Sonya Rehman's Archive

Serenade to the Sleepless

Posted by: Sonya Rehman on: December 1, 2009

By Sonya Rehman

Lahore.

Such a multifaceted city. Such an enigma.

A perfect juxtaposition of opulence and impoverishment. Pot-holes and wide, open roads. Gleaming cars and rickety rickshaws. Diamonds and glass beads. Forced, shrill laughter and throaty chuckles. Gentle simplicity and crass affluence. Early divorces, and long-term love affairs. Dark-eyed babies and sodomy. Urdu, English and Minglish. Corruption and philanthropy. VVIP’s and activists. Fresh jasmine and adultery. Dancing girls and Food Street. Doodh-patti and road-side golgappas.

Lahore…a city in over-drive, like a sexed teenager just discovering the thrill of a first kiss – and then fantasizing through the night about the next, thousand others.

Lahore – the Garden of the Mughals – with its fast-fading historic architecture, only to be replaced swiftly by a new-age, shallow veneer of gloss and pomp.

A city which truly never sleeps, and whose days and nights stand divorced like two Siamese twins…for even though they are one, they are poles apart.

During the day, the city’s chinks lay revealed, and at nights, dark shadows lurk…hissing like hungry snakes.

Perhaps the only thing that remains constant in this city, this urban jungle, is the way the moon rests against the smog-filled, ink-black sky.

Whoever said the sun and moon look exactly the same no matter which part of the world one is? Such a misleading notion!

For both the sun and the moon take up different personalities as they stretch out their rotund frames against different skies around the world.

In India, for instance, the moon resembles a giggly idli, while in Taipei, a fragile salver, in Africa the tip of an elephant’s husk. And in Lahore? A wobbly golgappa waiting to be swiped and popped into the mouth, whole – Lahori-style.

And it was on one such full-moon Lahori night that a very special little boy was born to two very proud (and much in love) parents: Shahid and Shireen.

Weighing a mere five pounds, with tiny pink toes and fingers that curled inward, eyes clasped tightly shut, and a small back the width of a bar of soap, ‘Munna’ came as a blessing to the young couple’s lives as they’d been desperately trying to have a son.

Prior to Munna being born, Shireen had conceived two healthy girls; Ayesha (aged seven) and Rani (aged six).

Where Shahid was light-skinned, stocky (slightly chubby around the waist) with light eyes, a round Pathani nose and fleshy, gardener-looking hands, Shireen in comparison to her husband was the exact opposite.

Of Kashmiri origin, she was somehow several shades darker than Shahid. Her skin colouring had a lovely sheen to it, which almost glowed in the sun. She had large, deep-set dark eyes, a full mouth and a sprinkle of beauty spots on her cheeks, chin, upper lip and neck. Her hair, which fell all the way till her slender hips, was oft braided, or at times, set in a bun.

The pressure to conceive a son by her relatives (especially her mother-in-law) was overwhelming, and perhaps this is why Shireen had given birth to two girls instead of a boy.

Subconsciously, Shireen was probably rebelling.

But one evening, Shahid had whispered a poem in Shireen’s ear. He had written it the night before, for her.

On a crinkled sheet of paper, in child-like handwriting (which scrawled outwards), the simple little Urdu poem read:

“Our hearts, like two wild doves,

Took flight together,

Into the summer sky,

As we pulled each other close,

To be enveloped within,

A warm embrace…”

And beneath a few stars and satellites, they took each other in, woman and man, yin and yang.

The seed, that night was planted, and after nine months it would eventually blossom into a little sapling with tiny pink toes and fingers that curled inward, eyes clasped tightly shut, and a small back the width of a bar of soap.

Shahid worked as a labourer in the city and every morning at 8am he’d sit on a pavement in Gulberg with scores of other labourers – like himself – and wait for work. But work was never consistent, and therefore, the meals weren’t either.

On really bad days, Shahid would make his way to Data Darbar to avail a plate of free food – which was oft distributed there for the impoverished and the homeless.

Shahid hated going to Data Darbar. He was a man with immense dignity. Not arrogance, but he just couldn’t stand the thought of borrowing money or taking favours from anyone. Because that, secretly, made Shahid feel less of a man. The more debt he’d be in, the more worthless he’d wind up feeling.

But if work would not find him, Shahid couldn’t possibly go back home to his wife and young children empty-handed.

With his shoulders squared, and his light brown eyes troubled, Shahid would cycle all the way from Gulberg to Data Darbar…all the while thinking of ways he could better his and his family’s circumstances.

