities are naturally more accessible, more sympathetic, and quicker to respond to local needs. The local government is the directly available source for citizens to get in contact with governmental structures in the everyday course of life.

If democracy is strengthened at the local level, then the necessary access to information will make local people more participatory.

They will take interest in affairs affecting their daily lives. They will advocate for the rights and amenities that they deserve, seeking redress from provincial authorities.

Now, the challenge lies with the political parties in power at the provincial level to decentralise power to the local governments.

With them lies the onus of making service delivery efficient and equitable and to ensure that democracy and devolution prevail.

Building sustainable cities – and a sustainable future – will facilitate in opening dialogue among all the branches of the national, regional and local governments.

It requires the engagement of all stakeholders, including the private sector and civil society, and especially the poor and the marginalised.

Achieving the Sustainable Development Goals set by the United Nations is also closely linked to the integrity of local governance. It will be impossible to achieve the Goals without considering the future of devolution of power to the people.

• Raising awareness
• Identifying and preventing abuse
• Signs and symptoms of abuse

• Raising awareness
• Identifying and preventing abuse
• Signs and symptoms of abuse

A tale of repression is etched on the walls of Dhaka. Darkness, beatings, military rule.

These images are juxtaposed with pictures of young girls studying in schools furnished with state-of-the-art modern technologies.

Computer labs and books signal the progress made over the past 46 years. The sun rises; Bangladesh emerges from the shackles of West Pakistani hegemony. Prosperity follows.

On every nook and corner of Dhaka, such murals and images are openly displayed.

They are interspersed with war memorabilia and monuments depicting the struggle of the people of Bangladesh and their eventual victory.

Unlike war images I have seen in other parts of the world, which show soldiers clad in military uniform, ordinary women and men dressed in saris and lungis are seen fighting on the murals and sculptures of Bangladesh's capital.

It is the country's way of telling the world that it was the public that fought and won the war in 1971.

India provided support; it strengthened the indigenous struggle, but without the people’s efforts and their sacrifices, Bangladesh’s independence would not have seen the light of day.

It is an attempt by many in the civil society to salvage that history from being consumed by the bilateral politics of India and Pakistan.

1971 is embedded in public spaces, on the roads and walls, in parks and open fields, in the private and collective memory of Bangladesh. There is no forgetting 1971.

This comes partly from obvious reasons. 46 years is not a long enough time to overcome the trauma.

The generation that survived the war is young enough to tell and retell the stories. And they all have a story to tell; some were bystanders, witnessing the nine-month long war and the aftermath that unfolded before them; some were victims; and others had personally fought in the war.

For them and their children, the war is their identity, the scars engraved in their minds and often on their bodies.

Even today, after 70 years, survivors in India, Pakistan, and what is now Bangladesh, hold vivid memories of the bloodshed and violence of the 1947 Partition, of the loss and rupture.

In comparison, Bangladesh is still a very young country. It is unlikely that these haunting images of 1971 will fade away anytime soon.

Explore: Special report: The Breakup of Pakistan 1969-1971

However, alongside these personal memories, there has also been an effort on the part of the government to reclaim these histories.

This effort in many ways is a response to the silences that followed the war.

After Sheikh Mujibur Rahman’s assassination in 1975, an overt attempt was made to revise the war memory in the public discourse.

The new leadership, seen as being pro-Pakistan and anti-India, omitted Pakistan's name from textbooks, making it seem as if East Pakistanis had been fighting against a nameless “attacking force”. Similarly, India’s mention as a “friend of the liberation war” was also erased.

In an even more divisive move, alleged war criminals were given power, some of them even becoming ministers under the new regime.

With this power shift, the ‘people’s narratives’ of the war seemed to recede. The state, as it often does, cherry-picked only the versions of history it deemed fit, in a way that suited its own vision for the newly-independent nation.

But in the recent past, more and more war museums, and killing fields--where mass killings took place--have been set up and memorialised, both by civil society and the state.

While it is essential that history is remembered and retold in a holistic way, and although significant efforts are being made in this regard, one also has to be cautious of the new forms of appropriation of history by the state.

While reclaiming space and narrative, political parties, like military regimes, can be adamant in telling their own version of the truth--versions that garner votes and political support.

The only trouble is that whenever states try to own history, they inevitably promote certain accounts while silencing others.

Nuances get lost, contradictions--which are present in all conflicts--disappear and neatly-packaged truths emerge.

Anyone who challenges this linear, one-dimensional truth can then be construed as anti-state, and in this case, as anti-liberation, which would be tantamount to treachery, a label no one wants or can afford.

