On the 14 of May, 2014, a most terrible storm in the Arabian Sea caught dozens of fishermen unaware.

Many drowned, as their boats were torn asunder by the sheer magnitude of the waves, the powerful winds and mad rain.

But, there were survivors too.

The winds had carried them to a small island which none of them had noticed before. Now they were on this island, bruised and in shock.

When the storm subsided, the clouds gave way to the sun. The break of light revealed that five men had survived. But there were no boats, at least none intact.

The five men sit on the sandy beach of the island. They are bruised and their clothes are torn.

Man 1 (A teenager): I have never seen a storm like that. I am Rajan. A fisherman from a village near Mumbai, are all of you fishermen too?

Man 2 (Young person in his 20s): You are an Indian?

Rajan: Are you from the same village?

Man 2: No, I am from a fishing village some 50 miles out of Karachi.

Rajan: Pakistani fisherman? Name?

Man 2: Shabeer.

Rajan points at a middle-aged man sitting beside him: This is Joti. We are from the same village. Fisherman also. Indian.

Shabeer surveys the group: Are you all Indian?

Man 3 (in his early 40s): No. I am Khalid. From Makran. I work as a clerk in the city of Gwadar. I was on a launch with a couple of engineers. I am Pakistani. They were Chinese. But now gone.

Man 4 (A bearded 20-something with long hair. He is trying to dry a long blue piece of cloth): I am from Chandigarh.

Rajan: Fisherman?

Man 4: No, not fisherman. I am a college student. I had travelled to Surat on the invitation of a classmate. We hired a boat to go sailing. Got caught up in the storm. Now I am here. Don’t know what happened to my friend. My turban is all wet.

Shabeer: You are Sikh?

Man 4: Yes. Hunar is my name. College student from Chandigarh.

All of them then look up to see an old man sitting on top of a palm tree there. He is shivering and very quiet.

Hunar: Oye, uncle. What about you? Are you feeling cold? The sun has come out. It will warm you. My turban is almost dry.

Old man on the tree, shivering and looking disoriented: I … I … I am not sure what my name is … and … where I am from.

Rajan: Really? Oh ho, I now remember you! You were on my boat. Must be fisherman. Indian. It’ll all come back to you, brother fisher.

Khalid gets up and moves closer to the tree. He looks up at the old man: Hmmm … no, I think he was on the same boat as I. Yes, now I remember. He was! Old man, you are a friend of my uncle’s. I think your name is Qasim. Qasim bhai. Yes, yes that’s who you are. Qasim bhai, fisherman, Pakistan.

Rajan pushes Khalid aside. He too comes close to the tree and looks up at the old man: Aray! Murli chacha! It’s really you! Sorry, I didn’t fully recognise you with all that sand on your face. But I knew you were on my boat. Chacha jee, look closely, it is me, your nephew, Rajan. Fisherman, India.

Shabeer jumps in, pushing Rajan aside: Move! Qasim bhai, come down. We are here for you.

Rajan: Abey, now you know him too?

Khalid: Of course, he does! He is fisherman, Pakistan. He can recognise all fishermen, Pakistan.

Joti begins to climb the tree and then starts to smell the bewildered old man around the neck: Hmmm … old man is definitely fisherman, India. He smells like one. Salty type.

Shabeer also climbs the tree and smells the old man: … Almost salty type.

Rajan: See! Definitely fisherman, India. Same smell. Salty type.

Hunar: Of course, salty type! We all smell salty type because we were in a shipwreck and thrown into the sea.

Khalid begins to smell Hunar: Hmmm … he is right. Smells salty type too.

Khalid then smells his own arm: This also salty type.

Joti smells the old man again: Wait, wait. Hmm. Not salty type. But coconut. Certainly fisherman, India.

Shabeer too smells the old man again: No. No. Beef! Definitely beef. Fry-like. Definitely, fisherman, Pakistan.

Rajan gets hold of Sahbeer’s collar and both fall down to the ground.

Rajan: You rascal, how dare you say this about my Murli chacha! Murli chahcha would die than eat beef!

Khalid: Qasim bhai hates coconut! I have seen it. In fact, he was preparing beef biryani on our boat when the storm struck.

Joti: Rascal, I once saw Murli chacha lynching a man after he caught him eating beef!

Shabeer: You rascal, that man was Uzair bhai, a cousin of mine!

Joti: Aha! So this means you believe us when we say the old man in the tree is Murli chacha, fisherman, India, killer of beef-eater!

Khalid: Abey, you weren’t even on the same boat as the old man. You did not know him. But now you say you saw him lynch Zubair bhai …?

Shabeer: … Uzair bhai.

Khalid: Yes, Uzair bhai.

Joti: Oh, so now you too know Uzair bhai?

Khalid: Of course. He was Shabeer’s uncle …

Shabeer: … cousin.

Khalid: ... Yes, cousin. Very decent man. Very pious. You people lynched him, just because he ate beef? Rascals!

Joti: We didn’t. Murli chacha did.

Khalid: Abey, the guy you call Murli chacha was preparing beef biryani on our boat!

Joti: Don’t you dare say that word, you rascal!

Hunar jumps in between the two men: Friends, friends, please. We are marooned on this island. And all that talk about food has made me hungry. Aren’t you people hungry? We have to eat to survive. I see some trees with fruit on the hills up there.

Rajan: Fruit alone won’t sustain us.

Hunar: That’s true. When I was swept here, I thought I saw a couple of wild boars on the same hill. We can catch one, kill it, and …

Shabeer: Oye Sardar! Boars are ... are … that animal!

Hunar: You mean …

Shabeer: Don’t dare say that word, you rascal!

Hunar: Oye how dare you call me a rascal, you swine!

Shabeer gets hold of Hunar’s collar: I told you not to say that word, you dumb Sikh!

Hunar: Then what do you suppose we eat, you crazy Muslim?

Shabeer: Fish.

Rajan: We need proper meat. A boar would do.

Khalid: What if there are also cows on this Island?

Rajan: Well there aren’t any, are there, you filthy Muslim?

Khalid: How do you know that, you smelly Hindu?

Rajan: We didn’t see any. We just saw wild boars.

Hunar: Not we, I alone saw them.

Rajan: Sardar jee, do not contradict me. You are fisherman, India.

Hunar: I am not fisherman. I am college student.

Rajan: College student, India.

Hunar: … And a proud Sikh.

Rajan: Proud Sikh, India.

Joti: No difference, brothers. Sikhs are a kind of Hindus.

Hunar: No, they are not!

Shabeer: They are kind of Muslims, actually.

Hunar: Shutup, you rascal! I will kill you all right here and have you for lunch.

Khalid: Breakfast. It is still morning.

Hunar: Not in Chandigarh. Time in Chandigarh is some hours ahead from this island.

Rajan: But where is this island?

Shabeer: I am sure it is somewhere close to Pakistan.

Khalid: That is true. If we go up the hill then I am certain we can see Karachi’s shoreline. This island must belong to Pakistan.

Rajan: Abey, look at the fruit hanging from the trees on the hill. It is pineapple. I have heard pineapples do not grow in Pakistan; so this island clearly cannot belong to Pakistan. Pineapples are aplenty in India. This must be an Indian island. Do both of you have valid visas?

Khalid: Oh, now you are visa officer, India?

Rajan: And you are Muslim conquer, Pakistan?

Hunar: Friends, be reasonable. Let’s eat something, already.

Joti: Yes, wild boar.

Hunar: No, those only I can eat.

Joti: What do you mean?

Hunar: I saw them first. They belong to me.

Rajan: But the Island is Indian! We have as much right over them as you.

Khalid runs towards the sea and jumps in: The seawaters here belong to Shabeer and me. The sea here is Pakistani. Only we can fish here.

Hunar: So be it! The boars belong to me; the pineapples to Rajan and Joti; and the sea and the fish in it to Khalid and Shabeer, agreed?

Rajan: But the boars are on the island. And the island is Indian; it belongs to us.

Hunar: Rajan, let me quote a saying on a similar issue by one of our great gurus …

Rajan: No, first let me quote something on a similar issue from the Bhagavad Gita and …

Shabeer: Wait! A quote from our Holy Book would suffice. Let me quote a …

Hunar: You are all illiterate fishermen! What do you know? I am the most knowledgeable. I go to college and have a Twitter handle.

Rajan: Sardar jee, keep your handle where it belongs. Faith is for all. Rich, poor, educated, illiterate.

Khalid: I agree with Rajan. Our God is for all.

Joti: So are our Gods. They belong to all mankind.

Khalid: Not Gods. God.

Joti: Gods.

Khalid: God.

Rajan: Gods.

Khalid stands up in anger and threatens to hit Joti with a rock: Are you questioning my faith?

Joti also stands up with a rock in his hand: Are you mocking mine?

The old man throws a coconut down. Everybody looks up at him.

Hunar: Coconuts won’t do, uncle.

Shabeer: He must be hungry. Nobody asked him what he wants to eat.

Rajan: Hey, old man …

Joti: … old man, India.

Rajan: Yes, old man, India …

Joti: … Murli chacha, fisherman, India.

Rajan: Yes, Murli chacha, fisherman, India. Are you hungry? Do you want us to cook you some wild boar? We own all the boars here.

Hunar: No you don’t! I do. Feed him pineapple.

Shabeer pushes Rajan aside and looks up at the old man: Uzair bhai …

Khlaid: Uzair bhai was lynched. This is Qasim bhai.

Shabeer: Yes, Qasim bhai. How about some beef biryani?

Rajan: There is no beef here, you rascal. This island is Indian.

Shabeer: How do you know?

Rajan: Because of the pineapples!

Hunar: Stop! I am hungry, you illiterate fools! Let’s make up our minds, already! What should we eat?

Rajan: Wild boar.

Hunar: That only I can eat.

Joti: Traitor!

Shabeer: Beef biryani.

Rajan: There is no beef here, rascal!

Khalid: Fish. We own it.

Hunar: Look, look …!

Khalid: What? You saw a cow?

Rajan: Rascal!

Hunar: No, you ignorant men, what is that floating on the sea. The waves are carrying it here. Must be from one of the wrecked boats. What is it?

Everyone looks towards the sea.

Shabeer: Looks like … looks like …

Rajan, Joti, Hunar, Khalid and Shabeer shout together: Daruuuu!

Act 2

All four men drunk, sharing two whisky bottles that had washed on to the shore.

Hunar: (Burp) Yaar, this is very smooth. Whattay booze.

Rajan: (Burp) Yes, Indian, I am sure.

Khalid: Abey … (burp) … fisherman, India, how do you know this? I am sure you never had any daru like this in your life.

Rajan: Abey, poor Pakistani, have you?

Khalid: Yes. Pakistani daru. Just like this one. I am sure had the labels on these bottles not been washed away we would know that …

Joti: What Pakistani daru?

Khalid: Murree.

Joti: Never heard of it.

Shabeer: Of course you haven’t. Too expensive for you.

Rajan: Abey fisherman, Pakistan, all your life you have only had cheap moonshine whisky. How come you haven’t gone blind yet?

Hunar: Friends, why spoil the mood? And look, we didn’t even offer any to uncle up there.

Rajan: Murli chacha makes his own booze at home. I have seen it. It tastes great.

Khalid: Nonsense. Qasim bhai only drinks Murree.

Rajan throws the empty bottle at Khalid:

He is Murli chacha, you filthy cow-killer!

The bottle hits Khalid on the face. He throws the other bottle at Rajan: You rotten vegetable!

The bottle hits Rajan who falls on Hunar who pushes him towards Shabeer. Shabeer begins to punch him. Joti jumps in. A chaotic fight breaks out between all four men.

The tree starts to shake and the old man falls down to the ground. Thud!

He suddenly gets animated: I now remember! I now remember! I remember where I am from! I am from Kashmir!

He gets excited. But when he looks around, all the other men have knocked themselves out. He becomes somber again and climbs back up. He looks down at the unconscious men and mumbles: Rascals.

Now that someone has finally been shot dead in Istanbul over an argument on who gets to pay the restaurant bill, it may be time to consider replacing our valued Eastern tradition of prandial hospitality, for something more practical.

We’ve all been there.

The waiter approaches the table with the cheque, and a fiery argument breaks out among two or more parties of customers dining together, each insisting on paying the whole bill.

The waiter stands awkwardly by the table with an embarrassed smile, eyes darting from one customer to another, struggling to identify the dominant patron.

‘Dominant’ is the person with the most telling characteristics of a host. This is usually an older member of the group, but not a senior citizen. He may be a regular customer, more likely to have brought the newer party to the establishment than the other way around.

Or, he may simply be the patron who signaled the server for the cheque, indicating that he’s the one calling the shots.

Take a look: Dining rules

In case of a male and a female customer simultaneously clamouring for the bill, the waiter is more likely to hand the cheque over to the male.

‘Benevolent sexism’ is apparent, but uncommonly noted; particularly in light of a culture where gentlemen are often at a risk of feeling ‘emasculated’ by a lady paying the bill — unless previously agreed upon by the group that she’s giving a “treat”.

The decision often comes down to whoever’s the loudest.

Ultimately, any customer who lunges forth to physically grab the bill from the waiter’s hand, settles the dispute and liberates the waiter from his state of unnecessary discomfort.

Alternatively, the server may outright refuse to be placed in the centre of the tussle, drop the bill in the middle of the table, and prance back to his station to a crescendo of “Let me! No, let me!”.

Dining dynamics

One may accuse me of being cynical, but a friendly squabble at the end of a meal at a restaurant is often more about social power-play than it is a display of selfless hospitality.