But with the political bedlam in the country and the escalating price of flour, Shahid was left with little choice but to continue being hopeful, persevering and resilient.

And so, every morning as he’d sit on his haunches on the pavement with the rest of his peers, looking on, with hungry eyes at the privileged lot who’d whiz by in their cars – their windows pulled up…cut off from the outside world.

Cut off from Shahid’s world.

One morning, as the labourers lolled about, cursing the country’s leaders with a generous dose of expletives (whilst sipping on small glasses of doodh-patti), a massive Pajero roared down the road, nearing close to the pavement, where the labourers sat.

Some of them scurried up, their eyes hopeful…expectant.

But just as soon as the Pajero had neared towards them, it sped off down the road – its silencer farting mini clouds of black smoke into the already dense air.

“Eh, motherfucker…” said Yakoob, a long-legged, dark, lean man in his forties.

For some reason Shahid found the entire scene rather amusing. Or perhaps he was just delirious from playing the constant waiting game. But he rolled his head backward, slapped his knee and laughed uncontrollably.

Yakoob grinned, his tobacco-stained teeth and grey gums making a brief appearance. And then, swiping a resting matchstick from the back of his ear, Yakoob stuck it between his thin lips, letting it dangle from the side. He chewed the end slowly, thoughtfully.

“Motherfuckers, sisterfuckers…all of them, ALL of them. Our time will come, just you watch…these haramis will get it where it hurts, good and proper. They won’t know what hit them”, Yakoob went on.

“You’re too optimistic brother”, replied Shahid (who was by now flushed in the face from laughing so hard), “The system will never change, our circumstances will never change unless we become cold-blooded criminals, slit throats and steal to feed our families. You think the government gives a shit about us? Get real.”

“Maybe so, but I’d rather be optimistic about the future, I’d like to give this wretched country the benefit of the doubt. If I don’t, I’ll lose my mind and throw myself infront of a speeding train brother…infront of a speeding train…”

And then, hitching up his kameez, Yakoob pointed to a long gash that stretched all the way from his hip and curved upwards to his slim, bony, lower back.

It was a thick, slug-like, chocolate brown gash that gleamed beneath the sun.

Reaching out in horror, Shahid gently touched Yakoob’s choppy, healed stitches.

“Brother…”, Shahid said, his voice betraying emotion, “What compelled you to do this…”, he let his question trail, partly because he was too afraid to hear the truth.

Lifting his eyes to meet Yakoob’s, Yakoob shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. There was pain in his detachment. So much pain that it had settled into a numb bitterness.

The kind that is impossible to shake off. The kind which takes years of loving and re-conditioning to be done with, for good.

“I needed the money. You think I can make a living here, sitting and waiting on this damned pavement? I have five daughters to marry off. The eldest, Rabia, the light of my life…I’d do anything for her…” Yakoob answered, his eyes turning misty, but only briefly, “I needed money for her dowry…I was, desperate. Very desperate. I’d heard of a man who paid for kidneys. You have to go through the right people to get to him, he operates undercover. Anyway, so I got a few leads and went to him. The operation was excruciating. I don’t think the bastard even knew how to operate. The anesthesia didn’t work. At one point, while I was lying on the operating table, in the dark, musty room, I thought, if only I could see Rabia’s face – just one time…I really thought I was going to die. I felt like a fool. But by the grace of God, it was over soon enough. After a few hours, all stitched and bandaged up, I was ushered out of the man’s house like a leper. My pocket was full of a wad of notes though. That comforted me. Knowing, that I would not arrive home, empty-handed. You know, the poor, in this country? They pay a hefty price for their ignorance, and their hunger, almost every day…”

Wiping away the few tears which had sprung from his eyes, with the back of his hand, (before they made their way down to his moustache) Shahid was overcome with grief.

“Save the tears, brother, save the tears…” Yakoob said looking over at Shahid and patting him on the back momentarily, “Our day of salvation is bound to come…”

“In the form of another one of those fucking Pajeros?” Shahid retorted.

Yakoob laughed heartily, clutching his stomach. Suddenly, a Honda Civic turned the bend, making its way to the pavement of labourers who stared at it – their eyes, saucer-shaped and encouraged.

“Dekh leh…”, Yakoob said, grinning at Shahid – his eyes dancing, “Salvation is here!”

And with that, Yakoob sprung up, dusted his dhoti and walked in quick, long strides towards the Honda which was by now parked near the curb of the road.

Looking at Yakoob, Shahid’s hurting heart suddenly flared with hope.

