by Bina Shah
No wonder so many people were trying to get away from this ruined, broken country, to America and the United Kingdom and Australia and Canada and any other country that would have them. The waiting room was packed with them; there were hundreds more every day crammed into every diplomatic mission in the city. But if the West had done so much to make things bad for ordinary Pakistanis, why were they all so eager to abandon Pakistan and take up residence in Western countries?
Ali squirmed uncomfortably in his chair at this thought. He’d tried to avoid confronting it, even though he enjoyed participating in America-bashing as much as the next person. The United States of Hypocrisy, they’d said at City24, Ameena, Jehangir, all of them, and thought themselves so clever for having come up with the name.
And if that were true, then Ali would fit right in, when he went to Kansas and tried to become just like them, losing his accent, learning to love football and baseball, adopting their lifestyle as if he’d been born to it, so that nobody could accuse him of not fitting in.
Wasif Mahmood …
The circus of confusion went on in Ali’s head, as the numbers were called and people shuffled to the booths in the back of the room to shout out their cases to the visa officers. There were all sorts of people in that room: educated members of the upper class who held themselves as if brushing against anyone else would give them a disease; middle-class families dressed in their best clothes, hoping to impress the visa officers; men in simple shalwar kameez and Peshawari sandals who could barely speak English. They spoke instead to local hires who translated for the American officers into the local languages of the area, Urdu and Punjabi, Pashto for the northerners.
Once called to their interviews, they all had to shout out the intimate details of their lives through thick glass walls and microphones crackling with static. Ali heard each person’s life story: where their children lived in the United States, how much they earned, whether or not they intended to stay in America for a short while or indefinitely, how they planned to support themselves. Babies cried and young married couples hushed them urgently; children played and ran up and down the narrow aisles, begging for water or chips from the tiny canteen set up outside. People were too scared to go to the toilet in case they missed their turn; one or two men rushed out of the toilet, hurriedly doing up their belts, cursing and grumbling but having to plaster smiles on their faces when their names were called. Ali watched as they faced the visa officers, who remained bland and polite in the face of the men who looked just like the tribals their army was fighting across the border.
Shams Siddiqui …
Ali could feel his hands beginning to curl into fists, clutching at the plastic file that contained all his documents: bank statements, acceptance letters, certificates of financial standing. Letters from his uncle and other relatives in America who promised they could guarantee financial support. Transcripts from the other universities he’d attended. Medical records. All proof of his good character, his good intentions. When, really, he shouldn’t have had to prove anything to anyone.
He stood up. He took one step, then another, his legs shaking. People were staring at him—there was little else to do but stare at everyone else in the room. He was edging away, now, even as his number was being called and his name was reverberating on the PA system: Ali Sikandar … Ali Sikandar … Ali Sikandar …
He put a sweaty hand on the door handle and pushed it down. All eyes followed him, even the visa officers, the guards with their automatic weapons. He was terrified that they’d stop him, question him, take him away somewhere and ask him what he thought he was up to. He didn’t know what they did to people who ran away before the interview. The siren call of America was still as seductive as it had ever been, amplified by all the people in the room, their hopes and their longing for the future so clearly on display. But he knew he couldn’t face it. Not the way things stood now: with his family, with Sunita, with Pakistan.
Ali crept out the door just as the PA system clicked on again, and the next hopeful applicant’s name was called.
Rahila Elahi … Rahila Elahi … Rahila Elahi …
He stumbled from the dark, cooled room into the blinding heat and made his way to the exit gate, breathing as heavily as if he’d just finished running a race. He promised himself that he would go to America, but now was not the time. Ali knew he could only make the move when the world swung back into balance again, when nobody had to feel like a criminal just because they wanted to cross borders, to gain an education or to be with the people they loved. America would have to wait until things were better, for Pakistan and for himself.