Consider a set of scenarios where one’s likely to fight harder to pay the bill for the entire table. This includes dates, hangouts with amicable acquaintances, and meetings with potential or current business partners.

On the other hand, a person may not insist as strongly on paying when hanging out at a café with a close friend, or when sitting among a very large group at an expensive restaurant.

What separates these situations is the weight of the social incentive of paying the bill, relative to the economic incentive of letting someone else spend money on you.

Whoever pays the bill, walks away with more power than he had when he entered, mostly in the form of enhanced likeability. The non-payer leaves the table with a sense of social debt, and a willingness to compensate for the favour in some other way.

This unspoken debt may be innocuously used to cement a friendship with a desired acquaintance. But consider the less honourable connotation of letting this debt implicitly hang over your business partner, your coworker, or your date.

See: No more waving at waiters for the bill

Close friends do not have much to gain by covering each other’s nominal expenses. If your BFF is already willing to throw himself or herself in front of a speeding bus for you, an attempt to enhance your likeability is simply redundant; and the dinner table politics completely unnecessary.

This is true, unless you’re setting a stage for confessing your attraction to your friend’s ex-boyfriend — in which case, allow your wallet a nice, long taste of the fresh summer breeze.

In case of a very large group, like at an old friends’ reunion, the financial loss of covering the entire table’s bill may not be worth the social power one garners from it.

Now think of what happens when we split the bill among ourselves: We get up, and we walk out as social equals.

We are grateful to one another for nothing more than the good company we enjoyed, and the great time we shared. No member of the party exits the venue feeling guilty for a hefty cost imposed upon a fellow diner.

No one leaves with a false sense of magnanimity; ‘false’ because the other party had not only not asked for this generosity, but had actively resisted it.

Examine: No tipping means more great restaurants

There is further discussion worth having on whether the bill must be divided equally, even when one patron orders an expensive rib-eye steak, and the other nibbles with feigned enthusiasm on a humble green salad. But truthfully, any contribution is better than letting one person pick up the entire cheque.

The next time a waiter drops a leather-bound dread-sheet on your table, know that’s there’s no better exercise in social bonding than sharing the burden you’ve been collectively presented with.

Least of all, don’t squander that opportunity on a well-intentioned shouting match.

Our domestic helper resides at our house. And even though she is not a minor, every month when her mother comes to meet her from their village, she asks me, "Is my daughter sleeping inside the house? You don’t send her out do you?"

I assure her each time that she sleeps inside and has no interaction with any male workers in or around the house — but I also know, despite any reassurance I give, the mother’s concerns will always remain.

Where I might follow my son around the house every minute of the day and teach him to avoid strangers before I even potty-train him, I realise that not every mother can.

Take a look: Were you silent about sexual abuse in your childhood? You're not alone

Raising a family of eight children, heavily in debt and uneducated for the most part, the maid’s mother must worry about her daughter’s safety in a stranger’s home.

I can take care of her daughter’s safety just as I would of my own, but will I trust my own child to be in a stranger’s home the way she does? Definitely not.

Abuse: The everyday occurrence

Abuse against children fills our news stream every other day. In the past month alone, there have been at least six cases of sexual abuse against children reported in local news.

We can be sure that there may be a dozen more that were hidden from the media to avoid the ‘shame’ most family members of the victims dread.

These cases do not just involve young girls — at least two of the rape cases in the past two weeks have been of boys.

A nine-year-old in Peshawar and a 12-year-old in Tando Mohammad Khan, Sindh. While the former victim is recovering from the attack, the latter was killed and thrown in a water drain.

A 13-year-old girl in Larkana was raped enough times by her school teacher for her to get pregnant.

See: Will the state ignore a raped, pregnant 13-year-old?

Imagine sending your child to school, walking on his/her own through the streets. Imagine not having the means to do anything upon finding out your child has been a victim of abuse.

As a parent, it's paralysing.

The report ‘The state of Pakistan’s children 2015’, launched by the Society for the Protection of the Rights of the Child (Sparc), states that 10 cases of child sexual abuse took place every day in 2015 across the country.

According to a study by Sahil, an NGO working against child sex abuse, the number of young boys being abused increased by 4.3 per cent in the first half of 2015, compared to the same period last year.

In many of these cases, the rapists manage to flee or are arrested, only to be released later by a powerful acquaintance or a landlord.

Sweeping sexual abuse under the carpet

Child sexual abuse is a real and immediate problem in Pakistan but more often than not, it is ignored or worse, trivialised. More often than not, it is associated only with shame.

The most troubling aspect of the issue in Pakistan is the lack of conversation around it; it's as if nobody is even considering the impact of this profound violation of defenceless human beings.

Kasur, Swat: Where is the debate around either of the country's recent child abuse scandals?

Take a look: Does anyone remember Kasur?

Every attempt to perpetuate debate around this issue is promptly thwarted. Recently, Pemra issued a notice against the drama serial Udaari.

The drama seeks to raise awareness about sexual abuse against children. Shortly after it aired, Pemra sent a notice to makers of the show seeking an explanation for the ‘unethical’ scenes in the show's recent episodes.

Our local dramas seem to be getting away just fine with airing misogynist and classist storylines. But the systematic abuse of our children, the issue of which is currently staring the nation in the face, is met with blunt dismissals, and the telling of this important story is deemed ‘unethical’.

Also read: Child abuse drama Udaari gets PEMRA notice for 'immoral content' and that's the problem

While Udaari is a commendable effort, we must do more — our debate needs to be at the grass-roots level; in schools and at home.

It is becoming imperative for schools — both public and private — to raise awareness in classrooms. Children need to be told, and they need to be told repeatedly that it is not okay for anyone to touch them if it makes them uncomfortable.

More importantly, in the absence of unimplemented sanctions against child abuse in Pakistan, these difficult conversations need to happen in our homes today — it is proving to be the only way we can protect our children.

Most, if not all, of the time we really don’t pay attention to outbound e-mails. We safely assume that our recipient will open our e-mail, read it till the end, understand everything and figure out what we want to hear in response.

Is that true?

Are our e-mails meeting our objectives, or do you find yourself frustrated by the lack of responses, and — if you’re lucky enough to get one — the poor quality of them?

The fact of the matter is: as senders, we have the greater responsibility of making sure we communicate properly in the first place, rather than relying on the receiver to figure everything out for themselves.

As the co-founder of PriceOye.pk — a start-up which helps you find the lowest prices for products sold online in Pakistan — I’ve written hundreds of e-mails over the past few months. I’ve cold e-mailed CXOs, VPs, writers at popular websites, power users of related services and more.

Through all of it, I’ve learned some great lessons which I would like to share with you.

Pro-tips for writing e-mails

1. Hone your subject lines

Consider this: important people get dozens — some get hundreds — of e-mails everyday. When they’re scrolling down their inbox, they’re literally skimming over subject lines and making split-second decisions to open e-mails based on the quality of the subject line.

See: Email etiquette: Minding manners

The most common mistake people make is using lazy subjects for their e-mails.

For starters, you definitely don’t want your subject left blank. Instead, you must write something that instantly draws their curiosity.

I’ve had great success with these subject lines or reaching out to industry leaders for PriceOye.pk related work:

● "Thank you!"

Reaction: What are they thanking me for? I’d better open this e-mail and check.

● "Bilal, we’ll drive down to Lahore to meet you — you’re doing amazing work”

Reaction: Whoa! This guy thinks I’m amazing. I wonder what he has to say.

● "Congratulations on your achievement, Bilal! ☺

Reaction: Oh look, an emoji!

If your recipient is young and understands emojis, it's an excellent idea to use them to really make your e-mail stand out.

These are just a few examples that worked for me. You should change them to suit your context.

2. Keep your e-mails brief

Use the KISS principle: keep it simple and short.

With no character limits or cues in desktop e-mail apps (unlike, say, Snapchat or Twitter), one can end up needlessly explaining every detail. These days, e-mail is largely read on the go owing to smartphones with tiny displays, and so long ones often get ignored.

Take a look: Email writing and etiquettes

Limit each paragraph to two to three sentences, and then apply the same to the number of paragraphs in your e-mail.

My own e-mails tend to have three sections — greetings and introduction, background context and request for action — followed by a cordial ending.

Explore: Techno tricks: Email etiquettes

The request for action is crucial, otherwise your recipient won’t know what you want from them. Don’t be shy: be clear and upfront.

I would even recommend bolding it. You’ll save time and effort for everyone involved in the e-mail thread.

3. Nail the introduction

Too often, I see e-mails being ignored because senders simply keep yapping about themselves. It’s fairly off-putting when you read such pretentious e-mails.

Instead, you want to start your e-mail by showing that you respect their time, and what they've achieved in life.

Keeping that in mind, I have had great success with cold e-mails where I begin with honest and sincere appreciation. It’s easy — you are e-mailing a successful person for a reason, right? Tell them about it!

Take the time to look into your recipient’s professional history on LinkedIn, or perhaps their personal website — cite a particular achievement or characteristic that drew you to contact them.

It’s important to be honest about it, as fake compliments are easily detected and can leave a bad first impression.

I learned this from Dale Carnegie’s 'How To Win Friends and Influence People'. It’s an amazing self-help book, which will drastically improve your social skills. I strongly recommend it not just for improving your e-mails, but all aspects of your personal communication.

4. If you don't solicit a response, follow up

The first e-mail I send out is rarely ever replied to, especially when sent to busy folks. A vast majority of responses come only after I’ve made my first follow-up, with a lower but still appreciable number of responses coming with successive follow-ups.

Follow-up e-mails are usually just a couple of sentences long. I sometimes keep it to a simple: Hey, did you get the chance to read my e-mail?

What’s more important is the gap between follow-ups.

I recommend using the principle of exponential back-offs. Time each successive follow-up to be roughly double the number of days you waited the last time.

So, for example, I send my first follow-up two days after the initial e-mail. If I don’t get a reply, I send a more detailed follow-up e-mail five days later. Then I try again after another 10 days. Then maybe after a month depending on how long I can take the ego hit that comes from not getting any reply for such a long period of time.

To excel in both your professional and personal life, it is necessary to have polished digital communication skills, of which written communication on e-mail is widely considered to be #1.

By applying the aforementioned pro-tips, your e-mail communication will become instantly clear, and more persuasive.

Start today and you will reap the benefits for a lifetime.

Recently, on a whim, my wife and I booked our tickets, packed our bags and headed to Turkey.

Home to ancient Greek and Roman civilisations and, later, the Ottoman Empire, the diverse heritage of Turkey has always fascinated me. The country spans over 300,000 square miles and has a tremendous amount of history and culture to her credit.

We planned our trip in a way that enabled us to visit the major historical sites, while staying away from the Eastern parts of the country that are impacted by the war in Syria.

As is common for everyone visiting Turkey, we started our trip from Istanbul that connects two continents — Europe and Asia.

Istanbul is a magical blend of old and new ages. We were in awe when the plane landed at Ataturk International Airport, affording us a glimpse of the city.

Following the advice of numerous travel blogs, we chose to stay in the historical Sultanahmet district, and used it as our base to venture out in the city.

Exploring Istanbul in four days was a marathon. Despite being jetlagged, we immediately strapped on our backpacks and left for Sultanahmet Square to visit the splendid Blue Mosque (locally known as Sultanahmet Mosque).

It was built in 1616 by Ottoman Sultanahmet I on the foundations of the Great Palace of Constantinople. Situated in the heart of the old town, the rising minarets glorify Istanbul's majestic skyline.

Set across from the Blue Mosque and rivaling its grandeur is Hagia Sofia (locally known as Aya Sofia) — the largest church built by the East Roman Empire in 537. Following the Ottoman conquest of Constantinople in 1453, it was converted into a mosque and then declared a museum in 1934.

From the high dome ceiling which had paintings depicting Christ to Islamic ornaments, the main hall in Aya Sofia took us across centuries, absorbing us into tales of the rise and fall of the greatest empires on earth. The interior of the museum has an intriguing golden glow.

In the immediate vicinity is Basilica Cistern built by Emperor Justinian I in 6th century AD, which is is the largest cistern in Istanbul; and was built to supply water to the Great Palace. Although the entrance is modest, it was not until we went underground that we witnessed the marvel of the Byzantine construction.

Legend has it that 7,000 slaves were enlisted for its construction. One of the columns has ancient text with tears sketched on it, as if paying tribute to the hundreds of slaves who had died during the construction.

After sunset, we went to a restaurant next to the Blue Mosque in the quest for some authentic Turkish kebabs. Amidst hot kebabs and smoky hookahs, we watched a dervish whirling on Sufi rhythms. The whirling, as they say, helps a dervish achieve perfection in his connection to the spiritual world.

Next morning, we visited CaferAga Medresesi, a cozy artisan refuge, outside Hagia Sofia. From there, a narrow back alley took us to the gates of Topkapi Palace.

The palace was built by Sultan Mehmet II in 1478 after the conquest of Constantinople. Strategically overlooking Golden Horn to the north, the Bosphorus River to the east and the Sea of Marmara to the south, the palace served as the centre of government for the Ottoman Empire for four centuries.

The courtyard near Harem (quarters of Sultans' wives) offers eye-catching views of the Bosphorus.

The palace was converted into a museum in 1924. The exhibition halls contain a diverse collection of Ottoman imperial artifacts, royal costumes and Islam's Holy relics. It is prohibited to take photographs in the exhibition halls.

After spending half a day exploring Topkapi Palace, we set out for Galata Tower, a 63-metre-high medieval stone structure from the 14th century, situated about four kilometres from the palace across the Golden Horn.