The space for discussion, debate, and research shrinks. This process is unfortunately not new to the subcontinent.

While some Pakistani idealogues insist that the country’s foundation was laid in 712 AD when Muhammad bin Qasim stomped in to conquer the region, ridding it of ‘infidel’ influences, and thereby establishing the justification for it being a state with little room for religious minorities, India too has embarked on a process of ‘Hinduising’ its own history.

Most recently, RSS chief Mohan Bhagwat claimed that all Muslims are Hindus because India is a land only for the Hindus.

Plurality, dissent and critical thinking are gradually being wiped out, replaced with myopic understandings of the past and present.

Also read: 1971 war: Witness to history

In 2016, a law was proposed in Bangladesh to make it a criminal offense if anyone “carries out any propaganda, campaign against the Liberation War of Bangladesh or the spirit of the Liberation War or Father of the Nation or abets in such acts.”

The draft will be presented at the parliament at the start of next year for approval.

This seems to have been instigated by the political conflict between the Awami League and the Bangladesh National Party (BNP), the two major political parties.

BNP states that Ziaur Rahman, the army general who founded the party and later served as Bangladesh’s president from 1977-81, played a pivotal role in the war. The party claims that it was he who announced independence and hence is the true war hero.

Hasina, Mujib’s daughter and the current leader of the Awami League government, refutes the claim entirely.

To make matters worse, it has also been alleged in some circles that Ziaur Rahman was involved in Mujib’s assassination. Glorifying him is hence unacceptable for Hasina.

The two parties and the women who lead them have also clashed on other matters.

While Hasina and her party maintain that three million people were killed during the war--a figure which Mujib cited--Khalida Zia, Ziaur Rahman’s wife, has doubted the veracity of such high figures.

After the Awami League came to power following the 2008 general elections, it has tried to silence such criticism. In the process, research into war casualties or other angles of 1971 has become off bounds.

Since only certain kinds of narratives about the war are permitted, even when the civil society is active in reclaiming history, only a particular aspect of the history, one that aligns and conforms with the state's national project, is furthered.

As a result, a holistic history has not come forward, either by the state or by the civil society.

While recognising and acknowledging the war and the resulting casualties is undoubtedly of utmost importance, discourse and critical reflections are also instrumental ingredients of any progressive society.

The fear seems to be that such discourse may undermine the impact the war and the scale of the atrocities had on Bangladesh.

Under the influence of this fear, the state does not realise that the experiences of the countless survivors who have lived through and struggled during the war and post-war years cannot be undermined through further research and critical discourse.

Research and discussion around 1971 will only serve to strengthen history. The history belongs to the public, not to a single individual or leader.

The silencing of history and the appropriation of history are two sides of the same coin and it is a dangerous game to play, but one that all three countries--India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh--seem bent on playing.

Read next: Fall of Dhaka: Memories of a bloody December

As Bangladesh tries to seek justice, healing, and come to terms with the nation’s past, it must do so holistically, allowing academic research and analysis to flourish alongside personal histories.

Making such work illegal, or censoring and curbing it will create a fragmented national identity, at odds with itself.

A complete exploration of 1971 and its aftermath must be allowed, especially while survivors are still present as they are one of the most valuable sources of history.

This process was critical for a tolerant India and Pakistan to emerge after 1947 but was often discarded by those in power in favour of state-sponsored histories.

The attempt was, of course, to avoid any uncomfortable truths and challenges to the national projects.

Compared to India and Pakistan, Bangladesh is still a relatively nascent country; a full and honest exploration of 1971-- whether that entails revisiting stories of rape survivors, or of torture and killings of Bengalis, or of non-Bengalis-- will play a crucial part in its nation-making process.

Did you or someone you know witness the war of 1971 firsthand? Share your experiences with us at blog@dawn.com

Standing in one corner of the courtyard was this group of bald dervishes in different stages of old age. Their naked bodies shone through the thin black shawls they had draped over themselves.

They seemed uneasy, standing there uncomfortably, as if out of place. Their feet and faces were covered in dust. Some of the older dervishes had kohl in their eyes, which seemed to enhance their sharp stares.

In front of them was the shrine of the 16th century Sufi, Daud Bandagi Kirmani – a modest building, with a small structure and a white dome on top. The courtyard around the shrine was teeming with pilgrims.

We happened to be visiting the historical city of Shergarh, about 100 km from Lahore, on the occasion of the annual urs of Hazrat Daud Bandagi.

It was as if the entire city was celebrating the urs. There were food stalls and shops wherever one looked. The aroma of freshly prepared samosas suffused the air.

The shrine is located in the middle of this city. It also occupies a central place in the imagination of the people of the city.

