Indians vs Cowboys (Madison Square Garden)

….a human
rights group has obtained summons…
from the US Federal Court for the Southern District of New York….open letter addressed to Miss America 2014 Nina Davuluri… one of the emcees in
Madison Square Gardens…..“Modi is a lifelong member of the RSS….Hindu nationalist
organization that has praised Hitler…disheartening to know that you will be speaking”…

 …
A summons from the US Federal Court for the Southern District of New York…that sure rings a bell. The US Attorney for the Southern District is Preet Bharara, the cowboy lawyer who
(allegedly) ordered a top-to-bottom cavity search on Devyani
Khobragade
. What is the chance that he and his marshals will NOT attempt to arrest
the “Hitler loving” Modi??  

Then again, if Hitler-praise counts as a global standard thought crime (GSTC), Madhav Sadashiv “Guruji” Golwalkar of the RSS has nothing on Haj Mohammed Effendi Amin el-Husseini, the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem. The latter was not just a Fuhrer fan, he actually collaborated with the Third Reich (another collaborator/admirer was “Netaji” Subhas Chandra Bose, grand-uncle of Prof Sugata Bose of Harvard and a hero to millions of secular Bengalis).
…..
The Mufti’s people, the Palestinian nationalists and their brothers in the Ummah, in the internationalist Left and in the nationalist Right, recently marched in Germany while chanting “Hamas, Hamas…Jews to the gas.” This is most remarkable: a rainbow coalition expressing robust admiration for the Final Solution in its very place of origin. Hitler would be justly proud.

Now as it happens, the Hindu Nationalists also have their own “Hitler” list…YamÄ«n-ud-Dawla Abul-Qāsim MahmĆ«d ibn SebĂŒktegÄ«n (Mahmud of Ghazni), Mu’izz al-Din Muhammad (of Ghor), and many others…..who continue to receive undiluted admiration amongst the Ummah (and in school textbooks) for their unyielding endeavors in infidel crushing. This is the fundamental pillar of the two nation theory: our Ghazis are their villains. Are some Hitlers then superior to other Hitlers? 
 …….
Taking a step back now to the good old days when Indian monks used to travel to the USA to preach the message of goodwill to all. The story of Narendra-I aka Narendra Nath Dutta aka Swami Vivekananda who visited the United States in 1892 as representative of the Hindus is relatively well known.

What is not as well known is the story of Virchand Raghavji Gandhi who represented Jainism in the Parliament of Religions in Chicago in 1893 (his statue is displayed in the Chicago Jain temple).
….

[ref. Wiki] Jain monk Acharya Vijayanandsuri, also known as Acharya Atmaram, had initially been invited to represent Jainism
at the Parliament,
but as Jain monks do not travel overseas, could not
attend. He recommended Gandhi to go in his stead and serve as the
emissary for the religion. 

.
Atmaram and his disciple Vallabhsuri trained Gandhi for six months.  At the Parliament he said: 
“It is an astonishing fact that
foreigners have been constantly attacking India and in the face of all
this aggression the soul of India has stood vital and watchful.
Her
conduct and religion are safe and the whole world looks at India with a
steady gaze.” 

….

With adequate qualifications one may still say of India today that “her conduct and religion are safe.” The Jains are of course at the top of the social, economic and political ladder: Amitbhai Anilchandra Shah is the first Jain President of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), he famously won the “man of the match” award (by Modi) in the campaign to crush a 50 year old dynasty. Another high-flying Jain (and a bosom friend of Modi) is Gautam Adani.
….
A sharp 152% jump in his
wealth saw Adani Group chairman Gautam Adani break into the list of 10
richest Indians even as Mukesh Ambani retained the pole position,
according to a latest report….Adani blazed into the top league
riding on the runaway share prices of his companies in recent past,
pegging his wealth at Rs 44,000 crore,
said Hurun Report, published by a
China-based luxury publishing and events group, tracking the uber rich.

……

It is also the case that with the advent of the second republic in May 2014, the world “looks at India with a steady gaze” (and so presumably does Preet Bharara). In light of this our best wishes (meant sincerely) to Narendra-II as he prepares to make his entry on to the world stage. It is on rare occasions that the Madison Square Garden is sold out…..certainly not for (brown) leaders.

Truth be told, this is a coming out party for the Hindu-Americans spear-headed by the majority Gujarati-American community. And as a wise american once said with great eloquence: “elections have consequences” and “I won” ….this is true in India as well. 

If you do not like the results (and we do not), then you still have a choice to fight for your rights (and for the votes of the people). But merely  invoking Hitler will not stop Hindus from electing Hindu nationalists. Indeed what all this drama-bazi does is to permit Hindutva-vadis to wear the victim mask while doing nothing for the actual victims.

It is clear (from the track record of the past ten years) that Modi cannot be defeated using law-fare. The Islamists have also tried guerilla war-fare with limited success– simply more victims have been created. The only way is to defeat the Hindutva-vadis through elections. That should not be too difficult- the BJP got only 31% of the national vote share (the NDA alliance as a whole got 40%). 

All that needs to be done is for a “secular alliance” to ensure that the balance 60% is not wasted through ego clashes. Indeed such a grand alliance (Congress + Nitish Kumar + Lalu Yadav) recently crushed the BJP in the Bihar by-polls. It will be hard work to achieve such unanimity on an all-India basis (not to mention, how to rule, once elected, with a sense of purpose). But this will be the only way.   
 
….
It is a rock ‘n’ roller’s dream to “sell out The Garden,” but for a
foreign politician to pack New York City’s most famous sports and
entertainment arena is another thing entirely.



Prime Minister Narendra Modi, on his first trip to New York as leader
of the world’s most populous democracy, will draw perhaps the largest
crowd ever by a foreign leader on U.S. soil when he takes the stage on
Sunday in Madison Square Garden
before a crowd forecast to total more
than 18,000 people.



Thousands more are expected to pack New York’s Times Square to watch
his address in Hindi on big screens as well as smaller viewing parties
around the country and on TV in India.


The Indian diaspora hopes this visit by a leader who was until
recently barred from the United States will signify India’s importance
not only on these shores but in the wider world too.

The event is being emceed by prominent members of the Indian American
community, Nina Davuluri, who has just relinquished her crown as Miss
America 2014, and TV journalist Hari Sreenivasan.



“Indian citizens and diaspora over the world are hopeful that this
(Modi) administration will cut bureaucracy and focus on people,” said
Dr. Dinesh Patel, chief of arthroscopic surgery at Massachusetts General
Hospital in Boston, who arrived in the United States more than 50 years
ago.



Patel, who says he was given an award for work in education by Modi, a
fellow Gujarati, added: “People are passionate to see the new leader.
Another Narendra is coming to this country to let the USA know what
India is about.”



The first Narendra was Swami Vivekananda, a 19th-century philosopher
and monk who propagated the Hindu faith in the United States. Modi often
cites a speech by Vivekananda, born Narendra Nath Datta, to the
Parliament of Religions in Chicago in 1893, as a source of inspiration.



“Let us remember the words of Swami Vivekananda and dedicate
ourselves to furthering the cause of unity, brotherhood and world
peace,” Modi wrote Sept. 11 to his 6.5 million followers on Twitter.
India’s economy, the third largest in Asia, has struggled to recover
from sub-par growth, shackled by layers of bureaucracy anathema to the
diaspora. Modi’s general election triumph in May was driven in large
part by his entrepreneurial mantra.



On the eve of his U.S. visit, tensions remain between the Washington and New Delhi over trade and spying. The 64-year-old former chief minister of Gujarat was denied a U.S.
visa in 2005 over sectarian rioting that killed more than 1,000 people,
mainly Muslims, three years before. Modi, who denies wrongdoing, has
been exonerated by a Supreme Court probe.