The best way to get to the tower is through Istanbul's efficient tram system. Defying logic, we instead followed our hearts and walked there.

Hiking downhill through the winding streets of the old district, we reached Galata Bridge that connects the northern and southern parts of European side. The ancient architecture staring at the modern town across the turquoise Bosphorus gives you a taste of the timeless existence of this bustling city.

Galata Bridge has an addictive vibe: fishermen with their rods, people going about their business, ferries cruising between the shores of Asia and Europe and stunning Ottoman architecture complimenting Roman structures.

The steep climb up the bridge to reach Galata Tower thoroughly tested our legs. The relatively modern Galata district is peppered with Turkish Hamams and streetside cafes.

Cutting through small neighbourhood streets, we were greeted by dozens of tourists waiting in line at the tower entrance.

The narrow balcony at the top is not for the faint-hearted but offers stunning panoramic views of the city. Watching the sunset from a 63-metre high balcony over Istanbul's surreal skyline was a sight to behold.

After devouring delicious beef-burgers at the tower top café, we hopped on the tram back to Sultanahmet, marking the end of our day.

On our third day, we went to the Grand Bazaar (locally called Kapali Carsi), which is a perfect place to spend some extra bucks on souvenirs and gifts.

Throughout the day. we wandered around its 3,000 shops, sprawling over 61 streets. The bazaar has an endless variety of spices, Turkish oils (perfumes), traditional clothing and souvenirs among other items.

Contrary to the claims made by sellers, there are no fixed prices. You need to be a good negotiator to secure the best deal!

Left with just one day, we decided to take a Bosphorus Cruise — a quick and easy way to see most of Istanbul’s historic sites across both continents.

At the scheduled time, we reported at the dock behind Topkapi Palace to board a double-decker cruise ship, which took us from the shores of the Sea of Marmara to the Golden Horn on the European side; then to Bosphorus after cruising through the northern European shore. Finally it turned towards East through the Asian shores and then back to the dock.

At the entrance of the Golden Horn, the mesmerising Suleymaniye Mosque stands tall. Arguably the most stunning of the mosques in the entire city, it was commissioned in 1557 at the peak of the Ottoman Empire by Sultan Suleyman, The Magnificent. The mosque is a phenomenal work of art designed by architectural genius, Mimar Sinan.

Towards the north, on the shores of European side of Istanbul, is the regal Dolmabahçe Palace. It was built in 1856 and served as the new home of Ottoman Sultans till the end of their empire in 1922.

Continuing north, we passed through the Istanbul downtown, commonly known as Istanbul Modern. The cruise turned towards the Asian side after passing through the Ortakoy Mosque — that was built in 1856 by Sultan Abdulmecid.

The Asian side of Istanbul is equally rich in history and architecture. We passed through Beylerbeyi Palace which is a delightful imperial residence. The palace served as a summer residence and a guest house for foreign dignitaries during the Ottomans’ reign.

Perhaps the most anticipated structure for everyone on the cruise was the Maiden’s Tower — a small tower built on an island in the middle of Bosphorus.

According to a legend, the tower was built by an emperor to protect his daughter. He was told that the princess would be killed by a venomous snake on her 18th birthday. Upon hearing this, the emperor built a tower in the middle of the sea and had the princess live there away from the land. On her 18th birthday, in his joy of preventing the prophecy, the emperor sent her a fruit basket as a gift. She was bitten by a snake hidden in the basket and died on her 18th birthday, as prophesised. Hence the name of the tower.

Our journey ended with some soothing tunes played by a guitarist. We stood by him, at the shore, bewitched by a colourful sunset.

It was then that I understood these words by legendary Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk:

"Life can't be all that bad, whatever happens, I can always take a long walk along the Bosphorus."

—All photos by author

Awais Bin Saeed is an electrical engineer by profession.

He loves hiking and photography.

The views expressed by this writer and commenters below do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.

"How do you guys celebrate new year in Pakistan in line with Islamic principles?” a very learned German friend of mine asked me last New Year’s Eve in Sweden.

Coming from a person well-versed in history and contemporary politics, the question took me by surprise.

I immediately wanted to explain to him that not everything that happens in Pakistan is linked to Islam, but I held back.

The question reminded me of Islamic banking, television commercials of Shariah-compliant products, Ramazan transmissions aired by several Pakistani TV channels and many other modern-day ostentatious spectacles which invariably drag religion into everything.

And I realised he was probably justified in asking that.

As a Muslim, owing to many political, social, and historical reasons, one may land up in the most absurd situations even if one applies common sense.

Also read: My ‘pick and mix’ Muslim female identity

First, one is always a Muslim. Period. The absence of religious freedom in most Muslim societies makes it next to impossible for one to deviate from the written and unwritten rules of behaving in a 'Muslim way'.

Quite ironically, one is always a Muslim in Western liberal societies as well, even if he/she proclaims to be not-very-religious, non-religious, or an outright atheist. They have a word for it: “ex-Muslims”.

One is expected to recall, delineate and enlighten the world as to how one is not-so-Muslim, having come from a Muslim background.

Second, one has to confront bigots within the Muslim community, who are allergic to the word 'reason' — the kind of people who divide the world into us vs them.

In a not so dissimilar fashion, one also has to confront bigots outside the Muslim community, who think Muslims carry the Quran in one pocket and an AK-47 in the other — the kind of people who again divide the world in us vs them. The irony is that both kinds of bigots think that one belongs to the rival class of bigots.

Take a look: Understanding political Islam

Third, one has to put up with those naive foreign liberal friends, who think that the beard, veil, FGM, misogyny and pretty much every outdated worldview constitute Muslim culture, and that they have been sent to earth with the sole purpose of defending it on behalf of Muslims.

In this regard, the liberal left meets with the far-right and falsely assumes that Muslims are programmed a certain way, and that universal human rights should not be applicable to them because of the way they are.

Fourth, one — in both the so-called East and West — is always part of a broad, yet very narrow "Muslim community", thanks to Pan-Islamism and multiculturalism.

This imaginary “Muslim community” tends to paint the diverse Muslim population with broad strokes of a single entity. In this case, all the actions of an individual are gauged against the so-called “community” standards, consequently leaving little room for individuality and self-expression.

Fifth, one is represented by folks who don’t seem to have been touched by the times we live in.

All European capitals have mosques which are funded by one or more oil-rich Gulf States, preaching a very literal interpretation of Islam, which has somehow become representative of all Muslims in the eyes of European governments.

Examine: Islamic Socialism: A history from left to right

Same goes for Muslim-majority countries — democratic or autocratic — where parallel bodies of clergy claim to represent the ‘religious conscious of the polity’ — the ayatollahs in Iran, CII in Pakistan, al-Azhar in Egypt, not to mention the muftis in KSA.

If one is an ordinary being who believes that wrong is wrong, irrespective of who commits it, then one is surely in trouble.

Sixth, one is supposed to feel apologetic for each and every war crime hitherto committed by the US army for being perceived as ‘liberal’ for stressing on necessary introspection, hence automatically a US-ally in one’s native society.

On the other hand, one is also supposed to feel apologetic for every new atrocity perpetrated by the IS because — errr one is brown and Muslim, remember?

Also read: I’m frightened, I’m frightening: I’m a Muslim in America

Seventh and lastly, one is also supposed to know what 'the real' Islam is and then explain it to an alien audience. In other words, explain 1,500 years in three sentences.

It would probably take us decades to find out that Islam, as a faith, is not a monolith and there exists no such thing as “the Islam”.

There can never exist a thing as “the thing”, if it has been there for 1,500 years and belongs to one and a half billion people inhabiting all the continents of the world.

My only fear is that by the time we get to find out, we may have already created “the Islam” in our senseless pursuit of proving its existence, and that may not bode well for the world.

Jokingly, I replied to my German friend:

"We eat each other alive on the occasion of New Year".

For a moment, he thought I was serious. Then, on Easter day, I learned that a suicide bombing had killed dozens of children and women in Lahore. For a moment, I thought it was a joke.

A wise old journalist once said: bad news will find you, but you have to find good news.

When it comes to TV media in Pakistan, this couldn’t be truer. After all, when a bomb explodes, it explodes on every channel, the coverage of which is always the same on each.

The race begins: you start with a bright BREAKING NEWS, from which you move onto first visuals (with a giant EXCLUSIVE scrolling across the screen, of course).

Also read: ‘We reported it blowing up first!’

But while you’re waiting for the reporter and satellite van to get to the site of the attack for the initial visuals, you have to naturally take beepers from analysts to discuss what is always discussed:

Who is responsible?
Is this a security failure?
Has NAP failed?
Has Zarb-i-Azb been pointless?
Who should resign?

Depending on how long it takes the reporter to reach the site, you can always repeat this process with any analyst and politician who answers the phone.

In the meantime, you have some very difficult editorial decisions to make, for instance, which scenes of sorrow you want to include in the inevitable montage, and more importantly, what sad music to play over this montage.

Once the reporter arrives at the scene and asks survivors the all-important question: ‘Aap ko kaisa mehsoos ho raha hai’, you’ve got your sound byte. Ready to use again and again ... and again.

There isn't a single TV channel in the country that doesn't follow the above formula.

Beyond the BREAKING NEWS

What we rarely see, however, is the humanity among the horror:

The rickshaw driver who rushed to the scene of the blast to save the wounded; the doctor who operated for hours on end with insufficient supplies to save lives and mend broken bodies; the policeman who gave his life so others may live.

But you will never hear of these stories.

And, that’s because they have to be found, they have to be sought out. All of which takes work, hard work.

Also read: 4 stories that shed light on Pakistani media's failings in 2015

Why would you want to make an effort when you can apply the simple formula of doing what everyone else is doing?

Why bother to verify facts when you can just copy another channels’ ticker? Why confirm a story when you can just run it as having come from ‘zarai’?

The same formula largely applies to talk shows as well.

A blind following

Let’s say there is a political crisis, as there is every other week in Pakistan.

Now, you could try and understand its roots, its causes and its effects and try to analyse the crisis without making it sound like the Day of Judgement is at hand, while also not boring your audience to death.

You could do that, but this also requires work.

Instead, why not apply the formula of choice: simply call in representatives from opposing political parties, give an intro and then have them fight with each other on air (they are usually quite polite once the cameras are not recording) and finally, wrap up with a:

“Agar humaray leaders aisay hi hain to is mulk ka kya ho ga? Yeh to aanay waala kal hi batayay ga”.

If there is no political crisis at hand, then you can always go with evergreen topics like: ‘Kya honay waala hai?’, ‘Civil-military relations kahan jaa rahay hain?’, etc.

And if all else fails, you can always invite Sheikh Rasheed.

Also read: Sometimes, news is just what the media creates

If you do this often enough, it becomes the norm. It becomes the expected standard and any deviation from that is found to be shocking.

Add to this the ‘bher chaal’ of the Pakistani media and you’ll understand why this successful format is copy-pasted on every channel.

But, what if you were to try something new?

Something different?

Something that doesn’t rely on shouting matches or sensationalism to get the point across? Can you do that and still not be boring in this industry?

As a talk show host myself, I definitely think it is possible, ‘Lekin yeh to aanay waalay kal ki ratings hi batayain gi’.

Read the Urdu version of this blog here.

It was the first day of my internship at Lahore's Fountain House. I was sitting next to Doctor Saima, project manager of the Khawaja Sara Rehabilitation Program, preparing myself for the task I was about to undertake: interview a khawaja sara.

Through the narrow wooden doors of the Fountain House came an indistinguishable figure, who was introduced to me as Firdos.

Her jovial arm movements and loud melodious humming helped ease the terse atmosphere of the room.

After our introduction, Doctor Saima and her team left the room, leaving me to interview Firdos. I was soon to learn that past the jovial exterior, there was an endless pit of sorrow. When Firdos started narrating her life experiences to me, I was overcome with emotion.

She was robbed of her innocence at the tender age of seven. From there on, she relayed how she felt like a toy created to satisfy the perverted desires of monsters lurking in society.

Hearing her story, I felt ashamed that my country, built on the principles of freedom and equality, had reduced a graduate to beg for survival. Yes, Firdos has a degree.

She set up her own school to empower khawaja saras and instill in them the qualities of tolerance and acceptance that she herself yearned to see. But this dream was shattered when a wave of nationalisation by the Bhutto government saw her school being seized from her.

Her next attempt to make a mark came in the form of a son whom she adopted from her sister. She loved him with all her heart, educating him and getting him married into a good family. But, conditioned by society, he became ashamed of her, and eventually severed all contact.

In the eyes of Firdos, her son Abbas Ali was “dead” and one can imagine the magnitude of sorrow that she carried with that realisation. Her latest occupation became to educate her two grandsons that her son had abandoned. She is currently focused on educating them and freeing them from the poverty that has dictated her life.

Unfortunately, life hasn't given her any respite and she is forced to beg to ensure her grandchildren receive the education that she has envisioned for them.

Alienating the community

It was devastating for me to realise that most of them consider their birth the 'single biggest regret in life'.

As soon as their gender identity begins to unfold, the future of khawaja saras becomes shaky. Their childhoods are plagued with memories of aggressive relatives determined to shake them out of what they call their “feminine phase”.

When the families of khawaja saras choose to accept their 'different offspring' as humans and not a 'curse', they are ridiculed by society — this constant berating forces most khawaja saras to run away from home.

Desperate for money, many young khawaja saras succumb to prostitution. In some perverse and strange twist of fate, most of them end up ‘servicing’ the same society that is hell bent on discarding them.