Women, men, children, old and young, all throng to the shrine for these festivities. Walking in the midst of these people are pirs and dervishes.

Some offer their services to the locals, promising respite from an evil eye. Others prepare their own magical spells that need to be mixed with water and consumed.

These Sufis belong to different orders. There are those who belong to a conventional, orthodox Sufi sect.

For them following religious doctrines is as much part of religion as shrines of saints, like this one. There are various distinctions within these conventional sects as well.

And then there are the Malmatis – the rebel Sufis, who flout religious laws, and don’t belong to any particular order.

One can therefore appreciate the contradiction in categorising the Sufi dervishes into the Malmati order, because within them are those who establish their legitimacy through various historical and religious traditions.

I walked into the main shrine. It was a beautiful structure, well maintained by the descendants of the saint. Their havelis are situated all around the shrine.

At the centre was the shrine of Daud Bandagi. Devotees circumambulated around the room and then stopped next to the tombstone of the saint, where they would offer a special prayer.

Next to the grave of the saint, on a raised platform was the preserved footmark of the saint. Some devotees prayed to it while others kissed it reverentially.

Looking at this structure, I was immediately reminded of Jain temples that are also constructed around footmarks of saints.

My thoughts went back to the dervishes I had seen outside. Their semi-naked bodies, their shaved heads, and beardless faces reminded me of Digamber Jain monks, who too remove their bodily hair, as a symbol of renunciation of the world and don’t wear clothes.

“You know these dervishes only cover their bodies when they visit a public place, like this one,” said Iqbal Qaiser, my friend and companion. “When they are in their deras [or camps], they only wear a lungi or sometimes nothing at all.”

These dervishes were distinctively different from other Malamti dervishes. The other dervishes let the hair on their heads and beards grow long, which too serves as a symbol of renunciation of the world.

Is there a connection between these dervishes and Digamber Jain monks, a knot that ties them together?

There is no doubt in my mind that the latter became an inspiration for the former but what were the pathways that allowed for this influence to reach the other?

Udasi sadhus

A few years later, I visited another historical city, Bhera, where I found myself in the premises of an abandoned Sikh shrine.

On the walls of this shrine, made out of colourful frescoes I saw a figure which had uncanny similarities to the dervishes at Shergarh or Digamber ascetics. The figure wore nothing but a lungi and held a tomba in his hand.

In the Sikh tradition these ascetics are called Udasi sadhu. Udasi derives from a Sansrkit term that means forlorn.

In Sikh tradition, Guru Nanak's wanderings – his four preaching tours – are called his period of udasi. These ascetics too move from from one shrine to another, which is what accounts for their name.

They trace their spiritual lineage to Sri Chand, the eldest son of Guru Nanak. While Guru Nanak spoke vehemently against such extreme asceticism, his own son defied his teachings and became an ascetic.

Sri Chand is always depicted as wearing nothing but a lungi. Sri Chand had a disciple called Baba Gurditta, who in turn had four disciples, Balu Hasna, Al-Mast, Phool Shah and Govinda.

It is believed that the first two were Muslims and through them Muslims too were attracted to Sri Chand's teachings.

Some of these devotees grew their hair while others removed them, like Digamber Jains. They shunned clothes and started living in secluded communities called deras.

They would only temporarily cover their bodies when they had to enter mainstream society. They also scrub oil and ash over their bodies, which is meant to symbolise their death to the world of family relations business and caste – a rejection of this transient life.

They became famous as nange sadhu or naked ascetics.

Perhaps the dervishes I had noticed at the shrine of Daud Bandagi belonged to this tradition of Balu Hasna and Al Mast? They remain in groups and spend their entire lives in perpetual udasi, wandering in a state of perpetual pilgrimage from one shrine to another.

They can be noticed at every prominent Sufi shrine of the country. Could it be that it was through Sri Chand that influences of Digamber asceticism entered folk Islamic spirituality?

Or perhaps such extreme asceticism was already part of the folk religious tradition of India, as also represented by the Naga Sadhus, which was later institutionalised by Digamber Jains.

Perhaps these nange sadhu at Shergarh represent that primordial religiosity, before it was encoded into a religious tradition.

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

The article was originally published in January, 2017.

In September 2002, I got admission in MSc in Psychology at Government College University (GCU), Lahore. A few months prior, I had pledged allegiance to famous religious scholar Dr Israr Ahmed and made the struggle for an Islamic revolution my primary aim in life.

I met Salman Haider at GCU, where he was a senior in my department. We eventually became great friends. He had a gifted mind and was amongst the few bright students in the programme. Apart from being an excellent student, he was an active participant in the drama and debating clubs.