..
Washington was late to warm to Modi. Its ambassador to India only met
him in February, when opinion polls already put his nationalists on
course for a big election win.


   


India’s U.S. diaspora is a highly educated population of nearly 3.2
million, making up about 1 percent of the U.S. population, according to
latest U.S. Census Bureau data.


….
As a group, they are more likely to be hooked to the internet than
their fellow Americans, far more likely to have a college or
professional degree and twice as well off with an average household
income of more than $100,000.



“Indians are generally very ambitious and entrepreneurs,” said Mike
Narula, the founder, president and chief executive officer of Long
Island, New York-based Reliance Communications, a distributor of mobile
telecom devices and accessories.



Narula, who came to the United States 17 years ago, first working in
the garment industry, now has his own company with more than, 200
employees. He’s part of the host committee for Modi’s visit to
Washington, where the prime minister will meet with President Barack
Obama on Monday and Tuesday.
“We attempted to do business in India. I hope Modi will look into
streamlining issues such as VAT, the role of FDI (foreign direct
investment) and find a way for American businesses to not have to go
through 19 red tape bureaucracies,” he said.



While Indian Americans are well represented in America’s professional
class, they are less visible in the military. Some 0.1 percent serve in
the armed forces compared to 0.4 percent of Americans as a whole.
“The diaspora does very well on entrepreneurship, but not as much on
the physical sacrifices. It is not just enough to be a citizen and
taxpayer,” said Raj Bhandari, a 48 year old Mumbai-born banker from New
Jersey. “As a larger community I would like it to be more engaged on the
front lines.”

………………..

A day
before Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s landmark visit to the US, a human
rights group has obtained summons against him for his alleged role in
the 2002 Gujarat riots as state chief minister. New York based American Justice Centre (AJC) obtained the summons
from the US Federal Court for the Southern District of New York in a
suit filed with two survivors of what it called the “horrific and
organized violence of Gujarat 2002.”

Filed under the Alien Tort Claims Act (ATCA) and the Torture
Victim Protection Act (TVPA), the 28-page complaint charges Modi with
“committing crimes against humanity, extra-judicial killings, torture
and inflicting mental and physical trauma on the victims, mostly from
the Muslim community.”


AJC said it is providing legal support and advice to the
survivors in their effort to hold “Modi accountable for his complicity
in the violence.


“The survivors are suing Modi for the loss of lives and trauma in
their families, and caused emotional, financial and psychological
devastation in their lives.
“The Tort Case against Prime Minister Modi is an unequivocal
message to human rights abusers everywhere,” said John Bradley, an AJC
director.


“Time and place and the trappings of power will not be an impediment to justice.” The Alien Tort Claims Act, also known as Alien Tort Statute
(ATS), is a US federal law first adopted in 1789 that gives the federal
courts jurisdiction to hear lawsuits filed by US residents
for acts
committed in violation of international law outside the US, AJC said.

…..

Link (1): in.reuters.com

Link (2): hindustantimes.com/us-rights-group-gets-court-summons-against-modi

regards

Sail the 7 seas (on iceberg rafts)

…the evolutionary
history of ostriches, emus and rheas does not match the break-up of the
continents….scientists believe that their common ancestor could fly…..New
World monkeys rafted
to South America on a clump of earth…..these three groups
represent 73 percent of the land mammals living there…..


It was Darwin who first suggested that wolves arrived on the Falklands Islands by floating on icebergs. For making such an extraordinary speculation the greatest biologist ever was criticized in the strongest terms. Now there is fascinating evidence of snakes swimming 120 miles across the open ocean (and many others). Forget the boring old stories of human colonization, this is the exciting new story of animal colonization of the the planet we all call home.
……………

….
We are reminded here of Jurassic Park (the novel) where female dinosaurs had escaped from their habitat and had found a way to breed. Nature – it was famously said – will always find a way. And nature has found a way for creatures as immobile as snails to migrate from one continent to another by clinging on to the feet of birds.

In June 2000, Alan de Queiroz became curious about an enormous,
ragged-looking garter snake that lived on the tip of Baja California.
Like many other biologists of his generation, de Quieroz had been taught
that species traveled the Earth to new habitats on slowly drifting
continents.  


This snake had relatives on the other side of the Sea of
CortĂ©z on Mexico’s mainland, and de Queiroz assumed that this population
ended up on Baja 4 to 8 million years ago, when the peninsula split
from the mainland.



But using a new method based on genetic
sequencing to estimate when the two populations split, he found that it
had occurred in the past few hundred thousand years. In other words, one
or more pioneering garter snakes had probably floated across 120 miles
of open ocean.



As de Queiroz prepared to write up the surprising
results of his snake study, he discovered that the reptile was not an
outlier. Biologists were finding that even after continents drifted
apart, plants and animals somehow hopped between them.
 


“Obviously, the
continents had moved — nobody was claiming that the theory of plate
tectonics was wrong — and obviously, they had carried species with
them,” he writes, “but somehow, these facts did not explain nearly as
much about the modern living world as we had thought.” Chance ocean
crossings did.



In his engaging new book, “The Monkey’s Voyage,”
de Queiroz makes the case that the vibrant and distinctive biological
communities we see today were created by organisms rafting across oceans
and soaring through the atmosphere.
“The large number of these
colonizations tells us that, in the long history of this living world,
the miraculous has become the expected,” he writes.



To understand how contentious this notion is, de Queiroz takes us back
to the 1950s and ’60s, when a wealth of new information emerged about
continental drift. Geologists had long recognized that the coasts of
South America and Africa fit together like puzzle pieces and had
theorized that they were once a single landmass. 

But now measurements
from the ocean floor revealed several ridges, including one in the
middle of the Atlantic Ocean, where the sea floor was spreading before
the scientists’ eyes. These discoveries provided a clear mechanism for
how the continents creep along. Geologists determined that,
approximately 180 million years ago, there was an ancient uber-continent
called Gondwana, which sat on the equator and was composed of what are
now South America, Africa, Antarctica, India and Australia. 

Gondwana was also a revelation for evolutionary biologists. Its
break-up, they surmised, was probably etched in the history of life. For
instance, ostriches, emus and rheas, closely related birds found in
Africa, Australia and South America, became a textbook example of this
continental drift theory. Another famous example were southern beech
trees, which are found in South America, Australia and other smaller
pieces of Gondwana.

This theory was attractive because it was elegant and sensible, but,
as de Queiroz colorfully describes, its proponents became a little too
dogmatic about it. Léon Croizat, a self-trained botanist of French
heritage who lived in Venezuela, coined the phrase “Earth and life
evolve together” and believed that continental drift explained
everything about plant and animal distributions. To him, the idea that
plants or animals crossed oceans on their own was outrageous and
unscientific. 


He characterized Darwin as “congenitally not a thinker,”
in part because of Darwin’s suggestion that wolves may have reached the
Falkland Islands on icebergs. Croizat came in for criticism himself. An
eminent American paleontologist called him “a member of the lunatic
fringe.”



Indeed, there had always been evidence that, over the
long history of life on Earth, plants and animals made remarkable
journeys. Consider, for example, that young spiders are carried on the
wind by their silky threads and land on the decks of ships far from the
coastline. Freshwater snails cling to the feet of migrating birds. And
fishermen on the Caribbean island of Anguilla once watched a natural
raft of logs get washed onto shore with 15 green iguanas on it, a
species that had not previously existed there.