My internship reminded me that I, too, am a part of the system that alienates this community.

One of many

Firdos' story is just one of many. Dr Saima Nasim narrated many harrowing stories of the unthinkable hardships and brutalities faced by this grossly-neglected community.

Her extensive research has brought to light the fact that most khawaja saras begin to regret their choices by the age of 50. Having severed their connections with their families and a lack of clientele, they mostly resort to beggary.

Their noble project to lift khawaja saras from the bottom of our society was launched by the Fountain House in affiliation with AKHUWAT.

At its core, the Khawaja Sara Rehabilitation Program aims to uplift the financial structure of this community, and reintegrate them back into society.

There are certain objectives that govern this rehabilitation program:

- It aims to promote rights and responsibilities within the community, as well as create a system of social support for the khawaja sara community.

- Through the effective use of dialogue and media communications, the Fountain House aims to soften the hearts of society to embrace these individuals back with open arms. The core of this program aims to financially empower them.

The Fountain House is determined to conquer this uphill task and remains steadfast in the face of the innumerable challenges that the program has had to withstand. The reintegration of khawaja siras into the work place is a particularly difficult task as the social taboo surrounding their existence leaves most employers unwilling to hire them.

Prejudices against this group has also deeply seeped into the healthcare system as too often hospitals either do not treat them equally, or do not treat them at all.

In a recent tragic incident, a KP transgender, who was shot eight times by a customer earlier this week, died today. This is the fifth case of violence against transgenders in KP this year alone.

My interaction with the khawaja sara community was a truly life-altering experience. I felt ashamed that my privileged education and countless hard-earned accolades had not instilled in me the fundamental quality of acceptance.

It led me to shed my ignorance and view these people not simply as case studies but as individuals.

I have learnt first hand that our acceptance alone will help Pakistan's persecuted transgender community survive the damage that has been inflicted on them.

—Photos provided by author

The Panama president has an offshore company in Pakistan. Also owns a flat in Karachi.

Panama City: According to an un-leaked set of papers which were to be leaked along with the notorious Panama Papers (but weren’t), the president of Panama, Jean-Claude Van Damme, has an off-shore company in Pakistan.

He also owns an expensive flat in Karachi.

This news was broken by one of Panama’s leading media groups, the Panama Leading Media Group (PLMG).

According to the newspapers and TV channel owned by the PLMG, President Damme, who came to power after the 2014 presidential election, opened an offshore company in Lahore in December 2014. The report also claimed that he owned an expensive flat in Karachi.

But the flat was bought by Damme in 1979 when he had arrived in Karachi to play in a local Karachi football league for the Malir All Star Football Club.

He had bought the flat (in Karachi’s expensive Clifton area) for 70,000 Panama Rupees. The flat is now worth at least 7.7 million Panama Rupees.

Interestingly, all this information was leaked to PLMG by president Damme himself.

PMLG’s English newspaper, The English Newspaper, quoted President Damme as saying: ‘I first told my wife. She laughed it off. Then I told my ministers, and they asked me where exactly Pakistan was? I then went to the Panama Supreme Court and filed a case against myself. But the judges refused to accept my petition. In fact, one of the judges asked me whether I could also get a flat for him in Karachi.’

When a reporter asked President Damme why he opened an off-shore account in Pakistan when Panama was a tax haven, he said: ‘I didn’t do it to evade taxes. I did it to evade all those things which are needed to evade taxes for which Pakistan is a haven.’

This statement finally convinced Panama’s National Assembly to form a committee on the issue. The committee’s main purpose will be to investigate whether the President was actually a moron.

Pakistan, Iran and Afghanistan condemn US drone strike on militant in their territory. But say militant was not in their territory.

Islamabad/Tehran/Kabul: The governments of Pakistan, Iran and Afghanistan have all condemned a recent US drone strike on a wanted militant.

All three countries have claimed that the strike took place over their respective territories, violating their countries’ sovereignty.

However, all three have also claimed that the militant was not travelling in their region.

The first statement on the strike came from a spokesman of the American government. The statement stated that on the 22nd of May, 2016 AD, at 1600 hours, US president, Denzel Washington, sectioned a drone strike against a wanted militant.

The statement said that the drone struck the vehicle of the militant who is believed to have been killed and is most probably now stuck somewhere in purgatory. The statement did not mention where the strike took place.

Six hours later, the Pakistan Foreign Office (FO) confirmed that a US drone had fired a missile over Pakistani territory (Balochistan) at a militant who was hunting rabbits in an area which is part of Iran.

The Iranian FO responded to the statement of the Pakistan FO and claimed that the US drone attack took place over Iranian territory killing a militant who was busy sightseeing in an area which is part of Pakistan.

The Afghan FO, however, contradicted both Pakistan and Iranian FOs by stating that the US drone strike took place over Afghan territory and targeted a militant who was briskly moving to and fro between Pakistan and Iran on the Pakistan-Iran border.

The media in all three countries was quick to pick up on the contradiction in the mentioned statements. It asked how a drone strike over their territory could hit a militant who was not in their territory.

The confusion was further compounded by another statement by the US spokesman in which he stated that the strike had taken place over Mongolia.

He said that the government and military of Mongolia had been informed of the strike. The spokesman added that as a response, the Mongolian government gifted President Denzel two lamas and a goat.

However, though the Mongolian government accepted that the US had informed it of the strike, Mongolia has condemned the attack as a blatant violation of Mongolia’s sovereignty.

A day after the strike, the Mongolian FO in a statement said that a Pakistani passport has been found near the site of the attack. After this the Iranian and Afghan FOs immediately released short statements, exclaiming, ‘See!’

The Pakistan FO in a proclamation stated that the passport belonged to one, Nooruddin Manan, who used to trade dry fruit in Pakistan, Afghanistan and Iran and had gone to Mongolia to explore new business opportunities.

The FO informed that Manan was not Pakistani but a citizen of Afghanistan settled in Iran with a Pakistani passport.

This prompted a joint statement from Iran and Afghan FOs: ‘WTF?’

The location of the attack and the identity of the militant is still shrouded in mystery and is being investigated by all three governments.

A statement on the issue also appeared from the El Salvadorian FO, but no one seems to figure out why.

Indian government changes name of road named after Mughal king, Akbar. Says there was never an Akbar who ruled India. Like, ever.

New Delhi: The government of Prime Minister Amrish Puri has changed the name of a road in New Delhi which was once named after famous Mughal king, Akbar.

Though most observers believe that the name-change took place as part of an ongoing effort of the current Indian government to erase all signs of India’s Muslim past, a federal minister, Madan Lal, told the media that one could not name a street after a fictitious character.

Talking to reporters at a press conference, Lal said that according to two of India’s most famous historians, Ratan Lal and Watan Lal, the belief that India was once under Muslim rule for over 500 years is a myth.

He said that the two historians have solid proof, which convincingly substantiates their revolutionary findings.

When a journalist suggested that no one had heard of Ratan Lal and Watan Lal, the minister got the pressman thrown out of the conference. The journalist was later arrested for storing beef in his refrigerator.

The historians were also present at the conference. Ratan Lal told the media that he and Watan have discovered that the myth of Muslim rule in India was planted in history books by a group of 18th century British nuns in collusion with a Muslim terrorist called Sir Syed Ahmed Khan.

Madan Lal informed that the two historians have provided the proof in a forthcoming book of theirs called, ‘Exposed! There was never any Muslim rule in India. Like, ever.’

Then, after showing the reporters a copy of the book, he said, Abhi toh party shuru hoi hai! (Now the party start is!).

When the eminent historians were asked by the excited reporters to share at least some of the evidence that they had unearthed, Watan Lal exhibited a fossilized bone.

He told media personnel: ‘DNA samples from of the bone prove that it belonged to a King, who was Hindu, ruled for 500 years, enjoyed fighting wars, riding elephants, eating radish and taking selfies. His name was Patang Lal.’

When a reporter inquired how he could have taken selfies in an era in which there were no cell phones, Watan Lal responded by saying that Indian scientists had actually created cell phones thousands of years before the west did.

‘This is a fact,’ Watan Lal said. ‘Every Indian knows this. We also invented the vacuum cleaner,’ he proudly added.

Ratan Lal meanwhile informed the reporters that the period that history books attribute to Muslim rule (12th to mid-19th century), a single king, Patang Lal, ruled India.

Rattan informed that Patang Lal was born in the 2nd century AD. After studying in a religious school in his village, he won a scholarship at the Oxford University in Mumbai where he studied astrology, palmistry, yoga and nuclear physics.

He then built a fleet of solar-powered spaceships with which he conquered all of India and parts of Mars.

He remained king for 500 years and passed away from the effects of the common cold after he was sneezed upon by a Muslim terrorist, Sir Syed Ahmed Khan.

His body was stolen by British nuns who handed it over to British colonialists, along with the Oxford University in Mumbai.

The name of Akbar Road has been changed to Patang Lal Lane. Minister Madan Lal told the reporters that the road is being re-laid and will be designed to look like a runway because they believe Patang Lal’s atmah (soul) will finally return, flying in on one his many spaceships.

He said the government was already making the necessary arrangements for all good Indians to come here and take a selfie with the great king.

Brave anti-fascist Muslim girl joins not-so-brave fascist outfit

Brussels: A young Moroccan-born Belgian Muslim girl who, as a protest, had gatecrashed a rally of overweight Islamophobes and white supremacists in Brussels, is reported to have joined a party of overweight Islamophobes and white supremacists.

Last week, Aleena-bint-e-Baleena, a 20-year-old Muslim citizen of Belgium, became a social media celebrity after she gatecrashed an anti-Muslim rally organised by the far-right Belgian outfit, the Vlaams Blok Belang Hallelujah Oppenheimer.

There, she wittily mocked the participants by striking satirical victory poses in front of hateful banners and overweight Islamophobes and white supremacists.

Though she became an instant celebrity when she posted pictures of herself at the rally, she was eventually chased away by the militant members of Vlaams Blok Belang Hallelujah Oppenheimer.

Reports suggest she was about to be punched and kicked by the men who were chasing her, when she was taken to safety at the last minute by Spiderman.

However, two days later, Ms. Baleena’s heroic stunt was overturned when someone forwarded to the media some Twitter posts that she had made a few years ago.

In them she had praised Adolph Hitler – former ruler of Nazi Germany and an aspiring painter who had derived his artistic inspiration from gas chambers.

Yesterday, the leading Belgian daily, The Leading Belgian Daily, reported that Baleena was visited by the same men who had chased her away and wanted to beat her up.

They told her that she was a hero to them and it would be an honour to have her become a member of Vlaams Blok Belang Hallelujah Oppenheimer.

Ms. Baleena immediately agreed and was last seen spraying ‘Jews suck!’ on the wall of a synagogue in Brussels.

When she posted a picture of herself doing this on Facebook, the Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu was outraged. As a response, he at once ordered the Israeli air force to bomb Gaza.

Disclaimer: This article is categorised as satire.

I was first exposed to exploitation within the lawyer community last year in August, after being enrolled as a lawyer at the Karachi Bar Association.

I met with a typist named Mubarak Ali — who over a cup of tea — narrated a story about a lawyer and his intimate relationship with a client, who had come to him for the dissolution of her marriage.

Lawyer: "Why do you want to dissolve your marriage?"

Client: “He beats me up; makes me do all the housework for his family. He doesn't help me financially in the upbringing of our children. I started stitching clothes and selling them in order to manage household expenses. When he is drunk, he sexually abuses me.”

Lawyer: “That’s really sad. You are just like my sister and I’ll personally look into the matter. I usually charge Rs20,000 for such cases but since you are just like my sister, I will just charge Rs10,000.”

Client: “Wakeel sahib, I stitch clothes to my pay bills. It’s hard for me to even arrange Rs10,000.”

Lawyer: “For now, just give me Rs4,000. I have to rush for another case right now but meet me in the evening at my place and I'll see what I can do.”

Client: “Okay, but I’ll be late because I have to drop my son to his khala's.”

See: State of neglect: Closed eyes to sexual assault

At his house, the lawyer ruthlessly told the woman to pay an additional Rs6,000 for dissolution of her marriage or grant him sexual favours.

With no means of affording the fee, the woman succumbed.

Classism within the lawyer community

The legal fraternity is divided into three classes:

1. At the top are those individuals who obtain degrees from foreign law schools. They subsequently return to Pakistan, and have enough capital and plenty of affluent connections to open their own practice.

2. The second class comprises those who finish law degrees from local universities like Lums, Lecole and Szabist. These graduates are usually hired by the corporate sector since they are well versed in English — the lingua franca of the sector.

3. The third class, which is the most vulnerable, includes those who graduate from public-sector colleges like SM Law College, Islamia Law College among others; I belong to this class.

Take a look: Who defines the ‘other’ Pakistan?

It takes around six months to enroll as a lawyer at a district court. Frantically searching for seniors to mentor them, male lawyers are not on payroll during this time.

Female lawyers are paid but often in return for certain favours — ranging from having to forcibly dine out with a senior to going on long drives at night or acquiescing to sexual favours.

Walking blind through the fog

Whenever I turn to my seniors for advice or guidance on complicated cases, none of them are particularly helpful. In the case that they do offer advice, I need to make sure that it is devoid of agenda.

Every class enjoys maintaining a certain level of monopoly over language and information. It is common to hear phrases like:

"You always need a senior. Books won't teach you anything."

Every senior (determined by age, not the years of practice) has a master-slave relationship with his/her junior. This means the vulnerable newcomers must do menial work like ensuring office maintenance, taking adjournments and holding files for their senior counterparts.