He won several prizes at the university and was popular amongst students and teachers alike. As a person, he was kindhearted, straightforward, and loving toward people around him.

I come from Multan and whatever inhibitions I had as someone who found himself in a big city, Salman helped me shed them. My integration in a new environment was made possible by Salman. Even though he was liberal and I was religious, he never allowed difference of opinion come between our friendship.

Read our Editorial: Missing activists

Just as he was close to his other friends, he was close to me as well. After completing his degree, Salman received a scholarship from the Higher Education Commission (HEC) and moved to Quaid-i-Azam University (QAU) in Islamabad to pursue his PhD.

When I finished my degree, it was Salman who convinced me to apply for the same scholarship. I followed his footsteps and went to QAU for my PhD as well.

QAU’s hostel 2, room 58 had two occupants: Salman and Shahadat. I was unable to get hostel accommodation when I joined the university in 2006. But Salman came to my rescue and gave me space in his room.

The room originally had two single-beds, but Salman and Shahadat took them out and arranged floor beddings instead for the three of us. The only space we had left was between the door and the mattresses; we kept our shoes there. Although we had a fan, the room used to get so hot that we had to soak our mattresses with water every two hours.

One summer, two friends from Multan gave me a surprise visit. I thought they would go back later at night, but they were planning on sleeping over. We barely had room to move, but Salman accommodated us all. He gave his bed to my friends and slept on a chador in the little space where we had our shoes.

On the same topic: Times of iron and fire: The case of Pakistan's missing activists

As I mentioned earlier, I have been a follower of Dr Israr Ahmed since 2002. In these years, my religious thought has developed and my inclination toward Islam has increased. So when I saw the propaganda against Salman on social media, I felt it was time for me to tell people the truth about my dear friend.

I have known Salman for 14 years and in that time, I never heard him express anti-theistic or anti-Islam sentiments. He was not against religion, but against ignorance, narrow-mindedness, and socio-political oppression. It is an outright lie that Salman was against Islam.

Those who are smearing him don’t know how enlightened he was. Gifted people like Salman are assets to our society.

I found Salman’s views and values to be far more humanistic than the values of these so-called mazhab ke thekedaars.

Salman valued logic and rationality was his litmus test for accepting or rejecting ideas. He always listened to contesting views graciously. He was especially critical of people who exploited slogans and political ideologies for their own benefit. I often heard Salman criticising his own comrades.

Our deep friendship was due to his broad-mindedness and accepting nature. And even though we were on opposing ideological poles, we still found common ground when it came to our analysis of society.

We both wondered why Muslims were never able to live peacefully with each other even though they were all followers of the same religion.

Our second grievance was regarding the role of the state. We both firmly believed that it was the state’s responsibility to ensure the welfare, well-being and security of its citizens.

Read further: Salman Haider’s disappearance won’t silence our voices

We would often lament how this country, whose founders envisaged it to be a welfare state, had deviated from those ideals.

Today, power, authority and wealth are concentrated in the hands of a few. As soon as the exploited, cheated, and oppressed raise their voices to demand their rights, they are labeled ‘traitors,’ ‘foreign agents,’ ‘anti-religion’ and so on.

I think one such voice was Salman's. Unsurprisingly, he is now being labeled as a ‘traitor’ and a ‘blasphemer’.

Salman’s real crime was to raise his voice – not for his personal benefit but for the rights of others. His crime was to dream of a society where there was freedom and where people lived without fear.

It is really painful for me to be part of demonstrations demanding Salman’s recovery.

He used to protest against the missing persons and now he himself is missing.

He wanted freedom for others, but today we wait for him to be freed.

This blog originally appeared in Urdu and has been translated by Bilal Karim Mughal.

The protections available to overseas Pakistanis in host countries depend largely on the efforts of Pakistan’s foreign service.

This is especially true for Pakistani nationals from impoverished backgrounds who are forced to travel abroad to seek employment in order to provide for their families back home.

As a result of their desperation, these migrants are easy targets for organised trafficking networks that claim to provide safe passage and employment in exchange for exorbitant fees.

It is not uncommon for these trafficking networks to use migrants as carriers of narcotics, often to countries carrying harsh punishments for drug possession, including death penalty.

Once apprehended, the migrants are abandoned to the mercy of a foreign criminal justice system, usually without independent translators and legal assistance.

In December 2014, the families of 10 Pakistanis who were facing execution in Saudi Arabia for drug charges approached the Lahore High Court (LHC), alleging that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MOFA) had failed to make any meaningful effort to provide consular assistance or legal support to the detainees, as required under the Vienna Convention on Consular Relations (VCCR).

