Media, Muslims and me!

Something had to give. It had to happen sometime. Three explosions ripped through the communally sensitive town of Malegaon in Maharashtra killing 37 and injuring more than 100. The explosions occurred in a mosque, a marketplace and a residential area. The targets were quite clearly Muslims.
The most common interpretation in the media is that the latest round of terrorist strikes is “revenge” for the Varanasi temple attack and the Mumbai serial terror strikes. Though no leads have been found yet it has been widely assumed that the perpetrators are Hindu fundamentalists, who are paying back the Muslim fundoo’s in the same coin. This is their “revenge” for Varanasi and Mumbai.
And so the downward spiral of violence gets a new lease on life. Media reports say the town is “tense”. Rioting mobs went on a rampage, incensed by the attack on their place of worship. Security forces have been rushed to Malgaon and curfew has been declared. Government officials have appealed for calm. We know all this from the media. But what goes unreported?
These are disquieting times we live in. An international war on terror is met with an equally fierce jihad against the kafir. Reams of newsprint and miles of footage document this clash of civilizations every single day in different parts of the world: Iraq, Lebanon, Kashmir, Palestine, and Chechnya. Meanwhile an idiot who can’t string two sentences together leads the “coalition of the killing” against a bearded fanatic who preaches terror from a shadowy cave somewhere in Pakistan. The international media outlets, depending on their political predilections, get into the act. Beyond the slogans of “We report, you decide”, “Free and fair” or even “Free and Fearless” we are fed a diet of biased reports and opinionated arguments. I saw the CNN documentary “In Bin-Laden’s Footsteps” the other day on IBN. It was slick, glossy, gripping…and completely missed the point. Christiane Amanpour narrated how Bin-Laden became the leader of an international terror franchise. But, it didn’t address several important issues:
Why have certain streams in Islam turned so virulently against the west, America in particular?
Has US foreign policy contributed to the rage in the “Arab Street”?
What can be done to address the issue?
But why would they? They are a mainstream American media outlet after all.
Here is the media image of Muslims: bearded, skull-cap wearing fanatics who preach hatred for non-believers and love for Allah who are out to get all of us. It is a seductive image. When one sees a Muslim with a beard and skull-cap dressed in a traditional sherwani it is difficult not to think of mad mullahs.
When my mind inadvertently strays to this image I think of the Muslims I have known; I think of Karimullah, a police constable in rural Guntur who fights Naxalites and risks his life everyday, I think of Basha, a stringer in a small town in Guntur who scrapes a living working for a progressive newspaper. My neighbour Feroz who works in Lucknow for a pittance and dearly misses his wife and daughter in faraway Faizabad. Mahboob, whom I met at a documentary film festival, was dying to make a docu on social issues. Sheik Mastan, the guy who painted my house and whom I rather heartlessly once asked, during the course of an India-Pakistan cricket match, “Which country do you support?” His stoic reply, “India, sir”. Naheed Aqeel, an activist in Lucknow who doesn’t wear a burqa, but wears her feminist convictions quite openly on her sleeve, Qurratulain, my friend in Hyderabad who smokes, drinks and does other un-islamic things. Firoz, another friend who wears his hair long, loves Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin and Salman Rushdie. Kismat, who is involved in the gay-rights movement and is a safe sex evangelist.
I think of these people and feel reassured that all is not lost, yet.

Dreams to dust

A Dream steps across the golden threshold
And comes alive with a life of its own,
Decked up in a silken brocade of blue and gold
It beckons me to be hers alone.

Visions of a promised land dissolve
Like a wispy mist on a warm March day,
In its place lies a former resolve
Broken, bruised and scattered in a million ways.

Dreams lie in ruins hope gives way to sorrow
I look at the wreckage that lies around me,
This was supposed to be a better tomorrow
But all that remains are memories that won’t let me be.

At nights voices echo through my head
Keeping me awake till the wee morning hours,
Unborn dreams I left for dead
Rain upon me like a wild monsoon shower.

Staring languidly at the warm colours of dawn
A faint ray of hope shines through the dark clouds,
Visions of a promised land are reborn,
Materialize before my eyes, I shout in joy aloud.

Talk to her!!!

He blinked and took a sharp intake of breath as she approached. A slight wave of panic rose from the pit of his stomach and expanded to his chest and flowed down his arms like a gushing fountain, causing him difficulty in breathing. Her lithe, sensuous figure was accentuated by the gentle cadence of her walk. She was simply dressed in a pair of blue denims and black top with minimal jewelry and make up. Her short-cropped hair accentuated the attractive features of her face: a long aquiline nose set amidst twinkling eyes. The hint of a smile played on her slender lips, lighting up her face like a diya.
When she was within eyeshot she looked at him. A moment. Two separate glances. Four eyes. He felt his mouth going dry. Another panic wave coursed through his body like a tsunami, devastating his faculty of speech. He fervently hoped she hadn’t noticed that his hands were shaking slightly. She was within earshot now. He had to say something. Anything. But what? At that moment his mind was all clouded up. He was trying to think of something tremendously witty.
“Hi there.”
“Hi, yourself.”
She was standing in front of him. Silence. He nodded his head up down as if to indicate he was weighing weighty matters in his mind. She looked on eagerly, expectantly. Still silence. They stood there, looking at each other, looking through each other. Still no profound thoughts articulated into words. They can’t continue like this and not look silly. He made a stab at conversation.
“Hey, how are you doing?”
“Fine, and you?”
“Ok, I guess.” (This with rolled eyes to indicate a cold cruel world)
“Real crowded roads…huh, heavy traffic, lots of pollution, cows on the street.”
“Oh, oh yeah…bad scene.”
At this point the conversation ran dry, like the course of an Indian river in summer. They stood there awhile. His hand supported his face, which had a semi-serious expression. She still had a silly grin on hers. Finally she said, “Well, gotta go, see you later.”
“Yeah, catch ya.”
He stared as she headed inside the building and nodded his head sideways. There is always next time.