To assert that he is the absolute authority, a senior lawyer will often openly abuse his colleagues or negate their opinion in front of juniors — the king must simply never be questioned.

Arrogance and competition

I know many people who practice law after working for several years as typists. There is a huge class of district lawyers who can barely speak English or know how to draft proposals. By giving anywhere from Rs600 to Rs1,000 to a typist, they get the job done.

Typists, who later graduate and practice law, have experience in drafting thousands of cases for lawyers and consequently transform into arrogant know-it-all variations.

Examine: Refining legal system

Thousands of lawyers are enrolled every year at bar associations without any planning on the government's part to grow the market to accommodate the influx. This results in cut-throat competition for work. Under these circumstances where survival of the fittest is the rule of the game, ethics and fair play take a back seat.

Bigotry and exploitation

Two friends of mine from S.M Law College — one of whom is a Judicial Magistrate — are examples of the bigotry prevalent in the legal community.

Last year in November, a Christian lady married a Muslim real estate agent and changed her name to Marium. This change was also reflected on her personal documents.

She came to me because she wanted to revert back to her previous name. She needed to do this because all her educational documents were created in her maiden name. To be eligible for a job position, her employer asked her for documents that bore the same name as her CNIC.

When I discussed the issue with my friends, they shrugged and remarked sardonically, “Why is she reverting in the first place?”

It saddens me that discrimination and callousness have permeated the profession that I represent, and passionately chose to be a part of.

Our job entails us to protect the citizens of this country from abuses by governments; we cannot do that while we are exploiting justice ourselves.

—Names have been changed to protect identities | Photos provided by author

This time around the Council of Islamic Ideology (CII) has produced an exhaustive 163 point ‘model’ bill as its response to the Punjab Women’s Protection Bill passed earlier this year.

The Women’s Protection Bill came under fire from all corners — many women’s rights activists accused the bill of not doing enough, and in contrast, much of the religious right condemned it for daring to do too much, too fast.

At the time, the bill was touted as being ‘anti-men’ by several clerics in the media, prompting Jamiat-i-Ulema Islam’s (JUI-F) Maulana Fazlur Rehman to un-ironically call for legislation that would now ‘protect the rights of husbands’.

Also read: Women's Protection Bill — A case of men's insecurities

One of those ‘rights’ includes battery, and it is this same clause in the current proposed model that is under heavy scrutiny.

The new recommendations propose that: “A husband may, when needed, lightly beat his wife”. The ‘wife-beating’ proposition, whether legal, rhetorical or hypothetical, has always followed religious discussions about women.

‘Maintainers’ of women

This isn’t news — there are countless debates concerned with decoding of religious texts to comprehend whether a husband is allowed to beat his wife, when, under what circumstances and how much.

The general consensus on the issue tends to go something like this: ‘It is discouraged/only very lightly/the Prophet (PBUH) himself never beat his wives’, etcetera.

There are never any fixed answers and everyone pretends to ignore the absurdity of still needing to have this discussion in the year 2016.

The Council has now classified the act under ‘when needed’; a need which the husband can presumably tweak to suit whatever situation, he feels, warrants a ‘light’ beating.

Proving yet again that the most central focus of women’s rights in Pakistan revolves around the ownership of women’s bodies.

However one phrases it, the underlying factor that separates feminist opinions from misogynist ones relates to women’s bodies — what they can and cannot wear; who can or cannot touch them, see them or speak to them; what they can and cannot do with them; where they can and cannot take them, etc.

The Council has long placed all of the answers to these questions in the ‘male’ column — husbands, fathers, sons and brothers are the natural ‘maintainers’ of women. The state — seeking to give women back their own bodies, or at least the right to own bodies that are not battered and bruised — upsets the status quo.

The CII’s ongoing obsession with focusing the bulk of its ‘recommendations’ on and around women is beginning to form a predictable pattern.

In the past, some of the Council’s directives have included:

• Ruling out DNA as primary evidence in rape cases,
  
• Ensuring that women cannot object to their husband’s remarrying,
  
• Prohibiting sex-change operations and,
  
• Endorsing underage marriage

The bulk of the new recommendations do not address the subject of ‘protection of women’ at all which is hardly surprising given that the CII often needs convincing that women in Pakistan are ever attacked.

Also read: CII’s unhealthy obsession

The way this rhetoric is framed often posits women either as aggressors or as subversive and therefore, deserving of violence.

How we motivate the CII

It is beyond time that we begin to question how our own actions are complicit in empowering the Council of Islamic Ideology.

This problem is not theirs, it is ours.

Many of us find ourselves in a perpetual loop of ‘offence taking’ at most of the actions of conservative religious elements in Pakistan.

Each time they posit something absurd, we all shake our heads and ‘wonder what this country is coming to’ — as if one has nothing to do with the other.

What we all need to recognise is that changes — whether they centre on women’s rights, transgender rights or civil rights in general, cannot occur in a vacuum. It is not as if the response of the CII is at all surprising, they are doing what they consider to be their calling.

The bigger cause for concern is that we all seem to have accepted that this is the CII's job.

That every time civil bodies, human rights groups or the government try to take a step forward, they will push us two steps back and we will fall in line.

Also read: CII — Pushing Pakistan back to the caves

The CII’s proposed recommendations include some positives, which is perhaps not as much of a credit to the Council’s sense of altruism, rather than due to the fact that there are clear religious injunctions that would make it impossible for the body to tweak them to their advantage.

These include the right to Khula, a ban on dowry and the fact that a woman cannot be killed for leaving Islam. However, the document also proposes banning co-education schooling and making breastfeeding compulsory.

At this point, we need to ask ourselves what Pakistan takes seriously?

What are our priorities? Let’s face it, priorities are not determined by legislation or by political rhetoric but by action. This leads us to the subject of what we preach, what we punish and what we police.

It takes us ages to agree on how to end police corruption, improve educational standards and whether or not to take on the Taliban.

However, a blasphemy ‘accusation’ without any evidence will be met with mob ‘justice’ even before it reaches court; rejected marriage proposals can be met with acid thrown on a woman’s face; women being beaten in their homes is a ‘right’ men will draft laws to ‘protect’ — and denouncing a law that protects women is something they will take to the streets to oppose.

This is where we currently stand.

There is no denying that our national priorities revolve around maintaining and perpetuating a cover of religiosity.

If we were truly concerned with being ‘pious’, helping orphans and caring for the poor would be part of our national docket far more than punishing alleged blasphemers.

In 2016, our cultural consciousness is still located along the bodies of women and councils like the CII ensure that it remains so.

This is not about being opposed to ‘Western ideas and influence’ as the CII would often have us believe because if that were the case, they would ban fast food, technology, English, Cricket and US visas.

We only have a problem with ‘Western’ ideas when they pertain to women. This is not an easy fact to accept but it is a simple one. If one accepts that our ‘culture’ is a component of appearance rather than art, language and identity, then it becomes easy to create a vector that controls culture.

Therefore, truly ‘Islamic’ countries are those where women are covered up and ‘liberal’ ones are those where they wear, go and do whatever they want.

Most people of sound mind recognise that Pakistan cannot progress without half of its population pulling its weight. It naturally follows that this half needs to be acknowledged and understood.

On some level, it is absurd that the bulk of this job rests with men. This is not to discredit the efforts of men who stand with women in their struggles but to acknowledge that the leaders of this struggle need to be women.

To expect men to take up the mantle on ‘behalf’ of women is naive, almost as naive as continuing to let a ‘council’ define Islam’s ‘ideology’ for us.

Do Pakistani men condemn or condone wife-beating? Watch the video:

I first met Fateh Shah Firaq eight years ago on Valentine’s Day; he was giving flowers to passers-by outside the Hyderabad Press Club. At that time I wondered about his motive, but much later I discovered that he just wanted to spread messages of harmony and love.

A tireless peace campaigner for the last 30 years, Firaq is as enthusiastic about his activities as he was in his youth. Age hasn’t dented his passion for his work, and even at the age of 52, hardly a day goes by when he doesn’t have a packed schedule. Some people may consider him strange or eccentric, but others see him as a great humanist.

Firaq has participated in around 50 peace marches to different places and shrines, including a barefoot march to Bhit Shah, under the motto: “make this world peaceful”.

He celebrates every national and international day: on World Labour Day he dons a labourer’s costume, on Valentine’s Day he distributes flowers, and on Friendship Day, handkerchiefs. It’s impossible to count the number of protest demonstrations he has held, or the days he has celebrated so far.

Take a look: Well done Pakistanis!

Born to a Syed family near Matiari, Fateh always dreamt of becoming someone who left their mark on society. At the age of 15, after the murder of his brother and reading up on the history of wars, he reflected on the violence and lack of harmony in the world and decided that steering humanity towards peace was something he wanted to dedicate his life to.

Fateh Shah Firaq is often homeless and penniless but that hasn’t stopped him from doing charity work and campaigning for harmony

Fateh starts his day by writing letters to his friends and acquaintances (he has more than 7,000 addresses listed in his register) on celebratory events such as Eid or birthdays. Once he has made your acquaintance, he will always remember you and send you letters. On Oct 9, 2001, on World Post Day, Fateh set a new record for himself — sending out letters to an astounding 3,000 people.

If a tragic event takes place in the country, he sends condolence letters to the bereaved families. If it happens abroad, he writes to that country’s head. He claims to have written more than 100,000 letters to different people including world leaders and received replies from many of them including Colonel Gaddafi, Fidel Castro, Queen Elizabeth II, and Tony Blair.

Examine: Edhi, the man, the idea

He feels ecstatic about receiving responses from such well-known leaders and politicians, but at the same time, he is saddened that not a single Pakistani leader has responded to his letters. He keeps all these and other important letters in a plastic coating to preserve them. Since he has no permanent residence in the city, he has booked GPO box 114 at the Hyderabad post office.

Letter writing and campaigning is not the only thing Fateh does: in the summer he takes a water cooler and embarks on buses to offer water to thirsty travellers. “At times,” he says, “people avoid taking water thinking I would charge them, but when I explain to them, they take it smilingly”.

“I have worked all these years without looking back. I can’t live without my work. When people write to me, or call me on Eid or any other occasion, I feel bad that my family was so detached; I wish they would at least be on speaking terms.”

Completely engrossed in his work, he gave up studies before reaching the intermediate level, which he now regrets. Perhaps, that’s why education is another passion for him. When he has some money, he buys ballpoints, books and bags, and distributes them among children who work in bungalows, and persuades their employers to let them study. People call him to help find missing children or to lead Quran khwani when the local Maulvi is not available.

He has won many awards but it is people’s admiration that makes him most happy. However, things are not always what they seem: Fateh’s cheerful nature belies his innermost secrets. When he opens up, he reveals a man who is completely dedicated to peacemaking, but is living a life that is not so peaceful.

When he was a child, Fateh used to distribute his new clothes among the needy on Eids, and carried meals to farmers working in the fields. That worried others, but he didn’t care. His work has cost him everything; his family disowned him, his marriage didn’t last for long, and all his relatives left him.

He has no permanent residence. He occasionally lives with people upon their invitation but eventually their welcome ends, and when they are tired of him, they make different excuses to get rid of him. But there’s no shortage of admirers. Currently, he is living with a friend who has allotted him an air-conditioned room. But it’s too small a place to keep all his things. Hence, his belongings — books and letters — are kept at some four or five different places, including a mosque.

Explore: Zooming in: Ahsan’s acts of kindness

Fateh says, “I have worked all these years without looking back. I can’t live without my work. When people write to me, or call me on Eid or any other occasion, I feel bad that my family was so detached; I wish they would at least be on speaking terms.”

Interestingly, Fateh is also a poet and writer; his poetry encompasses peace and social issues. While we were in his home, he kept us entertained by singing peace songs in his melodious voice and reciting poetry. He has written enough to compile a book but it requires a lot of money. Fateh plans to write a book titled From Beggar to King and Diver to Flyer that will include every man of society by profession and class.

His full-time involvement with peace campaigning does not leave him much time for a paid job, and so he often runs out of money. When he has time, he does menial work to fulfil his needs, and at times his friends and sympathisers support the projects he initiates. One of his friends gave him Rs10,000 for the registration of an organisation, Peace and Development Society, in 2008, which according to him has “9,999 objectives” but is yet to get any project.

“I have gone hungry many times, borne pains, suffered from sleeplessness, but my passion to build a good society doesn’t [end]. I think we can build a good society through education and awareness. I’m playing my part. If everybody does so, the world will be peaceful.”

In the coming days, Fateh plans to start a peace march to Islamabad, some 1,200km away from Hyderabad, in solidarity with the Peshawar and Charsadda attack victims.

For the rally he has written a peace song and recorded it in 12 languages including Sindhi, Urdu and English. He has bought a big MP3 player to play the song, and a map of the world, which he will put around his neck and on his head respectively.

How does one man manage to do so much? I ask. “Once a man decides to do something, nothing is impossible,” he says smilingly.

Published in Dawn, Sunday Magazine, May 29th, 2016

Feeble-minded, simple and not-to-be-trusted because of our easily influenced nature, we, women, must be reprimanded, oppressed and shown the rod (both of the animated and unanimated variety) if we are to delay the tainting of our unadulterated texture.

We must be saved from the heathen scriptures of ‘western influence’, the polluted perception of rights and ideals, and the frivolities of freedom if we are to aid as the spare rib to our masters.

Or, at least that is what the Council of Islamic Ideology (CII) would have us believe, after sneaking in some of their own craftily catered to commitments in the Protection of Women Against Violence Bill.