Outlaws
FROM THE DIARIES OF WILLIAM HENRY LUCAS,
DEPUTY DISTRICT COMMISSIONER, SINDH
Sukkur, Sindh, 1895
… the desert of Thar has one of the harshest climates ever seen by Man, for in addition to the extreme temperatures (more than 50 C during summertime) the soil is dry for much of the year & the sands are continually shifting (a mere 100–500 mm of precipitation in the short July–September southwest monsoon). Not many trees grow there, & those that do are very slow-growing: acacia tortilis may prove to be the most promising for desert afforestation; while prosopis cineraria provides fodder and wood for construction. The locals have a saying: that death will not visit a man if he has a prosopis cineraria, a goat, & a camel; for these will sustain a Man in even the most trying of conditions. …
There is fine hunting in Thar, despite harsh conditions: last Tuesday Williamson & his hunting party were led to a fine plain by their guides, pagans of the Bheel tribe who were hoping they would find a herd of wild boar & slaughter it & gift them the meat, which is tough and gristly and inedible, as payment for their assistance. The pagan tribes throughout Sindh enjoy the meat of that lowly animal, & make grand feasts out of the occasion, with much consumption of local liquor made from fermented crops. Williamson reported that he killed a chinkara in the early morning & saw blackbuck in the grasslands beyond the camp on the outskirts of Mithi; falcon-hunting will be great sport in the winter-time, as there are many migratory as well as resident birds in the desert.
I asked Williamson if he encountered any trouble along the way, disorder of any general sort; but specifically I wanted to know if he heard, from the villagers or any passing travelers, or had seen for himself any sign of the Hurs, those wretched outlaws who have been rampaging the districts of both Thar Parkar & some areas of Hyderabad; and whose existence poses a grave threat to the control which we have fought long & hard to establish in this savage Land.
England too has seen its share of outlaws, & one might make the mistake of comparing the tales of Robin Hood & his band of Merry Men, who roamed Sherwood Forest and “robbed from the rich to give to the poor,” to the situation in Sindh. But those fictitious outlaws operated to right what they saw as the wrongs caused by an unjust and illegitimate king. & as soon as justice prevailed, the outlaws gave up their marauding ways & settled into a life of peace & tranquility. …
Sindh, on the other hand, is a land of intrigue and suspicion, where we have had to resort to a mix of influence & force in order to maintain law and order, a delicate balance which requires both an iron first & a stern heart. The outlaws which I speak of, the Hurs, are no genteel brigands with a code of honor to be strictly adhered to, as can be expected only from a country with principles & honor; but are in fact the worst sort of fanatics that I have ever had misfortune to come across.
It is also our misfortune that we are required to rely on the Pirs, those so-called descendants of Sufi saints who are imbued with tremendous influence over their followers, to help us maintain our control over Sindh. Were it up to me, I would eliminate them entirely from Sindhi society, & thus establish our writ directly, without need of these middlemen. But the truth is that they have become our collaborators in our rule over Sindh.
The system we have established since Sir Charles Napier fir
st conquered Sindh has served us well; the Pirs command obedience from their followers, from the poor & uneducated simple man to the highest and wealthiest Zamindar, or land-owner, derived from the murids’ religious devotion to the Pir, which gives him tremendous influence over all the residents of Sindh. In turn the Pirs deliver this obedience to us, along with their prayers for our continued well-being, which means nothing to us, being of a vastly superior faith, i.e. Christianity, but is of tremendous significance to those ignorant masses. …
Yet in order to maintain their economic & social power, they must keep up good relations with British authority. We may offer a friendly Pir a seat at our Durbar, or allow him leave from civil court appearances (a Humiliation they find too great to bear, we have discovered). A rebellious Pir receives treatment of a different sort: threatening to revoke his arms licenses, or even choosing to disallow him from touring his own territory robs him of that respect by which these savages live and die, by God! By a judicious use of reward & punishment, the Pirs keep themselves in our good books, so to speak, & we maintain a subtle but strong hold over this Godforsaken land.
But in the area of Thar Parkar, which is a district in the desert of Thar, the Pir of Pagaro treads a dangerous line, for his band of followers have been indulging in criminal activities of the worst sort, & he does precious little to rein them in, much to our dismay.