Proof of how
important these journeys are in evolutionary history finally arrived in
the late 1990s with genetic-dating studies, such as the one de Quieroz
conducted on his garter snakes. We now know that the evolutionary
history of ostriches, emus and rheas does not match the break-up of the
continents. Some scientists believe that their common ancestor could fly
and that they became flightless only after settling on their respective
continents. Among the other creatures de Queiroz considers are New
World monkeys and two other groups of mammals, which apparently rafted
to South America on a clump of earth. Today, these three groups
represent 73 percent of the land mammals living there.

Link: washingtonpost.com/monkeys-voyage-improbable-journeys-shaped-the-history-of-life-by-alan-de-queiroz

….

regards

The lives of peasants

The boy comes out at the sound….Nitai is quick, he has the energy and
focus of an animal filled with itself and itself only…..pushes him
against the mud wall and drives the curve of the blade with all the
force in his combusting being…This time the blood, a thin, lukewarm jet, hits him full on his
face…


Earlier it was feudalism. Now it is globalization. Even the so-called elites have very little control over their lives. If you are looking for a profession where you will never run out of clients (and money) try being a psychiatrist. The ones we know have one mile long queues in front of their office- clients suffering from unbearable stress of having great expectations (from ourselves, from our near and dear ones) in an uncertain and unforgiving world.
……

…. 
None of the above excuses the utterly horrific conditions in which peasants continue to lead their lives. If we enjoy living in a liberal democracy (however flawed) and not suffer from armed revolutions the elites will need to share. Every man, woman and child must be guaranteed dignity of life (and labor). To take just one example, all communities (and local governments) should learn from the example set forward by the Sikhs and adopt a no beggar policy.

The days of dividing and misruling are mostly behind us, as the BJP has discovered in the recently held by-poll(s) shocker – losing 9-2 to Samajwadi Party in Uttar Pradesh and 3-0 in Uttarakhand and 3-1 in Rajasthan to a Congress party which is supposedly dead and buried. We live in hope for a better tomorrow, but there will be many a (non-fictional) Nitai Das who need help now and are unable to wait.
…..
A third of the way through the half-mile walk from the landlord’s house
to his hut, Nitai Das’s feet begin to sway. Or maybe it is the head-spin
again. He sits down on the lifeless field he has to cross before he can
reach his hut. There isn’t a thread of shade anywhere. 


The May sun is
an unforgiving fire; it burns his blood dry. It also burns away any
lingering grain of hope that the monsoons will arrive in time to end
this third year of drought. The earth around him is beginning to fissure
and crack. His eyelids are heavy. He closes them for a while, then, as
sleep begins to take him, he pitches forward from his sitting position
and jolts awake. Absently, he fingers his great enemy, the soil, not
soil any more, but compacted dust. Even its memory of water has been
erased for ever, as if it has never been.



He has begged all morning outside the landlord’s house for one cup of
rice. His three children haven’t eaten for five days. Their last meal
had been a handful of hay stolen from the landlord’s cowshed and boiled
in the cloudy yellow water from the well. Even the well is running dry. 


For the past three years they have been eating once every five or six or
seven days. The last few times he had gone to beg had yielded nothing,
except abuse and forcible ejection from the grounds of the landlord’s
house. 


In the beginning, when he had first started to beg for food, they
shut and bolted all the doors and windows against him while he sat
outside the house, for hours and hours, day rolling into evening into
night, until they discovered his resilience and changed that tactic.
Today they had set their guards on him. One of them had brought his
stick down on Nitai’s back, his shoulders, his legs, while the other one
had joked, ‘Where are you going to hit this dog? He is nothing but
bones, we don’t even have to hit him. Blow on him and he’ll fall back.’

Oddly, Nitai doesn’t feel any pain from this morning’s beating. He knows
what he has to do. A black billow makes his head spin again and he
shuts his eyes to the punishment of white light.

All he needs to do is walk the remaining distance, about 2,000 hands. In
a few moments, he is all right. Some kind of jittery energy makes a
sudden appearance inside him and he gets up and starts walking. Within
seconds the panting begins, but he carries on. A dry heave interrupts
him for a bit. Then he continues.

His wife is sitting outside their hut, waiting for him to return with
something, anything, to eat. She can hardly hold her head up. Even
before he starts taking shape from a dot on the horizon to the form of
her husband, she knows he is returning empty-handed. The children have
stopped looking up now when he comes back from the fields. They have
stopped crying with hunger, too.

The youngest, three years old, is a tiny, barely moving bundle, her eyes
huge and slow. The middle one is a skeleton sheathed in loose, polished
black skin. The eldest boy, with distended belly, has become so
listless that even his shadow seems dwindled and slow. Their bones have
eaten up what little flesh they had on their thighs and buttocks. 

..
On the
rare occasions when they cry, no tears emerge; their bodies are
reluctant to part with anything they can retain and consume. He can see
nothing in their eyes. In the past there was hunger in them, hunger and
hope and end of hope and pain, and perhaps even a puzzled resentment, a
kind of muted accusation, but now there is nothing, a slow,
beyond-the-end nothing.

The landlord has explained to him what lies in store for his children if
he does not pay off the interest on his first loan. Nitai has brought
them into this world of misery, of endless, endless misery. Who can
escape what’s written on his forehead from birth? He knows what to do
now.

He picks up the short-handled sickle, takes his wife by her bony wrist
and brings her out in the open. With his practised farmer’s hand, he
arcs the sickle and brings it down and across her neck. He notices the
fleck of spit in the two corners of her mouth, her eyes huge with
terror. The head isn’t quite severed, perhaps he didn’t strike with
enough force, so it hangs by the still-uncut fibres of skin and muscle
and arteries as she collapses with a thud. Some of the spurt of blood
has hit his face and his ribcage, which is about to push out from its
dark, sweaty cover. His right hand is sticky with blood.

The boy comes out at the sound. Nitai is quick, he has the energy and
focus of an animal filled with itself and itself only. Before the sight
in front of the boy can tighten into meaning, his father pushes him
against the mud wall and drives the curve of the blade with all the
force in his combusting being across his neck, decapitating him in one
blow. This time the blood, a thin, lukewarm jet, hits him full on his
face. His hand is so slippery with blood that he drops the sickle.

Inside the tiny hut, his daughter is sitting on the floor, shaking,
trying to drag herself into a corner where she can disappear. Perhaps
she has smelled the metallic blood, or taken fright at the animal moan
issuing out of her father, a sound not possible of humans. 


Nitai
instinctively rubs his right hand, his working hand, against his
bunched-up lungi and grabs hold of his daughter’s throat with both his
hands, and squeezes and squeezes and squeezes until her protruding eyes
almost leave the stubborn ties of their sockets and her tongue lolls out
and her thrashing legs still. He crawls on the floor to the corner
where their last child is crying her weak, runty mewl and, with
trembling hands, covers her mouth and nose, pushing his hands down,
keeping them pressed, until there is nothing.

Nitai Das knows what to do. He lifts the jerrycan of Folidol left over
from three seasons ago and drinks, his mouth to the lip of the plastic
canister, until he can drink no more. His insides burn numb and he
thrashes and writhes like a speared earthworm, thrashes and writhes, a
pink foam emerging from his mouth, until he too is returned from the
nothing in his life to nothing.

….

Link: http://www.firstpost.com/printpage.php?idno=1714685&sr_no=0

…..

regards

A ring side view of the war

….the boom of artillery fire was briefly
drowned by the whoosh of Hamas rockets taking flight…..In the
street outside, whistles and cheers rose. Why the jubilation, I asked?
Surely the rockets were a prime reason for Gaza’s catastrophe?
…..You don’t understand, I was told. The Arab countries dare not throw
so much as a tennis ball at Israel. But Gaza can launch 100 rockets a day…..