These include some, seemingly, fetishistic wiles such as the option of “lightly beating” your wife, to disciplining her for a range of energetic encroachments over the dignity of a man’s honour.

Also read: My uncle raped Jugnu in the graveyard to turn her into the 'perfect wife'

I have to hand it to the CII for finding a socially acceptable mandate for some very naughty leanings.

There are some men (and women) who have wanted to spank their significant others for centuries and have always disguised such demonstrations of distaste in psychobabble suitable for that period and social decorum (curing ‘hysteria’ and mental illnesses, for example).

Why should there be an exception to the rule here, when all manner of civil etiquette and standards have fallen upon the hunched and glutted shoulders of religion?

By conveniently using the Women’s Protection Bill as their whitewash for getting a few kicks, these bearded bastions of the pious and putrid have given us women some more hot air to turn our noses up against.

50 shades of halal, anyone?

What really bothers me though is not such antics in abasement but the other promulgations Sherani and his ilk are trying to slip into their recommendations.

Imposing a ban on breast milk substitutes and contraception for women without male sanction, and classifying abortion after the 120-day mark as murder, are just some clauses that terminate this comedy induced by ‘men just being men’.

I’m not even jolted now with breastfeeding made into law seeing that these bearded types have in the past issued curveball fatwas about women in the workplace being allowed to work with men only if they breastfeed them first!

Setting the stage perhaps for what is also a bit of a perverted predilection?

Mandatory hijabs and segregation of the sexes in schools after the primary level are just the beginning of this primitive attempt at partition between men and women, boy and girl.

Also read: How Pakistani organisations don't want to deal with pregnant professionals

How we are ever to adorn a sense of community and cooperation, neighbourliness and civility when we cut out one half of the populace is beyond my appreciation.

In addition, female nurses (there is no mention of female doctors because, well, who could imagine the independence of such a thing?!) may not tend to male patients. I guess one can forgive Sherani’s lot for getting weak in the knees when confronted with the possibility of the sexy nurse reverie coming to life.

Lest I forget, honour killings and acid attacks must be ‘investigated’, not punished without the chance of charitable exoneration.

Make no bones about it: the CII has declared apartheid against Pakistani women.

It has strung its senses between the dripping, uncontrollable urges of society’s failures — failures in protecting women since 1947 from the likes of these thugs who have never trusted the women and men of this country reaching a prevailing pact between their primal desires and heightened understanding of the statutes of a modern, civil dispensation.

To them, we women are good for only two things: lying on our backs or under our tombstones.

To them, we are easy access, morally sterilised yet demonic in our wiles.

To them, women are fresh meat when they are young and calmly discarded when they have maximised their potential in raising their sons and heating their food.

To them, we are an afterthought for which all thought must be tightly concentrated on delivering to us a colourless constitution.

Also read: 'Lightly' beating about the bush in 2016

The fact that the government has kowtowed to the extent that the CII is free to subsidise wholesale such recommendations means that the dialogue for such suppression is very much on the table.

Some people have termed this adversity as a ‘fear of women’ but, I just do not see it that way. It is a weakness for them, a stubborn, all-prevailing infirmity when it comes to us.

The male ego does not deal with shortcomings well and is known to overcompensate but it need not do so when it comes to the size of its privates but in the size of its heart.

Watch the video: Do Pakistani men condemn or condone wife-beating?

Following on the heels of the CII’s inputs in gender isolation, the Pakistan Electronic Media Regulatory Authority (Pemra) banned all electronic media adverts on contraception and their usage. However, within days of imposing the ban, Pemra then realised that promoting birth control measures was part of the national agenda and revoked the ban.

And thankfully so, for a country copulating at a contagious rate, we’ve already hit the population bomb mark. But the real victims here are women; it is their bodies that are being regulated by this enforced evasion of the availability and necessity of birth control.

It is our bodies that are forced to stretch, contort and tear open to birth a child; the man does precious little for us but he does have a little extra fun without the rubbery requirement of reconciling his resources with his responsibilities.

We’re being stretched to the substrata of a society in denial — in denial about the freedom and liberty our religion gives to the dispossessed, the marginalised and the ‘fair’, in denial about the purge this patriarchy is practicing on its women and in denial about the wants of a contemporary communal way of life.

The CII need not send its decrees from the high heavens of its own convoluted desires; it need only dissolve, as one Twitterati explained, “in acid”.

“When I spoke with my parents, tears rolled down my face. I was wondering what to tell them…”

These are the words of a migrant worker who, like thousands of others, has to leave his home in Pakistan and seek work elsewhere, carrying the weight of the expectations of his family and community.

He finds himself trapped between the reality of being a migrant worker, and the life of debt and humiliation that awaits him if he returns, unsuccessful in his endeavours.

Recent figures have suggested that agriculture production in Pakistan actually decreased by 0.9 per cent, while cotton output plummeted by 27 per cent. Behind these macro figures are the stories of the livelihoods of hundreds of thousands of Pakistani peasants.

For them, the only means of survival is migrating abroad to earn a living for their families.

Also read: For sale in Dubai

Syed Owais Ali, a rising Pakistani filmmaker, in his award-winning documentary Pakistan: No Place Like Home that was recently broadcasted on Al Jazeera, challenges this existing perspective by tracking the journey of a prospective migrant — Sharif — to the UAE from the village of Hakimwala.

In a short span of 25 minutes, Owais is able to capture the socio-economic factors that drive Sharif, a beloved and humorous member of his small village, to take a leap of faith and migrate abroad.

The story does not have a happy ending, like most migrant stories, but by giving Sharif’s story a face rather than relegating him to a mere figure, we can understand the dynamics at play and what areas need to be targeted.

This documentary is essential in broadening the narrative because it tackles two main misconceptions that are common to the discourse on migrant issues:

The perils of pride

The first misconception is that the migrants are simply unaware of the true nature of working abroad, especially in certain countries where migrants are not treated well, and so they ignorantly find themselves trapped in their host countries.

Sharif’s story, however, reveals that he is well aware of the perils of being a migrant worker in the UAE through his friend who already works there.

Can we then go on merely prescribing “raising awareness” as the silver bullet to this issue, or is it time to realise the failures of state and society that result in the socio-economic circumstances which compel those on the fringes to migrate?

Also read: 'I'd rather die than be sent to Turkey' — Why Pakistani migrants prefer Greece's hellish camps

Even filmmaker Owais — someone who has grown up in the UAE and has had frequent interactions with migrant workers — claims in his author’s note that he found it surprising that this level of awareness was present in the village, and yet, it was collectively decided to send Sharif abroad.

Though intuitive, this revelation leads to the larger argument that migrant workers should not be treated as irrational agents who are simply dazzled by the prospects of higher earnings abroad and migrate in search for it, while unaware of the troubles that lie ahead for them.

It is easy to dismiss the poor as simply cattle that flock towards any source of income because that is seemingly their only goal.

In fact, migrants, similar to subjects of other social justice and public policy issues, must be regarded as rational actors, who undergo a process of a detailed cost-benefit analysis before making choices, but are faced with dire circumstances that often force their hand.

The debt of migration

The second major contribution of this documentary is that it captures a vicious poverty trap that is at work.

Sharif and his village live in poverty, such that they farm for a living, and make enough out of it to sustain themselves and own a small car for the whole village for emergency needs.

However, poor crop yields because of infrastructural issues force the village elders to decide that Sharif must go abroad to help provide for everyone.

After a few torrid months abroad, Sharif ultimately returns home, which results in his father having to sell his hard-earned property and the village having to sell the car to finance the debt of migration.

Not to forget, we are talking about people who can only afford one roti as a meal. Hence, even Sharif’s elderly mother, who pretends to be glad to have her son back, states with desperation that how can she truly be happy with his return when they are now so much more worse off.

Counter-factually, even if Sharif managed to stick to the plan and work abroad for a few years, there is little hope that he would have acted as a catalyst, as had been expected, to the village’s development.

In fact, most migrants find themselves trapped in a debt cycle, something this documentary does not focus on, that results from the presence of loan sharks in villages to finance the migratory process.

High transaction costs ensure that the migrant has to work much longer than anticipated simply to pay off his debt, much less contribute to the development of his community.

Investing in people — A more profitable business

On one hand, there are desperate economic conditions that force migration as the only alternative, while on the other, lie the loan sharks and recruitment agencies that exploit this desperation.

The absence of the state in this process is an integral part of this cycle. It is the responsibility of the state to protect its citizens from becoming victim to such a fate by looking beyond merely revamping urban centres and investing in the socio-economic development of rural areas.

Also read: Chained — Debt bondage in Pakistan

As for society, we should simply imagine what it would feel like to be ripped apart from your home and community, thrown into the deep end where workers' rights aren’t assured and prospects are grim, yet forced to labour on by the threat to your survival.

Surely, if we are truly to be a nation, we must protect our own from being forced to migrate under such dire circumstances, and hence be vulnerable to being treated as second-class citizens, if not worse, abroad.

If you are a Pakistani migrant living abroad, we would love to hear your story. Share your experiences with us at blog@dawn.com

If you are a conscientious Pakistani, or if you don’t live under a rock, it is hard to ever forget or ignore the kind of infuriating discrimination and shameful persecution that members of the Ahmadiyya community suffer in our country.

You console yourself by thinking, “at least I personally don’t discriminate or persecute”.

And, if you’re outspoken, you think, “I won’t and don’t ever let it happen in front of me”.

But then, there is a point in time when you are forced by the lottery of birth, and the Constitution of Pakistan, to become party to the state-sponsored discrimination of Ahmadis.

This is the time when you go to perform a simple act of citizenship: get or renew a passport.

Also read: A guide to growing up Ahmadi in Pakistan

The last time I got a passport back home, I was able to duck the question: you know the one right at the end where you have to sign to attest to the accuracy of all information on your application form — and that Ahmadis are infidels.

Somehow, through the miracle of bureaucracy where nobody has enough time to go through your application in minute detail, my little act of defiance went by unnoticed and I was handed my passport.

Even as I write this, I weigh the pros and cons of putting this out there. At the risk of sounding self-important, I don’t want a bigot in the government or with any connections to the government to become aware of this loophole.

This time, I had to apply for a new passport at an embassy of Pakistan. With a far fewer number of applications, the officials did have the time to catch my “mistake”.

Here’s how the conversation went:

Official: “You didn’t sign this attestation.”
Me: “Oh, right. I actually didn’t want to.”
Official: “Then you will have to declare yourself non-Muslim.”
Me: “OK.”
Official: “You will have to have that changed in Nadra records.”
Me: “OK.”

We share an awkward moment of silence as I hope in futility that my one-word answer will halt the conversation and I will walk out of there without having to do this.

Official: “So, please sign it.”
Me: “But I didn’t sign it in Karachi.”
Official: “Madam, please don’t create more issues for us. We are just an embassy.”

I am ashamed to admit, I picked up the pen and I signed it.

My hands shook as I forced myself to go through a motion that would go against every belief I dearly hold, every fibre of my being.

An action that would mean I was declaring myself party to causing the anger and the pain I have heard in my friends’ voices, as I sat across hearing horrific stories of growing up in a country that sounded so alien yet, so real.

Also read: Ahmadis, seared to the wall

I did grow up as a member of an endangered minority too, but at least the state considers us full citizens. For now.

A few months ago, I had argued with one of my close friends — an Ahmadi — who said that every person who signs that declaration to get a Pakistani passport is giving his/her consent to the state-sponsored discrimination enabled by the Second Constitutional Amendment.

I disagreed vehemently; I felt offended.

It is not fair, I shot back, to assume that, because there can be no consent where there is force — the state forces me to sign this declaration because it can, it doesn’t make it optional for me.

This is not to deny that most Pakistanis do believe that Ahmadis are infidels, but signing that declaration isn’t the evidence for it, opinion polls are.

Also read: Keep Hajj out of politics — Notes on the ‘Are you Shia?’ form debacle

That conversation went through my head in the seconds that I prepared myself to sign my name on a declaration that I find perverse, discriminatory, and wholly unjust.

I still believe that because I was forced to sign it, I did not give my consent to it.

But that realisation does little to shake away the feeling of disgust and helplessness I felt in the process of establishing my relationship with my country but giving up my conscience.

The first time I ever saw a transgender person was when I, along with some cousins, went to an ice-cream parlour in Karachi for a late night escapade on Eid. We were a few years shy of hitting puberty but old enough to have been introduced to hues of 'sexual morality'.

We were sipping faludas and cracking jokes when a transgender came up to us and launched off into a rhythmic monologue, asking for money. Much of it, I couldn't follow, save for the parts where she bestowed her blessings upon us, adding that God keenly listens to 'her kind'.

I already knew my own mother believed that the prayers of transgender people are extremely powerful.

I peered closely at her face. It was striking to say the least; a strong jawline, matted brows. I was fascinated by her heavy make-up, garish jewelry and the dupatta slicked across her shoulders. I continued staring in awe, until my elder cousin nudged me to not pay any attention.

"But why?" I whispered back. "Shush. Just ignore her, and she’ll leave.”

Examine: 'Our birth is our single biggest regret' — Being transgender in Pakistan

Over the years, I encountered quite a few transgenders and witnessed their violent repression — each time, they were similarly avoided, or worse ridiculed.

At weddings, I would see them dancing; the more crude and exaggerated their moves, the more money they'd make. Most were laughed at and they took this too sportingly.

Growing up, I learned about the many myths surrounding transgenders in Pakistan. That many of them were really just men dressed up as women, forced into the business of begging on the streets, that many of them were 'not really men', but eunuchs.