Almost forty years ago, the British Government made Pir-jo-Goth (the Pir’s ancestral seat) part of the British directorate of Rohri, near Sukkur.
But, the present Pir of Pagaro seems to have forgotten our largesse, or that if he loses our approval, his own physical seat is in danger. For he overlooks the activities of the Hurs, & they roam up and down the countryside, enacting a reign of terror upon the hapless peasants, Hindu merchants, non-Hur zamindars, & anyone they perceive as a threat to their Murshid.
Last year, amongst conditions of drought & famine, the Hurs formed gangs to squeeze Hindu moneylenders & merchants, to show their own anger at God & His will—an illogical reaction indeed, but then the Sindhis are an illogical people & the Hurs—(but more on their nature later, as I must not get ahead of myself in this account). Before the difficult times they had attacked anyone they saw as a threat to the Pir of Pagaro, as well as anyone they proclaimed a spy or government informant, & those zamindars who were not followers of the Pir of Pagaro. They started to attack & murder police men. As further proof of their cowardice, they attacked women too & mutilated the bodies of their victims in a most vile & disgusting manner. They have even murdered non-Hur khalifas, who are the most high in status of the Pir of Pagaro’s followers. …
A note here on the nature of the Hurs: they are the wildest & most intensely devoted to their Murshid, the Pir. The Hurs look down upon non-Hurs & will not even eat or drink with them. They organize themselves in a brotherhood known as the Hur Union; they are fanatics with murder and revenge more to their heart than mere plunder, as the District Magistrate of Hyderabad wrote in one of his police reports to the Commissioner of Sindh earlier this year. Clad in green clothes & a specially-tied turban, they salute nobody but the Pir by hand or voice; they flock to see him as if performing religious pilgrimage (men & women who go unveiled too, an unheard-of thing for a Mohammedan woman). He basks in their lavish gifts, their vast amounts of tribute in the form of land, cattle, & money.
What is vital to understanding the mentality of the Hurs is that they give their Pir a quasi-divine status that would shock most orthodox Mohammedans to know of. The majority of the Pir’s followers, 200,000 of them, are known as the Salima Jamiat, and respect the relatives of the Pir; but the Hurs, only a small minority who call themselves the Farq Jamiat, revere no one but him. & defy all other sources of authority.
They have been compared to the followers of the Aga Khan, or perhaps the Hashashin of the Ismailees, & yet they are ready to sacrifice themselves on the altar of his faith in a way unrivalled by any other sect!
In return for this single-minded devotion which could only be seen as madness by a sane Englishman, the Pirs of Pagaro also begin to see themselves as something approaching royalty: they peacock about in long coats and even a crown, enjoying elephant riding, shooting, hunting & archery, & have built a huge shrine at Kingri, their residence in Thar Parkar. …
We decided at once to attack the problem directly, & on my orders, the number of both armed and mounted police was increased, with police posts being established in those villages and hamlets of Thar Parkar where Hurs lived, & where support & hospitality was given to the criminal Gangs. The locals bear the costs of the increased police presence: 50,000 Rupees in Thar Parkar District and a further 200,000 in Hyderabad district alone. We have also taken action against leading Hurs: our informants have helped us compile lists of terrorist sympathizers; we shall revoke guns licenses & sequester land, withhold canal water, & initiate legal action against them.
If this fails, there is always the incentive of a grand reward; late last year I authorized a great sum of 500 Rupees for information leading to the arrest & conviction of the leading Hurs. Perhaps this will sweeten the pot more than those wretched lunghis & afrinnamas written in gold & silver lettering which I secretly believe only the most foolish Sindhi would feel are of any merit whatsoever.
But no amount of monetary reward, I fear, will be able to counter the tremendous strengths of the Hurs. Firstly, to be a Hur, & moreso one involved in these sorts of nefarious activities, is considered a great honor: ballads are composed by wandering minstrels which sing of their being made martyrs, who go straight to Heaven without even facing the trials of judgment Day! The villagers vie for the honor of feeding & housing these criminals & even offer their daughters in marriage to the worst of the rascals.