…..
Now that the dust is settling down, difficult questions will be asked and will need honest answers. There will be very few unbiased people in this fight.

We fully expect (and so does the world) that there will be another war just around the corner. It is important (as they say) to keep learning the lessons that hopefully will postpone, delay, and slow down the conflict. It will be vital to keep reaching for the middle ground, even if it looks impossible and sounds foolish.
……………
I thought that killer drones were silent and practically invisible –
until I counted seven of the silver objects circling in the summer sky
overhead, buzzing endlessly like angry bees.




If you believe that all guns sound the same and one explosion is much
like another, then Gaza’s ceaseless symphony of war will provide an
education. Soon, you will be able to distinguish the staccato
thunderclaps of a naval bombardment from the deep and steady boom of an
artillery barrage.




You will learn that Hollywood is wrong and bombs do not whistle when
they fall – and you rarely see, or even hear, the jet fighter that
destroys the building in the next street. At first, this rib-shaking
explosion and its mini-mushroom cloud of black smoke appear to have
erupted from nowhere.




You will discover that salvos of Hamas rockets take off with a
prolonged “whoosh”, leaving trails of white smoke in the sky; that a
falling bomb does not explode on impact but drills a gaping void in the
centre of a building, smashing its way methodically through one storey
after another, before detonating under the foundations. Then you will
learn that when human beings are shredded and eviscerated, the street
runs with blood.




From previous wars, I knew that explosions have a strangely
capricious quality. But it was still a surprise to come across a single
surviving door, standing intact and defiant on a sea of rubble that had
once been a home. At another scene of destruction, a new television lay
beneath a mountain of white concrete, apparently unscathed; nearby, a
large bathtub had been hurled upwards to perch precariously on top of a
heap of debris.




After a few days in Gaza, however, you stop being surprised by the
extraordinary. Dinner takes place outdoors to the accompaniment of
explosions. Soon, you mentally phase out all but the most thunderous
blasts, just as someone who lives near a busy street will tune out the
sound of traffic.




But what if every blast is thunderous? That happened on Tuesday
morning when an ear-splitting, heart-pounding, wall-shaking bombardment
broke over Gaza City from midnight until 5.30am with barely a pause. 

For
those hours, I had some sense of what London must have sounded like
during the Blitz.



Most of all, you learn that conflict in Gaza is fundamentally
different – more intense, more soul-destroying and more perilous for
ordinary people – than just about anywhere else in the world.



….
Why is that? First and foremost because Gaza serves as Exhibit A for
the dictum that you can run, but you can’t hide. In other wars I have
covered, civilians who find themselves in the path of battle simply take
what they can and move. They walk to safety, travelling as far as they
need to go.




In January, I was in South Sudan at the outset of that country’s
civil war. When the town of Bor was besieged and bombarded, most of its
people crossed to the far bank of the White Nile and set up a vast
refugee camp.




This was a dangerous journey and the conditions that awaited them
were terrible. But at least they were safe on arrival. Once on the west
bank of the river, only the distant boom of artillery reminded the
refugees of the perils from which they had fled.




The 1.8 million people of Gaza have no such option. Their world
measures 25 miles in length and seven in breadth at its very widest
point – and just about every location within that tiny area has come
under attack. Thanks to the partial blockade enforced by Israel and
Egypt, Gaza’s inhabitants cannot leave: they have no means of escape.




The best that families can do is take refuge in the nearest United Nations property, usually a school, and hope for the best.



During my 12 days in Gaza, the number of people displaced in this way
grew by leaps and bounds. When I arrived, some 30,000 refugees were
sheltering in UN premises; by Friday, that total was close to 240,000 –
or 13 per cent of the territory’s entire population.




And that does not count the hundreds of people sleeping in the open
outside Shifa Hospital in Gaza City, nor the tens of thousands more who
have packed into the homes of relatives.



….
Remember one other fact: about half of Gaza’s people are under the
age of 18. No one fights in Gaza without maiming, killing, displacing or
traumatising legions of children. This not a campaign waged in empty
desert, mountain or plain – forget Iraq or Afghanistan – but a battle
fought in narrow alleyways crowded with infants and families.




So when Israel sends troops and tanks into Gaza, understand what that
means. First of all, the inhabitants of the targeted area receive an
order to leave, delivered by voicemail, text message or a leaflet
fluttering from the sky. I happened to arrive a few hours before the
ground invasion began and the 100,000 people of the towns of Beit Hanoun
and Beit Lahiya, lying squarely in Israel’s intended line of advance,
were receiving these alerts.



….
Israel says that its prime concern is the safety of the people: only
by emptying an area can its troops fight Hamas without killing even more
civilians. The warnings also offer clear reassurance that everyone will
be able to return once the operation is over.



….
I do not question the sincerity of Israel’s argument and I recognise
the dilemma of its battlefield commanders. 

I would simply offer three
observations.



….
First, these eviction orders presently apply to everyone inside an
Israeli-controlled buffer zone stretching for two miles along Gaza’s
northern and eastern borders. That amounts to 44 per cent of the
territory’s entire surface area. So almost half of Gaza has been
deliberately – if temporarily – cleared of its people.



….
Second, events have demonstrated the stark truth that nowhere is
safe. Twice, Israeli forces have bombarded UN schools housing the
displaced; in Jabaliya on Wednesday, they killed at least 16 people,
including children in their sleep.




Third, if Israel’s leaders act on their threat to expand the ground
operation and send their troops and tanks still deeper into Gaza, even
more Palestinians will be forced from their homes. Suppose Israel
decides to increase the area under military control from 44 per cent to,
say, 50 or 60 per cent. Every street and every block that Israeli
forces capture will represent thousands more refugees.




Where will they all go? Every available UN school is already packed.
Whatever threadbare system exists for sheltering the fugitives is, in
the words of Chris Gunness, the local UN spokesman, “overwhelmed” and
“at breaking point”.



….
Make no mistake: if Israel escalates this operation still further,
then the people of Gaza will be herded and corralled into
ever-shrinking, and ever more squalid, pockets of supposed safety.



….
What cause could possibly justify such suffering? This brings us to
the second reason why Gaza’s tragedy is different. Even by the standards
of wars down the ages, this one is singularly futile.



….
Israel, on its own account, is not fighting to destroy Hamas or solve
the humanitarian and security problem posed by Gaza. No, the purpose of
its campaign is to punish the radical Islamist movement for firing
rockets at Israeli cities, destroy its tunnels and delay the moment –
note the word delay – when Hamas will be able to resume launching
missiles. This is a struggle not for victory, but for temporary tactical
advantage in a campaign that Israel expects to have to repeat, time and
again, into the indefinite future.



….
And Hamas? Its rocket barrage is primarily intended not to solve a
problem, but to achieve psychological solace. Over dinner in a
Palestinian home last week, the boom of artillery fire was briefly
drowned by the whoosh of Hamas rockets taking flight nearby. In the
street outside, whistles and cheers rose. Why the jubilation, I asked?
Surely the rockets were a prime reason for Gaza’s catastrophe?



….
You don’t understand, I was told. The Arab countries dare not throw
so much as a tennis ball at Israel. But Gaza – little, impoverished,
blockaded Gaza – can launch 100 rockets a day. Never mind that Israel’s
“Iron Dome” missile shield minimises the damage they cause. What matters
is that they are fired at all.



….
My hosts, I hasten to add, did not share this view – and Palestinians
are enduring their nightmare with profound courage and stoicism. Even
in the midst of privation and terror, they greet visitors with dignity
and courtesy. Yet they are trapped in a vortex of suffering – and one
that has no discernible end.