Talk to Her

Inspired by Pedro Almodovar's film 'Talk to Her'

Scene 1

The young man stares silently. His eyes reflect the scenes unfolding in front of him, around him, in the arena. Meanwhile inside, a matador, in shiny red sequined short coat, tighttootight trousers, cowboy boots, top hat, flowing red cape contemplates. Dust rises in anticipation of the magnificent duel, pitting beast against man. The black bull is released. Its curved wicked horns grin in anticipation. Red cape is waved, bull charges, matador side steps, bull misses its target and turns around in fury. The young man still stares, eyes expressionless, body rigid. The matador is fearless. Her golden brown hair dances with the dust. Her lithe body ready to take the bull by the horns. A furious charge, yet again. Bull’s-eye. Matador is on the ground, cape splayed, warm liquid oozing and staining the coat a deeper red. Young man comes to life and rushes towards her.

Scene 2

Another young man stares silently. His eyes reflect the beautiful scenes unfolding before him. In the glass room across the street bodies move in delightful slow motion, to choreographed perfection. She raises one arm, straightens a leg, in tune to the mellow music. Pirouette, arabesque, plie. Her body moves with a magic of its own, tracing dance patterns across the floor. The young man watches, enthralled. He would love to talk to her, but is too scared. He musters up the courage after she comes out. Strikes up a conversation. They walk together on the crowded streets, talking about this and that. He’s funny and animated. She’s offbeat and sparkling. She has to cross the street to get to her house. Bye for now. He stares silently as she crosses. A car rams into her and she falls in a dead swoon. He rushes towards her.

Scene 3

The two young men are seated together. The women in their care are in adjacent rooms in the hospital. Fate brought their destinies together by chance! Or is it by design? The women are in coma, medically dead. But the men refuse to give up. Endless night vigils for signs of life. They are full of hope. Talk to her! Care for her! Tell her how much you love her! Days become weeks become months become years. Hope is alive. The men feed clean clothe care for the women. Time passes, bonds strengthen. The men become good friends. They two couples have so much in common, yet are so dissimilar. Four friends, united by intertwined destinies, together in life and death.

Balochistan on Fire

I was fortunate to know Malik Siraj Akbar at Asian College of Journalism. He enriched my understanding of a lot of issues and contributed to my growth as a person. Unfortunately, Malik could not attend the full academic year at ACJ because he is a Pakistani. Visa problems you see. By the time the Indian government decided Malik was not likely to blow up ACJ he had missed five months. Still we had him with us for six months and he brought a fresh perspective with him, apart from being very popular.
This perspective is important because Malik is from Balochistan, currently Pakistan’s most troubled province. Ever since the recent targeted killing of Nawab Akbar Bugti, a prominent tribal and political Baloch leader, the lid has been blown off Pakistan’s Baloch policy. Malik was passionately involved in Balochistan’s politics and talked endlessly about its problems. “There is so much wrong with Balochistan,” He once told me. One could perceive a sense of disenchantment when he spoke.
Malik was not an extremist, in the sense that he did not subscribe to the stand of Baloch radicals when they demanded “Baloch self-determination” or even “Baloch independence”. He believed in Pakistan and wanted the province to remain part of it.
“All my friends chide me for supporting Pakistan.”
However he was upset that his province was getting a raw deal from the federal government, and Punjab in particular. Outsiders had cornered most of the jobs in the province, the resources, particularly natural gas, was being piped out of Balochistan leaving very little for local consumption, most government jobs were held by outsiders, he explained.
One day I asked him why he was still pro-Pakistan. He replied that the rule of the sardars, or tribal chiefs, was just as bad. The feudal rule of the sardars of the various tribes – Bugti, Mengal, Marri – is as much to blame as any other reason for the province’s backwardness in education, healthcare, infrastructure and other social and economic indicators. Akbar Bugti was the sardar of the Bugti tribe. His iron-fisted rule over his tribe alienated many Baloch and earned him enemies within the province opposed to his feudal and autocratic ways.
Unfortunately for Pakistan, with Akbar Bugti’s death even moderate Baloch have been forced to take a pro-Bugti position. Already a legend in his lifetime, the manner of his death (the 80 year old was bombed by helicopter gun ships in his mountain hideout) has made him a martyr for the Baloch cause. Ironically, Bugti was considered pro-Pakistan and Islamabad’s points-man in the province till he fell out with the rulers. He voted for Balochistan’s accession to Pakistan in 1947. He justified his current anti-Islamabad stand on the grounds that he was fighting for Balochistan’s rights, as suggested by this interview he gave to Praveen Swami.
What now for Pakistan? Echo’s of 1971 all over again? A lot of Pakistani’s think so. Read this excellent piece by Ayaz Amir in Dawn. Pakistan’s rulers don’t seem to have learnt any lessons from the Bangladesh debacle. You cannot answer political problems with military solutions. Pervez Mussharaf, who has the tact and subtlety of a sledgehammer, is a military man who only understands the language of force. As he once famously remarked at a press conference “I am a fighter, I will fight you all the way.” Unfortunately, machismo and bluster do not go down very well in civilian life.