On a wave of mutilation

29Jul07

One sees symbols of ‘progress’ and they at once remind us of the ‘progressive’ and constructive legacies of the leaders who build them.

Germany’s Autobahn reflects Hitler’s ambitions, the Tiananmen Square speaks of Mao’s larger than life persona, and the great dams of the United States stand testament to Roosevelt’s gigantic social and economic undertakings during his New Deal years. The list goes on.

Even in Pakistan, you look at things like the Karachi Steel Mill and it reflects Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s ideals behind his (albeit vague) ‘Socialism.’ Even a not very impressive man like Nawaz Shareef springs to mind when you look at the Lahore-Islamabad motorway. You look at the all the underpasses in Karachi and you are reminded of Musharraf, perhaps the only Pakistani head of state in last many years who looked at Karachi beyond being a pariah city worthy only of neglect and assorted political intrigues.

However, what is one reminded of when one sees things like unattended garbage dumps, blackened billboards, burning buses and broken windowpanes? Things more frequently witnessed during strikes and protest calls?

Assorted religious parties jump to mind. This is going to be their legacy. Not the building of roads, factories, schools or hospitals.

My take on it, is that they are totally incapable of even thinking about progress and nation building on these terms.

And this reminded me of a Friday a few months ago when I sat in a half empty office riding out the religious parties’ protest call given against the amendments made to the Hudood Ordinance. I lit myself a cigarette and looked around. My roving eyes suddenly stopped at a colleague’s computer screen. He had Osama’s face as a screensaver. I walked towards him and smiled. “You know, that face on your screensaver reminds me of that awfully big pimple I once got as a teenager.”

He didn’t look amused: “A pimple?”

“Yes, a pimple. His face is like a pimple. And sometimes when he appears on all those Al Qaeda videos, he starts to look like a very painful boil,” I added.

Finally, my colleague managed to break a smile and shook his head as if saying he had no hope for me. In fact, he said so.

My reply was quick. “What were you hoping for, my friend?” I asked. “That Nadeem will one day finally see the light, repent and then start admiring a mass murderer whose face reminds him of a terrible pimple he got when he was a teen?”

He shot back as rapidly. “He’s not a terrorist! Just because the Americans say he is one does not mean he is one. What does Bush remind you of?” He asked.

“You really don’t want to know,” I replied. “You see, even though I’m not much of a believer in conspiracy theories, and even if Mr. Painful Pimple here wasn’t involved in the 9/11 episode, his thinking, his talk, all about death and destruction, that should be enough to make him hated. I mean I fail to understand how could an intelligent man like you admire a boil like him?”

“Whom am I supposed to admire then?” He asked. “Musharraf?”

“Not necessarily,” I smiled.

He chuckled: “Today’s protest seems to be really bothering you.”

“And it really seems to be amusing you,” I said. “Do you know how many Pakistanis will not be able to earn a living today?” I said, rather rhetorically.

“For a good cause!” he shot up, with great conviction.

“A good cause?” I asked. “Your wife is a teacher, isn’t she?

“Yes.”

“And a woman, I presume?”

He at once returned to his bemused disposition: “What do you mean? What has my wife got to do with this?”

“Everything,” I said. “The protest is about the mullahs being so ticked off about the changes that have taken place in the Hudood Ordinance. It’s all about women. Your wife included. Do you think being a woman she really agreed with that obnoxious ordinance that was there before the changes?”

“The law is according to the Sharia,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks.”

“Ah, of course,” said I. “It doesn’t matter what women say or think. All that matters is what men think. Especially about what is Islamic and what is not, right?”

“Why are you being so personal about it?” He asked. “Did I ever ask what your wife thinks of your heroes, like Marx, Mao or Castro? Did I ever say to you they look like a … like a …”

“Like an animal whose name you can’t take?”

“Yes!”

“But the other day you were saying how much your kids love Bugs Bunny?” I said.

“So?”

“Ever heard of Porky Pig?’

“Who?”

“He’s a major character in the Bugs Bunny cartoon series.”

He shook his head again. “You think you have an answer for everything, don’t you? I think you should go home.”

“What?” I shot back. “Going home would mean I am endorsing this protest call! Which reminds me, why are you here? You should be at home, since you do agree with these mullahs. How come you’re not on strike? Mr Pimple there on your screensaver would be mighty disappointed with you. What sort of a mujahid are you!”

“The religious organisations have nothing to do with Osama!” he said.

“Of course, they don’t,” I said. “Just like Mr. Painful Pimple here has nothing to do with terrorism! But my question really is what does Mr Pimple got to do with Islam?”

“What do you mean?” He asked, looking genuinely astonished.

“Ah, that question again. What do you mean? I always took you as a pretty intelligent chap. I expect you to know what I mean!” Said I.

“Osama is a Muslim,” he explained, in earnest. “He’s fighting for our cause.”

“And our cause being?” I asked.

“Fighting against the exploitation of Muslim societies and their corruption by western powers and culture,” he said.

“Really?” I asked. “I thought our cause was to get more and more people educated in good schools and colleges, give them the most modern medical facilities, give them a fair justice system, good, clean cities to live in, jobs, security … I mean I just can’t see how Mr Painful Pimple’s death threats from a cave or the religious parties’ strike calls can ever achieve these?”

He thought for a while and then nodded. “I agree with you, but you see, the West will never let us have all this!”

“The West?” I asked. “We ourselves won’t let us have all this as long as we keep treating everything from a cricket match to a strike call as a jihad against the infidels and as long as our religious leaders keep thinking more about a woman’s so-called rightful place in society instead of the more important issues …”

“How come you have become such a supporter of the West?” He interrupted.

“Ah, that’s a nice way of evading questions,” I said. “But tell me, isn’t your elder brother working somewhere in the United States?” I asked.

“Yes. So?”

“You know he was with me at the university?” I said.

“Yes, I do.”

“He was an activist of the student wing of the Jammat-i-Islami.”

“Yes, I know”, he said, “and you were a member of that secular organisation …”

“Socialist and thus secular organisation!” I corrected him. “Do you know he and other Jammat bullies used to try to beat us up whenever we tried to burn an American flag or shout slogans against Ziaul Haq?”

“What’s your point?” He asked. “He shouldn’t have gone to the States?”

“No,” said I. “This contradiction is too obvious even for a dimwit like you to notice. My point is, he was doing that because you people were getting planeloads of dollars for that Afghan jihad of yours. Does he hate the West as much as you do, now that he’s there?”

“That’s his business,” he said.

“Exactly,” said I. “How tolerant and understanding of you. Now show the same tolerance and understanding for the religious and ideological beliefs of people who are not related to you. At least show some concern for their aesthetic sensibilities!”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, that question again. It’s simple, my friend. Get that picture of a painful looking pimple off your computer screen, will you!”

“Wha …”

“Naaa!” I interrupted. Don’t you ask me that question again. You know what I mean.”

Saying this I returned to my seat, shaking my head and remembering yes, how truly awful and painful that pimple I got as a teen really was. And here it was back again, staring at me from a bloody computer screen. Now seen as a ‘hero’. Ouch!

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