…..

Link: http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/news/davidblair/100282273/you-learn-a-lot-very-quickly-in-gaza/

……

regards

Tea Party Zindabad

We are not ideological enough to be termed left-liberals but we are compassionate enough to start feeling sorry for the coconut people. They are getting thrashed everywhere  in the polls and how. In each case the victories (defeats) have been correctly described as historical.

It’s a historic defeat. Not since the 2004 defeat of Tom Daschle has a
party’s congressional majority leader lost an election; I’m still
struggling to find a case where a majority leader lost a primary. 

In India the LLs fought hard against a chai-wallah’s son. They wrote passionate letters to the Guardian. They formed voter advisory groups who pointed out how best to carry out tactical voting against the BJP. Their campaign was so effective that even a business-focused mag like the Economist urged Indians to vote against Modi. They still lost.

In UK/Europe the LLs went up against the UKIP and other far-right forces. The only defeat that they could claim was that of mad-man Geert Wilders of Holland (who in effect promised that Moroccans will be kicked out of the country). And in Greece the anti-austerity left won as the people are facing extreme hardship (by western civ standards). Everywhere else, the liberal-left was badly crushed.


Now in breaking news from the land of the free, we have a grand Tea Party upset- Eric Cantor, the Republican Leader (#2) in Congress, dethroned by a college professor!!! What must really hurt is the fact that Profs are overwhelmingly left-lib, however David Brat is an econ prof.

Eric Cantor is clearly no darling of  the left. But of late, the LLs have been quite optimistic about the demise of the Tea Party and a swing back to the middle (from the devastation of 2010). Indeed, there were tell-tale signs that Cantor would help out in the legalization of (Hispanic) migrants. The LLs just did not imagine a Tea Party victory of this magnitude (just as everyone failed to anticipate an outright BJP majority). Now no Republican would dare move forward (left-ward) on the Dream Act.

How will Arundhati Roy (as the leading thinker in the world) respond to this global Tea Party take-over? The familiar angle to explore is how minorities will suffer- in India there are already communal incidents flaring up from Haryana to Maharashtra. In Europe the fire will be directed against muslims as well. And in the home of the brave it will be Hispanics that will face the mood music. But all past battles have been waged and lost on this ground and we are not sure of the efficacy of her high-voltage campaigns (and silver tongue) going forward.

If General #1 is no good, will the Left-Libs be able to find other strong (and smart) voices to guide them in these dark days? Our opinion is that they enlist the services of  Dr Omar Ali of Brown Pundits. We are sure that they will not be unhappy with results.
………

There’s not too much happening tonight — oh, apart from two fun
races that will be analyzed and over-analyzed and then analyzed some
more for signs of Tea Party fever.


UPDATE: If I were a prouder man, I’d delete my first
line about how much was happening tonight. Obviously, quite a lot is
happening: Eric Cantor, who was all-but-assured to become Speaker of the
House when the gavel grew too heavy for John Boehner, has lost his
primary. He has lost it resoundingly, losing by huge margins in rural
parts of the district, losing even in population centers like Henrico
County (the Richmond suburbs).


It’s a historic defeat. Not since the 2004 defeat of Tom Daschle has a
party’s congressional majority leader lost an election; I’m still
struggling to find a case where a majority leader lost a primary.
And while I covered David Brat’s race against Cantor a few times, I
joined the vast majority of journalists in assuming Cantor would take
this. After all: He seemed to spot the voter unrest early on, and he
spent nearly $1 milllion in the final weeks, while Brat struggled to
spend six figures.

How did this happen?



Immigration reform. Yes: Eric Cantor managed to be
sunk by immigration reform without even bringing a bill to the floor.
Like John Boehner, Cantor reached out to pro-reform groups and was seen
by the GOP base as open to some eventual bill. This riled activists and
opinion leaders like the radio hosts Mark Levin and Laura Ingraham.
“Eric Cantor is an ally in the biggest fight that will occur in the
next six months in Washington,”
Ingraham said at a weekend rally for
David Brat, “and that is the fight over immigration amnesty.”

……….

Link: http://www.slate.com/blogs/weigel/2014/06/10/the_official_live_thread_of_the_south_carolina_and_virginia_primaries.html

…….

regards

‘Aaj jaane ki zid na karo’


Farida
Khanum is one of the last of the Ghazal greats.
She grew up in
Kolkata and has great fondness for the city. The denizens of this city
are known for their musical taste, and they have (naturally) great love for Farida. A
beautiful love story that is reaching its end as the giants exit the stage one by one.

THE CONCERT WAS THE BRAINCHILD of Malavika Banerjee, who organises the annual Kolkata
Literary Meet. I met Banerjee—“Mala”—at last year’s KaLaM, and told her I was
making a documentary film about Farida Khanum. 

Our conversation took place one
night in a car; we were weaving past rotten old buildings somewhere near the
Victoria Memorial and I was telling Mala about Khanum’s Calcutta connection.

Her older sister, Mukhtar Begum, was a Punjabi gaanewali who had come to
the city in the 1920s to work for a Parsi-owned theatrical company. Within a
few years she had become a star of the Calcutta stage—
she was advertised on
flyers as the “Bulbul-e-Punjab” (the Punjabi bulbul)-—and had moved into
a house on Rippon Street. 

Khanum herself was born, sometime in the 1930s,
somewhere in these now-decrepit parts.

Mala was held: she asked if I could
bring Khanum to next year’s festival. She also asked, in a sort of polite
murmur, “She’s still singing and all?”

“Of course!” I said, mainly to serve
my own interests: I had been looking for a reason—a ruse, really—to bring
Khanum to Calcutta and film her in the locations where she had passed her
childhood.

“Theek hai,” Mala said. “Let
me work on this.”
……

IT WAS A DIM JANUARY AFTERNOON IN
LAHORE,
there was a power outage on Zahoor
Elahi Road, and Farida Khanum had finally woken up….I had come to prepare Khanum for a
concert she was to give in a week’s time in Calcutta, and was trying to engage
her, in this fragile early phase of her day, with innocuous-sounding questions:
which ghazals was she planning on singing there, and in what order?

“Do-tin cheezaan Agha Sahab diyan”
(Two-three items of Agha Sahib’s), she said in Punjabi, her voice cracking. She
was referring to the pre-Independence poet and playwright Agha Hashar Kashmiri.

“Daagh vi gaana jay” (You
must sing Daagh too), I said. “Othay sab Daagh de deewane ne” (Everyone
there is crazy about Daagh)—Daagh Dehlvi, the nineteenth-century poet.
“Aa!” she said, and stared at
me in appalled agreement, as if I had recognised an old vice of Calcutta’s citizens.

“Te do-tin cheezaan Faiz
Sahabdiyan vi gaadena” (And you can also sing two-three pieces from Faiz
Ahmad Faiz).

“Buss,” she said, meaning it
not as a termination (in the sense of “That’s enough”) but as a melancholy
deferral, something between “Alas” and “We’ll have to wait and see.”

I knew she was nervous about the
trip—the distance, the many flights, the high standards of Bengalis—and to
distract her I removed the lid of my harmonium and held down the Sa, Ga and Pa
of Bhairavi. I was chhero-ing the thumri ‘Baju band khul khul jaye.’

“Farida ji, ai kistaran ai?”
(How does it go, Farida ji?) I asked, all goading and familiar.
“Gaao na,” she said.
I screwed up my face and started the
aalaap.

“Aaaaaa
” Her mouth was a
cave, her palm was held out like a mendicant’s.
“Subhanallah,” I said, and
pumped the bellows.