During a biology class in school, I remember a student asking our teacher, who was delivering a lecture on genetics, about the Klinefelter’s syndrome.

"So that’s what all hijras (colloquial slur for transgenders) are!" someone exclaimed. “I am not sure,” said the teacher. “Some of them are; some aren’t.”

I flinched.

See: Being transgender — Facts, myths and rights

A year or two later, in a psychology class, I was studying gender identity disorders when someone exclaimed, “So that’s what khusras suffer from!”. “I am not sure,” said the teacher. “Some of them have it and some of them are forced into it for the trade.”

I flinched again.

No one talked about them. No one knew who they were. Where they lived. And yet, strangely enough, they were very much a part of our everyday conversation — especially when insulting someone.

Why was their identity a derogatory term used only to insult or degrade someone?

What do you say when you want to insult someone’s masculinity?

Hijray ho kya?

What do you say when someone doesn't look appealing to you?

Khusra lag rehe/rehi ho.

What do producers do for a quick laugh on entertainment shows to spike up ratings?

Dress men up as women.

You'll hear all of this in Pakistan. Because we have heartlessly internalised these terms. What you won't hear about is how the transgender community is getting an education, if at all. What happens if they want to get married? What happens if they want to adopt? What happens if they are harassed?

What happens if they need medical, life-saving help?

The tragedy of Alisha

Last week, all of this came into sharp, vivid, heartbreaking focus when transgender Alisha was shot eight times at point blank rage in Peshawar. She was subsequently rushed to Lady Reading Hospital where doctors delayed her treatment as there was confusion about whether to put her in a ward for male or female patients — she later succumbed to her injuries.

It was also reported that the female patients at the hospital did not want Alisha in the female ward, it appears that they were more than willing to let a human being die because of their own version of what is and isn't moral.

In a country where race, religion and ethnicity are powerful motivators to kill others, is it surprising to anyone that gender too, is used as just another tool of oppression by society?

Take a look: Alisha’s death

Shemale Association president Farzana said that 45 transgender people have been killed in targeted incidents in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa since 2015.

The cold-blooded murders of transgenders is only the tip of the iceberg. On a daily basis, they are discriminated against and treated as second-class citizens.

To think of a bullet-riddled patient dying outside in the corridor, not receiving treatment in a hospital full of doctors — who take the Hippocratic oath of ‘do no harm’, doctors who should not and must not discriminate between a homosexual, a transgender, a pregnant teenager or an HIV positive young man.

And yet, that night as Alisha writhed in pain — between life and death — everything I had learned about transgender people in Pakistan came to a repulsive final realisation when the doctors, in their white smocks and years of education, asked Alisha,

Naachnay kay kitnay paisay layti ho?
(How much do you charge for dancing?)

Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf (PTI) spokesman Naeemul Haque on Thursday defended his stance over calling Afghan militant Mullah Mansour a 'martyr', who was killed in a US drone attack in Balochistan last week.

"Fighting to liberate your homeland is a just cause," Naeem told Dawn.com, a day after he spoke on a TV show and called the head of an outlawed group a 'martyr'.

This should also mean that Mr Haque finds the violence associated with the group equally liberating and just?

Also, exactly how is it any less liberating and just than the one related to similar groups within Pakistan. Groups which are now locked in a mortal tussle with the military and the government of Pakistan.

Men such as Mr Haque and many like him really can't be expected to think about such issues beyond the stuff which can only gain them an instant headline or two.

Also read: Did Hamza Ali Abbasi just thank the Afghan Taliban?

On the other hand, many other more thoughtful men and women have wondered what makes a perfectly normal looking person take a life (or lives) and sometimes his own; secure in a rather convoluted knowledge that his act is sure to place him in the good books of the Almighty or find him pleasurably loitering in the gardens of paradise.

Sociologists, psychologists and political scientists have all often come up with various explanations. Some suggest that bad economics is to be blamed for young people to become desperate enough to be exploited by the violent patrons of faith and go on a killing spree for money as well as God.

But then, there are also those who remind us that if it was all about economics, how would one explain acts of faith-driven terror undertaken by young men and women from well-to-do middle-class families?

Faisal Shahzad, Omar Saeed Sheikh, the 7/7 bombers in the UK, the men behind the gruesome Safoora Goth massacre — all of these came from educated, urban and middle-class families.

In such cases, it is believed that the mad urge to kill in the name of faith transcends political and economic compulsions and becomes a sheer act of criminal psychosis.

... another man's freedom fighter

What gets missed in this context is the role played by those 'non-violent' men and women in politics, media and the academia who actually end up somewhat justifying (if not entirely applauding) certain violent acts of men they believe are a product of bad economics, injustice and some kind of a noble war.

Also read: Understanding the new militants of Pakistan

Such people who can emerge from both the right, as well as left sides of the conventional ideological divide are usually called apologists.

Funny thing is that when pressed to describe a person who has no qualms about strapping a suicide belt around his waist and then blowing himself up in a crowded mosque, a Sufi shrine or a congested market buzzing with men, women and children, the apologist would often strike a pose of the unbiased and objective thinker to suggest: You see, one man's terrorist can be another man's freedom fighter.'

How convenient.

What needs to be looked at and studied is the impact apologists are having on a society in turmoil.

Yes, bad economics and the vulnerability of faith to be exploited in the most violent manner is making many faithfuls actually sully the idea of the Almighty by committing unabashed acts of terror in His name.

But maybe such deluded souls are also finding justification from those who refuse to call them out, or go on to explain their ideas of glory as a reflection of some noble cause.

Take a look: Anatomy of an apologist: A double-act play

But the absurd ways of the apologists are such that they often turn into becoming tragicomedies.

Iran's torched glory

Back in the late 1970s, just before the revolution that toppled the all-powerful Shah of Iran, segments supporting Iranian spiritual leader, Ayatollah Khomeini, began finding the act of torching cinemas a rather glorified act.

Hundreds of cinemas were torched in Iran between 1978 and 1979, but only when there were no crowds inside the cinema halls. Iranian intellectuals and leaders who were supporting the anti-Shah clergy, instead of condemning the act of burning down public property, explained it as an attack on the symbols of the Shah's regime.

But the glory of torching 'symbols of the Shah regime' soon turned gory.

Hosien Takbali — a young drug addict from the Iranian city of Abadan — was buying and selling drugs on the streets of his hometown when his family and friends intervened and convinced him to travel to Isfahan and get admitted to a drug detox centre run by a religious organisation there. He did just that. The revolution against Shah was intensifying when young Takbali was in recovery.

Since this was also a time in Iran when religious, as well as leftist ideas were enthusiastically being absorbed by the country's middle and lower middle classes, Takbali was encouraged by three other young men at the detox centre to supplement his recovery with the study of his faith, which he was told he had neglected.

When Takbali returned to Abadan, he came back as a man who had kicked his addiction and had become pious. Nevertheless, he retained his love for movies, but unfortunately, these were the days when cinemas were going up in flames in Iran — an act applauded and rationalised by even the most educated anti-Shah members of the society.

In August 1978, Takbali's three new friends visited him at his home. They came with an issue of a British newspaper in which a few members of the clergy were quoted as saying that cinemas were a way to distract Iranians and make them ignore their religious duties.

Takbali's friends informed him that after being inspired by the way the clergy was explaining the torching of cinemas, they too had decided to set a cinema on fire.

"Everybody is burning down cinemas. But we'll do it in a way that will make us genuine heroes," said one of his friends.

This meant burning down a cinema while it was screening a film and was packed with people.

The young men all bought tickets to an Iranian film called, 'The Deer' at one of Abadan's oldest cinemas, Rex. The hall was packed with men, women and children when Takbali and his friends poured kerosene oil inside the hall and set it on fire. Over 350 people died and were turned into ash. Only a few people survived, including Takbali.

The incident is still considered to be one of the most horrific acts of violence and murder that took place during the turbulent years of the Iranian Revolution.

Of course, the apologists who were praising acts of burning down cinemas previously, now changed track. Fearing a backlash, they began accusing 'agents of the Shah regime' for torching the Rex.

A year after the imposition of Iran's Islamic government, some Iranians demanded an inquiry into the Rex tragedy.

Takbali, who was expecting to be hailed as a hero of the Islamic Revolution, was instead arrested and accused of being an agent of the fallen Shah regime. He was hanged.

The apologists, who had first applauded the burning down of cinemas, hailed the hanging as a great act of Iran's 'Islamic justice'.

I lower the car window and stick my head out to feel the pulsating wind. It reeks of ancient legends and genius.

The narrow winding road through hillocks is less travelled and I have not seen any vehicle for some time.

Adil, my driver with whom I had already shared an adventure, while we were finding our way to Pharwala Fort, is getting a little apprehensive.

"Are you sure there is something worth visiting in this direction?" he asks.

"Does it matter if the road remains as scenic?" I reply, my eyes fixed on an old banyan tree in the distance.

Potohar — The land of ancient relics

Soon I arrive in the Potohar region; the first landmark on our agenda is the temple in Malot. We turn left from Kalar Kahar Exchange on the motorway and take the road to Choa Saidan Shah.

The vast plateau has rather sporadic pockets of population, which have possibly helped it retain some of its natural and architectural wonders.

Also read: The havelis of Potohar — Pakistan's opportunity to promote heritage tourism

The industrialisation, however, has taken its toll on its resources, with the drop in Katas water levels a well-documented piece of evidence, proving how human greed can destroy our ancestors' legacy.

We almost miss the link road connecting the village of Malot with the main Choa Saidan Shah road, as the signboard is installed on the wrong side of the road.

We see a few people walking by the road and, to be absolutely sure, we halt to confirm the directions.

They ask us for a lift to a factory en-route instead. They tell us that they are recent graduates appearing in an entry test at the factory and are already running late. Local transportation is infrequent in the area so we take them along.

Adil is very happy to find people to talk to. Soon he gets their complete bio-datas. The graduates tell him that they are from Rawalpindi, but are ready to move to the factory if they find a decent job.

We drop them off in front of the cement factory and wish them good luck.

The Temples of Malot

Malot was a walled hamlet back in the day. Raja Mal Khan — a convert prince (son of Janjua King Raja Dhrupet Dev) — was an ambitious ruler who secured neighbouring areas after his succession and made Malot his capital.

He ordered the construction of a fort around the village, which remained at the centre of power for the Janjua dynasty for centuries to come.

Also read: The gurdwaras of Potohar — A missed opportunity for religious tourism

But today the only site worth visiting from the heydays of Malot are the temples on top of a hill near the village.

After stopping at multiple places to confirm the route, we finally reach sleepy Malot. The road goes through the heart of the village, with houses on the left and a pond with an old banyan tree standing on the right.

I see a lot of families waiting for public transport. Finally, we spot two towers on the top of a hill, just a few hundred metres out of the village.

The road gets narrower and is surrounded by thorny shrubs. Adil makes a face as they leaves marks on the exterior of his car. I am too excited by the otherworldly scene to notice his protest.

When there is no way further for the car, I take a walk, making my way through the shrubs.

The Malot Temple, along with many others in the area, is heavily influenced by Kashmiri traditions in architecture, and bears striking similarities to iconic temples in Kashmir.

The temple was constructed using red sandstone and still retains its royal look despite the ravages of time and neglect. The striking feature of the facade is its circular pillars, and the height of the arches, which gives visitors standing at ground level a feel of grandeur.

The inside chamber is devoid of any embellishments now but there are signs of a fire lit recently — most probably by some gypsies as the temple does not seem to attract any visitors apart from a wandering herd or two.

The building was last used by Sikhs as a watch tower during the reign of Maharaja Ranjit Singh.

Katas Raj

The emerald pond at Katas has a mystical aura around it, serving as a perfect refuge for hermits seeking salvation.

Over the centuries, it has attracted pagans, Buddhists and Hindus alike, giving way to legends and a host of worshipping places.

According to one popular legend, upon the demise of his beloved Sati, Lord Shiva grieved so much that his tears formed two pools; one in Katas and the other in Pushkara in Ajmer.

Hence, the holy pond is revered by the followers of Shiva, believing it to have healing powers.

On a bright day, I only find a few kids lazing around the mystical pond. The site attracts occasional visitors during regular days but overflows with pilgrims during the Maha Shivratri festival.

They perform their rituals in temples and bathe in the pond, seeking salvation.

The main temple inside the complex is known as Kala Mandir because of the dark lichens which have grown over time. Other temples were added from the 6th to the 11th century.

Much like the temples in Malot, they also follow the precedence set by Kashmiri artisans. Other temples and havelis were added as late as Ranjit Singh’s reign over the region.

But today, they are shadows of their former glory. The place was abandoned after partition; the temples were vandalised, leaving defaced empty rooms.

The weary wrath of time tarnished their once lavish walls. It was only in 80s that pilgrims were allowed to visit the site. The buildings were renovated which continues in bits and pieces even today.

Kusak Fort

We are driving around Choa Saidan Shah but have little luck in finding our way to Kusak fort. Finally we trust a passerby’s direction and take a winding road through the barren landscape.

Also read: Gulyana — Punjab’s crumbling 900-year-old village

We don’t see a settlement for the longest time and Adil suggests that we drive back. I see some people under a banyan tree and ask him to confirm the directions from them.

To his disappointment, they tell us to follow the road for a few more kilometres.

Kusak fort was built by Raja Jodh — the son of Raja Mal Khan — in the 11th century and had standard amenities of a fort, including a palace, ponds, houses and temples.