When our troops enter their areas in strength, the Hurs flee into the Makhi Dand, a swamp in the wilds north of Sanghar, where the Hurs are to be found in greatest numbers. It can be imagined how well this covers anyone who wishes to disappear from the view of the authorities! Its shallow lakes, thick jungle cover, & trees (tamarisk & acacia) ensure that anyone who seeks refuge here will never be found, no matter how many times we order the grass to be cut or burnt down.
But there is hope for our situation, for we are making plans to ensure cooperation from the Pir; who will be told to ensure that his Murids quit their illegal activities. We have tried our usual methods on him, but he only gives us excuses; that he has already disowned those Hurs who continue to embarrass him & affect his honor in our eyes. But now we are tired of his excuses, & plan a more drastic way to ensure his cooperation in aiding us to bring law & order back to Sindh. …
He will be forbidden entrance to Thar Parkar or the affected parts of Hyderabad District. In this way he shall be cut off from his areas of greatest support, his tribute, or nazrana. & we shall leave the threat of the loss of his Darbar chair hanging over his head, like the Sword of Damocles, & warn him of what is to follow if he does not perform to our satisfaction.
I have already refused one of his gifts: a basket of fruit, which displeased him greatly. This has been as an earthquake throughout Sindh, & lowered his respect & damaged his Izzat greatly.
If he does not heed our warnings, then the next step shall be to disallow him an audience when the Commissioner visits upper Sindh at the end of this year. I shall make it known that the Queen of England is greatly displeased with him, & he shall be forced to convey this in person to his followers. For the Pir to have to approach his followers in an open audience in Hyderabad rather than await their pilgrimage to him in Kingri (another practice which we can forbid if we so wish) would be considered a greater shame than if Mohammed had refused to pay homage to Mecca and instead demanded that Mecca approach him instead!
Who knew that we could use the Sindhi love of honor as a tool against them, in order to coerce them into actions that are beneficial to our government? But any government that wishes to succeed in Sindh must always remember th
is point: that honor is equivalent, in their eyes, to power, & that even if that honor is symbolic, they will do anything to sustain it. Anything.
I am confident about my success in this endeavour, for this Hur Rebellion, as we have named it amongst our quarters, will ultimately fail. It is in the Pir of Pagaro’s interest to effect a peaceful equilibrium with us, although he might be pushed from below by the needs & demands of his followers. This is because even though the Pir fancies that he holds his followers’ lives in his hands as their godhead, we have, with God’s grace, absorbed his Gaddi—his throne—into our own system of political control. Our power comes from the fact that we recognize no God but our own, the true Christian God, and we value nobody’s honor but that which belongs to our own Beloved Queen Victoria, who is, after all, the true Empress of this land.
November 17, 2007
KARACHI
At first Ali didn’t tell anyone about what he’d done. Not his family, not Jehangir, nobody at work, and certainly not Sunita, who hadn’t known anything in the first place. He didn’t want their questions, didn’t want to supply them with explanations. They’d interrogate him: Why did you do it? Why didn’t you go through with it? What got into you? And the inevitable conclusion that they would draw from his actions: Well, if you let it go that easily, then it couldn’t have been that important to you all along.
But from the moment Ali had escaped from the embassy, he’d grown queasy with the fear that he’d made a terrible mistake. He’d waited for the bus to collect him on its way back from its rounds, and sweltered under the inadequate shade of a clump of trees planted over a rough shelter of benches and picnic tables. The people waiting with him were divided into two groups: those who were returning in triumph, and others who had been rejected and looked like they were going to commit suicide. Ali didn’t know which group he belonged to, so he sat alone at a picnic bench and pretended to go through his papers, trying to hide his passport from view. Filled with nervousness and regret, he put his hand to his mouth and began to chew on one of his nails. By the time he reached Karachi, they were all bitten down to the quick.