Her singing filled up the room: she
climbed atop the chords, spread out on them, did somersaults.

“Wah wah, Farida ji! Mein
kehnavaan kamal ho jayega! Calcutta valey deewane ho jaangey” (Bravo, Farida
ji! It will be extraordinary! The people of Calcutta will go crazy), I said.
“Haan,” she said, looking
away and making a sideways moue that managed to convey deliberation,
disinterest and derision all at once.
Fehmeda was referring to Khanum’s
debility of the last three years, which has been accompanied by hospital
visits, physiotherapy and rounds of medication. (Khanum herself had described
it to me in terms of demonic sensations: her foot going numb, a tube entering
her throat, being forced to swallow strange pills and feeling a subsequent
whirling in her head.) 

But worse, I had sensed, was the gloom accompanying this
illness—an awareness of the body’s vulnerability that led constantly to thoughts
of mortality, wistful ones not unlike those expressed in Khanum’s most famous
song, ‘Aaj jaane ki zid na karo’:


Waqt
ki qaid mein zindagi hai magar
Chand ghariyan yehi hein jo azaad hain
(In
time’s cage is life, but
Some moments now are free)

The song is set in Aiman Kalyan, also
called Yaman Kalyan, the evening raag prescribed for creating a mood of
romance.

Her ‘Aaj jaane ki zid na karo’ is delivered in this
semi-free vein: her wilful, uneven pacing of the lyrics creates the illusion of
a chase, a constant fleeing of the words from the entrapments of beat. (This
technique, which has the mark of her teacher—the erratic and perennially
intoxicated Ustad Ashiq Ali Khan—bears its sweetest fruit in Khanum’s ghazals,
where strategic lags and compressions in the singing can enhance the pleasures
of a deferred rhyme.)


But what after these outlines have
been described? How to account for the slightly torn texture, the husky tone,
the maddening rass of the voice? And what to do about Khanum’s
devastating deployment of the word “haye” in the phrase “haye marr
jayeingey”? I once heard the Bollywood playback singer Rekha Bhardwaj say,
“Yeh gaana hai hee ‘haye’ pey” (This song is all about the ‘haye’).
I think she is right, in that Khanum’s transformation of that word—from a jerky
exclamation in the original to a dizzying upward glide, a veritable swoon, in
her own version—has made of it a mini-mauzu, or thematic locus, of the
lyric.
There is, to be sure, an element of
truncation in Khanum’s musical trajectory: she has said many times that
Partition, which resulted in the loss of her Amritsar home, signaled the end
of her training and forced her to make compromises—personal as well as musical.
For a few years, while living in the alien city of Rawalpindi, Khanum travelled
regularly to Lahore to sing for radio and act in films. But she failed to make
an impact. Soon she was consumed by marriage,
and gave up singing at the
insistence of the industrialist who offered her the securities of a “settled
life.” Later, when she returned to music, she took up not khayal or thumri but
the accessible and mercifully “semi-classical” Urdu ghazal.

IN OCTOBER, three months before the concert in Calcutta, Farida Khanum
moved an audience in Lahore to tears.

This happened at the Khayal
Literature Festival. I was interviewing Khanum, in a session called “The Love
Song of Pakistan,” about her life in music. Adding star power to our panel was
the ghazal singer Ghulam Ali. I had spotted Ali—urbane in black kurta and
rimless glasses—in the audience at the start of the show and asked him to join
us with a spontaneous announcement.

“Farida ji,” I said, switching on
the shruti box I had placed before her. “Could you please, for just a little
bit, sing for us the bandish in Aiman that you learned as a child? Just
a little sample, please.”

This part was rehearsed. I had
suggested to Khanum earlier in the week that she present on stage a “thread” of
Aiman: she could start with a classical piece, then proceed to ghazals and
geets—including the crowd-pleasing ‘Aaj jaane ki zid na karo’—all in her
favorite raag. This would give our session a musical coherence, I had said, and
make it easy to follow.

“Achcha?” she had replied. “Sirf
Aiman karna ai?” (Really? You want to dwell only on Aiman?) She pressed her
lips together, in her inscrutable way. Then, with a mildly warning look, she
said, “Theekai. Ay achcha sochya ai.” (Okay. This sounds like a good
plan.)

Now, onstage, she ceded to my
request for the bandish with an indulging smile. What happened next surpassed
everyone’s expectations. Khanum’s voice, in contrast to her ailing frame, was
robust, full-throated, steady, flexible. Everything she sang glowed with
energy: she unfolded an aalaap, a bandish in teentaal, Faiz’s ghazal ‘Shaam-e-firaaq
ab na poochch,’ Sufi Tabassum’s ghazal ‘Woh mujhse huway humkalam’
and her signature ‘Aaj jaane ki zid na karo.’ 

She was bringing out the
raag in different forms, showing its familiar movements, making it reveal its
secrets. But she was also compressing a century of cultural evolution:
interspersing the singing with anecdotes about her childhood in Calcutta, the riaz
with her ustad in Amritsar, her post-Partition collaborations with poets
and music directors at Lahore’s radio station, and the fortuitous way in which
she had come to sing ‘Aaj jaane ki zid na karo’ (someone had asked her
to sing it at a mehfil). For the lay Lahore audience, the overall experience—one
of observing a constant or eternal thing (the raag) endure in ephemeral or
perishable forms—was eye-opening, cathartic and extra-musical.


In the case of a singer like Farida
Khanum, her role as a transmitter of djinns is magnified by social and
historical contexts. When she sings ‘Aaj jaane ki zid na karo,’ she is
passing on the cumulus of centuries—the laws of Aiman, according to one legend,
were fixed by Amir Khusro in the thirteenth century—in an accessible,
contemporary form.
And the process is made poignant and ironic by our
ignorance: how many of the amateurs who upload videos of themselves singing ‘Aaj
jaane ki zid na karo’ on YouTube and Facebook know what they are really
channelling?

On the night of the concert, a final
hurdle appeared. I had gone to the GD Birla Mandir, the venue of the show, for
a sound check. There I was told, an hour before the concert, that Khanum would
have to go down several flights of stairs in order to reach the auditorium.

“What are we going to do?” I asked
one of the organisers, a woman in a sari who looked back at me
uncomprehendingly.

Then she said, “Wait.”

Approximately twenty minutes later,
a little before 7 pm, a white car carrying Khanum pulled up to the GD Birla
Mandir. The legendary singer emerged in a pink-and-gold sari, and was led by
helpers and admirers into the foyer. Then the Mandir’s doors closed, and the
foyer emptied. 

Khanum, who had only just sat down in a chair, spent the next
few minutes in a state of airborne transport, gripping the chair’s arms and
muttering the lord’s name under her breath, until she found herself seated in
her usual, regal way on a stage decorated with flowers. “Ya Ali Madad”
(Help me, Ali), she said, invoking the prophet’s heir and fourth caliph of
Islam, before the curtain went up.


“Ek muddat ho gayi hai” (It
has been an age), Khanum said, shivering a little but looking serene before her
Calcutta audience, which was comprised of young and old alike. “Innhon ne
kaha aap chalein, buss thhora sa safar hai” (They said I should
go, the journey is not long).

She stuck to the rules: she sang two
ghazals from Daagh, two from Faiz, the thumri in Bhairavi and ‘Aaj jaane ki
zid na karo.’ I had the privilege of sitting next to her on the stage and
holding open the book that contained the words to the songs. I marvelled at her
composure—and, yes, at the soundness of her training—when I saw how she
conducted the audience, the accompanying musicians and the sound technicians
behind the curtain with just her hand-movements and facial expressions. And I
saw—a novice observing a master, a mortal observing a living legend—how she
managed her voice: the expansions in the middle octave, the careful narrowing
at the higher notes, the strategic truncation of words and notes when she was
running out of breath. Occasionally, when I feared she was going to skip a
beat, I found myself clenching the book in my hands and glancing at the
audience for signs of a crisis.