But it is the peculiar and picturesque location of the fort which makes it a site worth visiting — on top of a standalone rock; and much like the Sigriya fort in Sri Lanka, it towers.

Rising thousands of feet from the ground, it is disjointed from the rest of the hillocks, and is visible from a distance.

The only way up is through a steep incline, making it easier for the inside army to defend it.

The fort was besieged by Firoz Shah Khilji and later by Ranjit Singh, the latter striking massive blows to the Janjua Empire who abandoned it after reaching a truce with Sikhs. The fort is still in the possession of the successors of the then-ruling family.

Kusak village — much like Malot — has a pond, surrounded by old banyan trees. There are houses going all the way to the base of the rock.

I hesitate first, thinking to ask for permission but I don’t see a soul. Adil excuses, saying he has to take care of the car, so I start making my way to the top alone.

Luckily, there are traces of tracks, most probably of shepherds. As I get closer to the top, I can make sense of the fortification wall which appears in decent condition. There is a small opening on one end, and I see two goats looking at me curiously.

There is not much inside the fortification apart from the remains of houses and a pond. I make my way through the shrubs to the top of the fort where the building of possibly a temple still stands firm. The view from the top is breathtaking.

On one end, I can see Kusak Village and beyond, and on the rest of the sides, the vast emptiness. The sporadic greenery, blending together with the red limestone ground, looks surreal.

There is no one around to share my triumphant emotions with — save for the goats.

Rawat Fort

Rawat fort falls conveniently on the left side of GT road on our way back to Islamabad. The rather small size of Rawat fort suggests that it must have served as a fortified inn before it became a regular fortress. The construction of the fort is attributed to Sultan Masood — the son of Mahmud Ghaznavi.

It was built in the 10th century and has seen many modifications done to its layout and area. The fort came into Gakhar possession sometime during the 15th century and is where Sarang Khan, the then chieftain of Gakhar clan, fought Sher Shah Suri.

He was defeated and killed in the battle along with numerous Gakhars. The mausoleum in the heart of Rawat fort is attributed to him.

Today, the Rawat Fort is surrounded by residential quarters on all sides. A congested living space around it makes it an attractive place for children and elders to hang out.

As I enter the gate, I see children playing cricket in the open area. I walk slowly to the mausoleum and find that it is being renovated. It is perhaps lunch break and I find a lonely worker relaxing in a wheelbarrow.

There is an active mosque on one end of the fort which also seems to be a gathering place for the elderly people of the area.

There are some unidentified graves in the middle of the fort and some people attribute it to Gakhars who were killed in the battle against Sher Shah Suri.

I check my notes; there is still an unattended agenda on them but there’s hardly any sunlight left. Adil is exhausted too and looks at me expectantly, it is perhaps time to return.

I look at the crimson glow left by the setting sun on scattered clouds and hillocks in the distance and realise, I got what I came for.

—Photos by author

Farooq Soomro is a quintessential Karachi denizen who likes to document life (or the lack of it) in Karachi and elsewhere. He likes to collect vinyl records and books.

Follow him on Facebook or his blog, The Karachi Walla.

Not many in Pakistan know of Rajab Shah other than those who are connected to the mountains.

He is the first Pakistani to summit all five 8,000metre peaks in the country and is the winner of the President’s Pride of Performance Award for mountaineering. But, there is so much more to him that we do not know about him.

A high altitude porter

The mountains were Shah’s bread and butter — he accomplished the amazing feat of all five summits within nine years as a high altitude porter.

Carrying loads of up to 20kgs to the first camps and clearing the way for expeditions after camp 4, he literally earned his way to the top.

He hadn’t had the chance to try for any 6,000 or 7,000ers before working with an army expedition on Nanga Parbat, the juggernaut standing 8,126metres (26,660 ft) high, which had defeated countless seasoned mountaineers before him.

Incidentally (another testament to his character) after accomplishing this he only had the chance to arrive back at camp 4 to rest for the night before rushing back out again to rescue a team member who had attempted the summit after him but had failed to return to camp.

Giving back to his village

Rajab was a truly generous man. After accomplishing what the worldwide mountaineering community regarded as extraordinary, this family and community-oriented man chose to go back home to his small village in Shimshal (3,100m high) in the very north of Pakistan.

To genuinely give back rather than chase fame, he trained the next generation of climbers from Shimshal voluntarily, at first by donating his own hard-earned equipment before he got some help setting up a mountaineering school in Shimshal.

This school has produced the next generation of celebrated climbers, including Mirza Ali, Samina Baig, Qudrat Ali and Shaheen Baig. Till his passing away in April last year, he continued his mission to promote indigenous climbing and skills.

Promoter of sustainable mountain tourism

He was aware that the extremism spreading in Pakistan had caused a lot of problems for tourism in his area and the whole country in general. He trained the youth in Shimshal because he had once been very hopeful that more foreign expeditions would arrive to discover the beautiful mountains of his region.

But due to the conflict and the “narrow mindedness” of some people (as he gently put it) everything took a step back. He felt that mountain tourism was crucial to showing the world that not everyone in Pakistan was an extremist.

To that end he said that the Pakistani youth were extremely lucky to be born in an area where the peaks are like “the roofs of our houses” with extraordinary passes and glaciers that people will always come to see.

He was eager to see local mountain tourism preserved and constantly urged young climbers to take interest, to come forward, and was hopeful that gradually this time of conflict would also pass.

Champion for women

Shah encouraged the women of Shimshal to step out of their assigned gender roles in a very unusual way — by literally climbing mountains.

He said that he started to focus on training the women of Shimshal to be better climbers because he was keen to show the world that Pakistan was not filled with extremists, and in the north there were places where women climb shoulder to shoulder with the men.

His legacy can be seen in the success of Samina Baig, the first Pakistani woman to summit Everest, and many other female students of his now emerging in the field.

“Samina is my student. After her there will be a 1,000 more Saminas; his is our answer to the narrow mindset,” he often used to say.

Shimshali women are some of the strongest and most dedicated mountaineers in Pakistan today.

An environmentalist

He cared deeply not just about community but about nature, too. He was very vocal about Pakistan’s fresh water reserves in the north, something that he spoke passionately about throughout his life.

Indeed, his first foray into the climbing world was assisting on an expedition for glacier research in 1986.

In a rare chance to meet with President Laghari he voiced his concern for the glaciers and the accumulation of trash that was damaging them.

In his last interview with me in November of 2014, he voiced the same concern saying that the last time he was on the Baltoro Glacier in 2007 it broke his heart seeing dead transport animals and mounds of waste.

“If it looked like that then, what does it look like now?” he asked with concern on his kind face.

He keenly added that Pakistanis need to care more about these issues. “Nothing is difficult,” he said. “It will only take a bit of time, money and effort.”

He got the bigger picture

Shah knew that the traditional way of life in Shimshal was intimately connected with the provision of better education in the area. He was of the opinion that nature had blessed them with everything they needed up there except education for their next generation.

And that is why he felt their way of life was being lost. If there was education of a better standard available in their village, they wouldn’t have to be parted from their children who are moving south for education and work. His own son went to Gulmit, then Islamabad and after his Masters moved to Kazakhstan.

“This is our heritage, these beautiful mountains that come with freedom,” he would say.

“Why would he leave that and go sit in a room in the city?” He said he didn’t find that thought comfortable. But he was tied to both. He loved his children but also the life he knew. He was wistful of the era in which they made their own clothes in the village with the raw material they got from their own livestock.

Now he felt everything was coming from the south: the clothes he wore, so much of the food, electronics and TV shows. If all of it came from the south he felt they could not stop their youth from following it down. He said he felt great sadness on all of these opposing forces he saw threatening their way of life.

Let down by his country

He was aware that there was not enough “qadar” (value) for mountaineering in the country. He looked saddened when he spoke about this, saying that he served the country for 20 years on the mountains but now he was old and at home with no regular income or pension.

“Aab koi dekhnay wala nahin hai, koee puchnay wala nahin hai. Khuda na khasta main bemar ho jayoon tu koee puchnay wala he nahi hai. Is mulk mai koee qadar nahi hai, koi keemat nahi hai. Is hi se thora sa dukh hota hai”

(Now there is no one to look after me or ask about me. God forbid if I fall ill there is no one to ask about me. There is no value in this country. This makes me a little sad) said this quiet, dignified man the last time we spoke, a few months before his passing away.

And so, while the south looked for role models in politicians, celebrities, in all the wrong places; one of the most accomplished, humble and generous Pakistanis passed away quietly and without ceremony in the north.

No public outpouring of grief, no coverage by local TV channels, no “qadar” at all.

All we can do to honour him now is pray that his last ascent, the one back to his creator, was the most fulfilling of them all. He is climbing with angels now, higher than any of us.

Published in Dawn, Sunday Magazine, June 5th, 2016

Anyone who lived through the 1970s could not have remained immune to the phenomenon that was Muhammad Ali, even if — like me — they had missed him at the peak of his athletic powers.

Coming back to boxing after being stripped of his world heavyweight title and having his boxing license revoked in 1967 by US boxing authorities for three and a half years — because of his refusal to participate in America’s war in Vietnam — he was a larger than life figure.

Not only was he a spectacular athlete rising from the ashes of forced exile, he was a moral giant, unafraid to put his principles before fame and money. But as a kid, I didn’t know all this.

Early mornings with Ali

For me, it was the pure excitement he inspired in everyone around me, particularly my father.

I still vividly recall being woken up by him early in the morning so my brother and I could watch PTV’s live transmission with him of Ali’s famous ‘Rumble in the Jungle’ fight against George Foreman in Kinshasa, Zaire. Ali would win that hugely hyped fight to regain his heavyweight crown.

We would repeat that early morning ritual many times later, whenever Ali’s fights were shown in Pakistan, which — if I am not mistaken — was always.

Live transmissions of sporting events were rare events then and being allowed, nay encouraged, to wake up in the middle of the night to view them, were the pinnacle of excitement as a kid.

Explore: Dawn archives — 'Muhammad Ali comes to Pakistan' and more

At some point, I was presented with a 45rpm record of Ali’s iconic pep song ‘Float Like A Butterfly, Sting Like A Bee’ and it became one of my most prized possessions. I used to listen to it over and over:

‘Sing Muhammad / Muhammad Ali / He floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee / Muhammad / The black Superman / Who calls to the other guy ‘I’m Ali… / ‘Catch me if you can’.’

Later on, as I grew older, I came to despise the very spectacle of boxing, which more and more reminded me of Roman gladiatorial contests, poor people damaging and sometimes, killing each other for the sport of others and the monetary benefit of rich promoters.

The long-term medical consequences of concussive blows to the head that boxing perhaps causes were only tragically manifest in Ali’s own later development of Parkinson’s disease.

Perhaps this growing up coincided with Ali’s decline as well, perhaps it was independent of it.

But I more or less lost interest in watching boxing after Ali was beaten by a young and unlikeable Leon Spinks. Ali would go on and win his title back one more time from Spinks but he was already not the same athlete any more.

When he lost his last title fight with Larry Holmes in 1980, it was too painful to watch.

But I never stopped loving Ali.

As I learned more about the struggles of his early years (my father bought me a biography) and his conscientious objection to America’s murderous war in Vietnam and his activism against racism at home, my respect only deepened.

As many people have pointed out, he was a poor black kid from Kentucky who bootstrapped himself up to the heights of fame and money and then gave it all up for his principles.

In pictures: Muhammad Ali: 'The Greatest' boxer, showman, ambassador

Not only this, he was willing to accept the derision of his hyper-patriotic countryfolk and undergo a jail sentence for his values.

One would be hard-pressed to find any other such example of moral fearlessness in the sporting or entertainment world, where athletes and entertainers cave under far softer pressures, usually just the threat of withdrawal of sponsorship dollars.

Pakistan's Champ

I have often pondered over what it was that inspired such a following of an American boxer so far away in a country like Pakistan — certainly no other pugilist before or since Ali has inspired the same sort of adulation.

Pakistanis often still do not know the names of most American athletes and boxing is still a fringe sport in this country. Was it the fact that he had converted to Islam and Pakistanis came to see him as one of their own?

It’s probably true that Ali being a Muslim played a big part in why Pakistanis embraced him as ‘ours.’

Recall that these were also heady days of the 1st Islamic Summit Conference, which had taken place in Lahore in early 1974, with grand calls for Muslim unity.

But to reduce the phenomenon of Ali to his religious conversion would be simplistic.

It doesn’t explain, for example, his massive adoration around the world, even among non-Muslims. Mike Tyson, another world-renowned boxer, would also convert to Islam many years later but he never commanded the love of ordinary Pakistanis the way Ali did.

No, Ali was much more than just a convert.

In his persona Ali projected a complicated mix of emotions for his fans around the world — underdog fighting against the odds, moral strength, grace under pressure, likeable wit, anti-colonialism, anti-imperialism, sacrificing for what one believes in and, yes, the beauty of pure athleticism.

Some of these qualities were even inferred from his sportsmanship. I recall discussing as a young boy how Ali never went for body-blows, unlike his rivals, his only jabs were to the head.

This was taken, in our naïve hero-worship, as another sign of how Ali played ‘clean’, never sullying himself with ‘low’ things like punches to the gut or the abdomen.

But boxing was never the real reason for Ali’s greatness. The fact of the matter is Ali transcended sport and spectacle.

This is why even 30-odd years after his retirement he remained an icon, even to those (in the majority, it should be pointed out) who never lived through the 1970s and were born long after he entered the ring for the last time. He was what we all aspire to be as human beings.

Rest in peace, Champ. You truly were the greatest.