The 10 prisoners had been allegedly coerced by Overseas Employment Promoters (OEP), licensed by the Government of Pakistan, into travelling to Saudi Arabia under false pretences of gainful employment.

Prior to boarding the aircraft, the prisoners, it’s claimed, were tortured with severe beatings and were forced to ingest heroin capsules.

The petition, filed by the families, reads:

“[T]he OEP agent injected [one of the 10 Pakistanis] with something that put him in a semi-conscious state. It was in this state that [he] was forced to swallow heroin capsules. He was then taken to the Islamabad airport where he was made to board the flight to Saudi Arabia.”

In another instance:

“[W]hen [another of the 10 Pakistanis] was ready to leave for Saudi Arabia through the OEP agent in Islamabad, he was kidnapped and taken to an unknow [sic] location. He was locked up for two days, beaten, threatened, held at gun point [sic] and forced to ingest drugs into his body. He was made to board a flight to Jeddah.”

The families claimed that despite repeated pleas to the Pakistani embassies in Jeddah and Riyadh, no contact was made by any member of embassy staff or official with either the prisoners or the family.

The prisoners were charged and convicted in Arabic without legal counsel or independent translators, and without the knowledge of their families.

Editorial: Imprisoned abroad

Four of the 10 have been executed, and their bodies never returned to their families. One of the deceased’s mother “does not believe that her son is dead and the ongoing trauma of not knowing the fate of her son has caused her to become severely mentally disturbed,” the petition states.

In response to the government’s blatant disregard for the lives of its citizens, the LHC ordered MOFA to formulate a policy detailing how consular protection and support will be provided to overseas Pakistanis imprisoned in other countries, who currently total over 9,000.

However, despite the LHC’s orders, no such policy has been drafted, and since the petition was filed, over 45 Pakistanis have been executed in Saudi Arabia, including the four petitioners.

Following the Gulf countries, Iran emerges as the top destination for human and drug traffickers from Pakistan. A large number of Pakistanis have found themselves coerced into acting as drug mules across the border between Iran and Baluchistan.

In July 2017, four Pakistanis were executed in Iran after the authorities claimed that drugs were discovered in the truck that they were travelling in. This included a 10 year-old boy, whose only crime was to be in the truck at the time the drugs were discovered.

In the same month, another Pakistani national, who had been arrested at the age of 13 on similar charges, was executed following eight years in a Zahedan prison.

Executions of children, regardless of their culpability, is a fundamental violation of international law and Pakistan’s own juvenile justice system.

There can be no greater violation of the VCCR and Pakistan’s own constitutional obligations than to stand by silently and allow the repeated executions of its children in foreign countries.

Additionally, there are currently over 189 Pakistanis imprisoned in Iran, a significant majority of whom form part of the 5,300 prisoners of Iran’s death row for drug-related crimes.

With over 567 executions in Iran in 2017 alone for drug crimes, these Pakistanis face imminent executions.

As a result of mounting international pressure, the government of Iran has finally realised that the death penalty has not served as a deterrent to drug trafficking, and has been predominantly applied against low-level drug carriers rather than drug cartels.

Therefore, the country has enacted a law that severely limits its application by raising the minimum standard meriting a death sentence from 30 grams to two kilos for hard drugs and from five to 50 kilos for synthetic drugs.

The law also provides that all those who have been awarded death sentences under the old law are entitled to the commutation of their death sentences to imprisonment and fine.

The new law provides another chance at life for the large number of Pakistani nationals, including children, who have been awaiting their executions in prisons all over Iran.

Moreover, the government of Pakistan now has an unparalleled opportunity to demonstrate its commitment to its nationals by making forceful representations to the government of Iran to convert the death sentences of their nationals, as they are entitled under the new law.

It is the government of Pakistan’s responsibility to ensure that its nationals are provided with adequate legal representation and access to a fair trial as they apply for the conversion of their death sentences.

Foreign services and embassies all over the world have established procedures in place that provide protection to their citizens who come into conflict with the law in other countries.

This is especially true for countries that export large numbers of migrant workers such as Philippines, Malaysia, and Bangladesh, all of whom have taken forceful stances against host countries attempting to execute their nationals.

The government of Pakistan, especially its foreign service, must end its tolerance towards the abuses faced by its citizens in prisons all over the world.

The legislative developments in Iran serve as the ideal starting point for the Pakistan government in moving towards finally joining the ranks of states that are recognised for defending the rights of their citizens under all circumstances.

Only then can Pakistani nationals hope to be protected abroad.