But there were none, because even
the odd anti-climax, when it did occur, was a pleasure.  

Blasphemy and its discontents..

some random news items.

A “liberal” doctor said something to a pharma rep (he probably said “I dont want to prescribe your overpriced medication to patients who don’t need it“) and the pharma rep told his buddies that the local GP is a liberal and is not properly respectful of religion. His buddies happened to be graduates of the vast network of Islamic Purification Factories one can find all over Pakistan. Mom (Pakistan’s far-sighted armed forces) and Dad (Saudi Arabia and the USA, in that order) got together to make this baby in the 1980s, but as in humans, the germ cells within mom were born a generation earlier. Lovingly cradled in the Islamic Republic and brought to maturity in anticipation of the arrival of Daddy’s little swimmers. Anyway, the local graduates were quick to grasp the necessary implications of having a “liberal” doctor in Jalalpur Jattan. They went and shot him dead.

Junaid, a “liberal” student from the remote borderlands of Punjab went to America on a Fulbright scholarship and came back to teach at Multan University (yes, I know, Bloody Fool, so close to a Green card and he returns to teach!). His “conservative colleagues” were unhappy. So they asked the local chapter of the Islamic Chatra Shibbir to put a stop to this menace. A pamphlet was circulated, saying that Junaid was a blasphemer who wrote blasphemous things about the wives of the Holy Prophet on Facebook under the pseudonym “Mullah Munafiq”. The police sprang into action and arrested the man from a 100 miles away. They prepared an indictment without bothering to involve the cybercrimes wing or otherwise find evidence connecting Junaid to Mulla Munafiq. No evidence? No problem. He is still in prison, 14 months later.

 Junaid’s family had a hard time finding a lawyer for him, until the local representative of the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan took the case. He was threatened in court by fellow lawyers for daring to do so. He reported the threats to the police. A few weeks later, he was shot dead. Junaid no longer has a lawyer and faces a mandatory death penalty. Mulla Munafiq is still happily posting on FB 14 MONTHS after Junaid was arrested and put in high security prison. The ways of the infidels are indeed mysterious.
Human Rights Advocate Rashid Rehman Khan. – Screenshot

Faisal, a generous, loving, hard-working doctor had served his community for 25 years. He happened to be a Shia and made no bones about it. This was not a problem in the old, impure Pakistan, but by now a “Muavia colony” has grown up near his home (how fast they grow up!).
Muavia colony. As they say in Urdu “naam hi kafi hai” (“the name says it all”). Someone from Muavia colony sent him (and his brother and his cousin) threats, warning them to stop polluting the clean air of Hasan Abdal with their “Rafidhi” religion. They stayed in town, providing medical care to thousands. So Dr Babar Ali was shot dead on his way home from work in March 2014. And 2 months later, so was Dr Faisal Manzur. The police remain clueless.
Embedded image permalink

A group of lawyers protested against police high-handedness. The police officer involved is named Umar Daraz. He was verbally abused during the protest. His name happens to be the name of the second caliph of Islam (and of a few million other people). 60 lawyers have been charged with blasphemy. 

A poor Christian woman working in the fields drank water from a “Muslim” cup. The local Muslim women (“superior” to the Chrisitan lady in terms of status) complained and they had an argument. A couple of days later she was charged with blasphemy. She was duly sentenced to death in 2010. She is still on death row. Hearing about this, the Governor of Punjab said he thought this was a bit much and she should be set free.

His own guard gunned him down. Hundreds of lawyers volunteered to defend the killer. Thousands rallied in front of the killer’s house to support the noble family and to praise their glorious son. A judge sentenced him to death and then ran away from the country because of death threats. A mosque has just been named in honor of the killer. Local Barelvis (so-called “Liberal Sufi Muslims” in  the discourse of Western and Westernized Desis) are delighted that one of their own has restored their honor by killing the governor.

Subhanallah. Everything is going according to plan.

Only an armed force can stop these armed purifiers of Pakistan. But the army has other priorities (linked less to Islamic purification and more to permanent and over-riding “strategic” aims like the conquest of Afghanistan and the eventual defeat of India; but its all connected anyway). Liberals will either have to convert the army to their cause or move to the US to try and invent counter-propaganda for use after the apocalypse.

Theoretically, there is another option: the liberals, Shias, Pakhtoon Nationalists, Baloch Nationalists, Sindhi Nationalists, Ahmedis, Hindus, Free Thinkers, malcontents, etc. could, separately or together, invite another army to enforce order. For various reasons, I think this is not possible at this stage. But after the apocalypse, all bets are off...

For background on the blasphemy law, see here. 

I am posting this excellent column from Gul Bukhari in full. It sheds some light on some aspects of state collusion in this saga.

Silent onlooker? No, Sir
May 12, 2014

Just yesterday someone tweeted that the state is a silent onlooker in the context of HRCP regional coordinator and advocate Rashid Rehman’s murder. Progressive souls increasingly frustrated and angry at these blasphemy related murders so foul, point to the failure, silence or paralysis of the state in dealing with the crime.
But there is something wrong with even the nomenclature we use to describe what is happening, or to express what we want the state to do. A silent onlooker implies someone simply detached from proceedings, neither helping nor harming. Thus when we accuse the state of being a silent onlooker, we are implicitly asking it stop ‘onlooking’ and do something, to take some action.
Implicit to the term failure is an unsuccessful attempt at success, and therefore blaming the state for having failed means we are imputing an attempt by the state to put things right in which it failed. Similarly, when we criticize the state for apparent paralysis where blasphemy related killings are concerned, we are assuming a will or desire to do something, something good that is, but a bodily or physical inability to do so.
This language clearly indicates that we are not clear about what is going on, or what needs to change. The state is not a silent onlooker. No, the state is an active participant in blasphemy killings. It is not paralyzed at all, but actively complicit in the accusations and arrests. The state has not failed; it has been enabling incarceration of innocents, and aiding unfair trials of accused.
Though a cursory look at most blasphemy cases in Pakistan will demonstrate the same principles at work, just one horrifying example of Mr. Rehman and his client Mr. Junaid Hafeez should suffice here.
Firstly, it is the state that provides the open and alluring prospects for spurious and malafide accusations of blasphemy to be entertained seriously by the courts in shape of the blasphemy laws. The state made the laws, and the state remains responsible for not amending or repealing laws, especially at the time the 18th amendment was introduced to clean up the constitution of Pakistan during the previous government’s tenure. Thanks to the state, the blasphemy laws of the country continue to take the lives of innocents with increasing frequency in this country. It is ironic, every time anyone is lynched or murdered, everyone looks to the state to bring perpetrators to justice. It is almost laughable.
After an accusation has been made, the next state instrument, it’s law enforcement agencies, swing in with their role: the most ridiculous and nonsensical FIRs are registered without a shred of investigation, evidence or even exact description of the crime. Alleged acts or words of blasphemy are not even described. Yet, such FIRs are deemed sufficient to proceed against anyone accused of having committed a crime punishable with death.
In the case of Mr. Junaid Hafeez, he was accused of being the administrator of a Facebook page that is run by a pseudonym, and allegedly contains disrespectful commentary on the prophet’s wives. Reportedly, the police did not even check whether the IP address the Facebook page is being managed from, belongs to Mr. Hafeez or not. And reportedly, while Mr. Hafeez remains behind bars presumably without access to the internet, the Facebook page continues to be operated and updated. It might be useful to mull over whether thus far in this absurd saga, it is the state at work or the accusers of Mr. Hafeez.
Next, the state is obliged to ensure a fair and free trial of all accused, even of those it has facilitated in landing in this envious position. As in Mr. Hafeez’s case, neither are most lawyers willing to take on blasphemy cases, nor judges of junior courts will to stick their necks out to return fair or just verdicts. Once again, it is because the state will not provide them with the security that they deserve. Nor will the state prosecute those that threaten or perpetrate violence on lawyers and judges in these cases. Only after several months of trying to convince different lawyers, was Mr. Hafeez’s family able to engage Mr. Rashid Rehman as defense counsel. And only personal courage and strength of his convictions caused Mr. Rehman to take up the case, not any protection offered by the state.
Indeed, Mr. Rehman was threatened repeatedly, including during one of the hearings and in the presence of the presiding judge. Indeed, Mr. Rehman asked the judge to take notice. Indeed, Mr. Rehman asked for security. But the representatives of the state had discharged their duties: the police had registered the FIR and arrested the accused. The magistrate had remanded the accused. The judge sat on the bench listening to the case and the threats. Neither were aggressors apprehended, nor protection provided to Mr. Rehman.
Whilst the petitioner’s lawyer and other lawyers from the Multan bar are on record having threatened to kill Mr. Rehman, with several of these persons’ statements together with their photographs having been recorded in newsprint, the FIR registered for the murder of Mr. Rehman is against the usual ‘unidentified persons’. On the other hand, a Facebook page is run by a pseudonym, alleged insulting remarks unspecified, yet the FIR is registered against one Mr. Junaid Hafeez.
At every step, the state provided and facilitated the incarceration of the one and murder of the other. Neither was the state ‘silently onlooking’, nor paralyzed, nor failed. It succeeded very well.

Chowkidar, a short story by Ahmed Asif

Dr Asif wrote this a couple of years ago and it was published earlier in http://www.viewpointonline.net/. OK, the family was never that cheerful and happy and most of the house was pretty much a hovel even in the good old days, but hey, its a story…

Our story is heartbreaking, but worth listening to, if you have time, sir. You see us in rags, fearful of rats, and disheveled living in this dungeon, the dingy basement of our own house, and you may think that we were always like this. But that’s not the case, sir. Ours used to be a house, bright and airy, with sprawling lawns, old trees, exotic plants, and vines climbing over the marble pillars of our front porch that overlooked a fountain and a pond filled with colorful fish. At midday when the sun was high, a rainbow appeared on the sheath of mist by the fountain.
The house had many sections, each lived-in by a distinct family having a unique trait, yet the living was harmonious and filled with laughter: Children running about playing hide and seek among the evergreens; birds chirping in the foliage of the fruit laden trees, and peacocks dancing with their plumes open, like bouquets placed over a carpet of green, the pasture–crisscrossed by a bubbly stream, carrying water pure and sweet; and on the horizon towered a mountain chain, their snowy peaks glimmered like gold in the rays of the setting sun.

An old banyan tree stood at the entrance of the house, and from its branches hung, like a woman’s curls, twirly threads–their tips touching the ground; and it was around its trunk where all the family members used to get together from time to time. We used to have guests from all over the world; and some would like our place so much, they would choose to stay and become permanent residents of our home. The food was plenty, the fields were fertile, and we thought things would go on forever in the same way. But as you know, sir: Nothing remains the same.
Some dispute arose among the family members: nothing so great which couldn’t have been solved if we’d all wanted to–after all we’d lived together for centuries. Needless to say, the family quarrel got out of hand; and lets not get into details, sir, for they are messy details, really messy. To cut it short: The house was divided. We got to keep the east and the west flank of the house, and our cousins got the center with the banyan tree in the middle. We were not used to this kind of fragmented existence, but we knew there was no chance of ever going back to live like one unified family again. We felt insecure in our new living arrangement, and so we hired a Chowkidar.
This nice looking fellow with resolute eyes, a rifle on his shoulder, and a smile under his stiff mustache–for us was hard to tell if it was a genuine or a fake one–reassured us about our security, and we gave him a generous sized quarter, one in each flank of the house, to lodge. We fed him the best of foods, clothed him in an expensive uniform, and gave him the top salary. But sir, there was something about him which always made us uncomfortable and doubtful about his intentions. We began to feel that he may not do much to protect us in the time of need. We were right, sir: He got fat and lazy, and many a times we found him snoring at night when he should have been up keeping a watch. In the end, it’s all our mistake, sir. We let the matter go unnoticed for a long time. Of course, in due time we found out that the chowkidar had been planning to control all the affairs of the house right from the beginning, from the very time we hired him. It was too late by then.
To keep his grip on the house, he started inventing all kinds of stories. For example, he threatened us by telling us how the neighbors, the ones with the banyan tree, had been planning to attack us and take over our house. Sir, in reality, the neighbors had been busy dealing with their own problems. They had no interest in taking over our crumbling building, which over time needed some serious maintenance work. One day, during the monsoon, the east flank was flooded after a heavy downpour, and the chowkidar, instead of saving our family members, actually killed the ones trying to swim to safety. We were all told to shut up and mind our own business, sir. Scared to death, we knew at the time that things would only get worse.
It was then that a realization hit us: We had lost our say in matters pertaining to the upkeep of our house. The Chowkidar meanwhile devised all kinds of schemes to make sure he’d continue to keep us hostage to his way of looking at things: to see our existence as an ongoing fight against the neighbors; and he convinced us to see this fight as a Jihad.
In the absence of any alternative, many of the hostage owners, that is us, sir, got brainwashed over time. We forgot our identity; and now sir, we live in this dark and damp basement of our own house, infested with cockroaches, rats, ticks, dust mites and molds of all kinds. Our chowkidar has confiscated all the rooms of the house in the upper stories. They are beautiful rooms, sir, with large windows that open into the surrounding lawns, with views of snowy peaks and lush valleys.
You will agree, sir, thinking requires plenty of fresh air and oxygen; and due to lack of both, we the owners have stopped thinking a long time ago. To tell you the truth, sir, most of us now just simply believe whatever comes out of the lips of the chowkidar. The sad part is, sir, that we fully well know that the air we live and breath has been deteriorating for a long time. Many of us feel the pressure on our chests; we feel suffocated, choked. When we complain about this to our master, the chowkidar, telling him that our lives have been getting more and more difficult with each passing day, we are told: “You people are destined for a very big role in this world; and this has been divinely ordained and foretold; your reward is in the next world.”
When we tell him that before we fulfill that divine role, we need simple stuff, such as clean water, electricity, basic repairs, oil in the creaky door-hinges, pest control and an inlet for fresh air, he tells us: “The house–which is now his, for we, the real owners, live within its basement–is a Fortress.”
Lounging on a luxurious sofa, which once belonged to our great grandfather, and smoking a pipe which smells of expensive, imported tobacco, he says: “Get up, fight and be prepared to give your life for the noble cause of defending your house. He says: “Great people die for glory; they make the ultimate sacrifice; they don’t care if they are annihilated for a noble cause—Let us protect this Fortress.” And then taking a puff and blowing all the smoke on our faces he narrows his eyes, twirls his mustache and says: “You complain of bad air, lack of clean water and fresh food and electricity, and pests roaming all around–these are all part of a Test–a divine Test!”
Sir, for how long this test will last?


Just for a change of pace, here is what our Japanese friends are in to these days…

Brown Pundits