On another road, yet under the same sun, Munna toddled after his big sister, Ayesha. They were making their way to a busy bazaar area, located a few blocks away from home.

On Ayesha’s head sat a large, red plastic basket filled with trinkets; shiny hair-clip baubles and elastic bands to tie back unruly hair, black hairpins, strips of elastic to slip into new, freshly starched shalwars, polka-dotted head bands, crocodile clips, safety pins and an assortment of multi-coloured parandas.

Ayesha’s uncle had graciously supplied Shahid with the items a few months ago. ‘Chachu’ (as he was addressed by Ayesha, Rani and Munna) made a humble living supplying ornaments and trinkets to down-trodden families to sell at certain spots near and around Gulberg and Liberty Market.

And whatever Ayesha would sell, Chachu would give her a small commission on it. On good days, Ayesha would be able to buy a few rotis (sometimes even, rogni naans!) and ice lollies for herself, Rani and Munna.

Since Rani was an introverted and a painfully shy little girl – who wound up crying away at the drop of a hat lest she felt threatened, frightened or intimidated in any way – Shireen thought it best to let Munna accompany Ayesha on her selling excursions, four times a week.

For Munna, it had been almost a month. And he loved it. Keeping close to his sister’s side, as fast as his chubby little self could carry him, the four-year-old, with his button nose, dark marble eyes, and quiet, excited demeanour clutched onto Ayesha’s dupatta tightly. Stubbornly. Refusing to let go.

Everything about Munna was round. From his tummy, to his toes. From the shape of his head, to his finger nails. From his knees to his soft, jiggly bottom. Like a baby bubble bouncing to and fro in the summer wind.

Ayesha was a cocky little thing. At seven, her poise, maturity and wisdom made people mistake her for being ten. She was quite the salesgirl – and with her father’s light brown eyes, and earnest face, oft prompted people to roll down their car windows and buy a trinket or two from Ayesha’s large, red plastic basket.

Hopping over spittle, snot, and paansplatter, Munna skipped down the road behind Ayesha. Earlier that morning, Shahid had taken it upon himself to bathe Munna before he set out.

With one hand on Munna’s head (to protect it from bumping into the tap above) and the other holding a bar of soap, Shahid bathed his little offspring gently.

These were the things Shahid lived for. Bathing his son with the onset of a new day filled him with a surge of gratitude that ran through him like warm rivers of gold for the rest of the day.

Massaging Munna’s miniature shoulders Shahid said: ‘My little man, the weight of the world will fall on your shoulders one day…but Baba will always be standing right behind you. You may fall Munna. But throughout our lives we fall. What’s important is how swiftly you get up to continue walking down the beaten track. Never forget that Munna.”

“Okay Baba”, Munna had replied – his eyes squeezed tightly shut (in case soap suds made their way into his eyes).

Smiling, Shahid gave Munna’s head a few tender tousles to get any traces of soap out and turned off the tap. The day had finally begun.

A few hours later, on the road, Munna was enraptured. There was so much to look at, take in, and absorb, that he felt his mind was doing cartwheels.

Past the paan-wallah and his little shop ripe with the scent of supari, saunf and ilachi, past Khan Baba – with his cart full of fresh anwar rathores (a name given for small, plump juicy mangoes), past Muhammad as he prepared aloo chaat (‘spicy’, ‘extra spicy’, ‘verrrrrrry spicy’) from his push-cart, past the book stores with colourful magazines of dusky models in their window displays, past men cradling silver tins, spoons, forks, pots, and pans, past the fair, tall, and wizened Pathans with heavy carpets (in deep shades of red and blue) slung across their shoulders, past the flower shops – misty and flirtatious with the smell of fresh nargis, tube roses, and more, past the candy floss man (oh how Munna loved candy floss!) with his packets of white and pink puffy, sugary surprises, past the beggar women with their large, kohl-rimmed eyes and their babies with even larger, kohl-rimmed eyes, past grumpy old Bibi Rasoola (with a basket full of trinkets just like Ayesha’s balanced on her head), past the doodh-patti-wallah, the toy stores, the bakeries, the tailor shops (with their sewing machines rrrrrrrrrrrrrr’ing merrily away)…and amidst the cacophony of it all – from the angry, shrill car horns, the piercing calls from the plethora of food and juice vendors, and the snippets of conversation tucked away into every packet of ‘quiet’ air space, the city, was abuzz. And so was Munna.

Life was good. Munna’s heart felt like an ocean. Not a tepid one, oh no. A fervent one, comprising of little waves and big waves that overlapped and cut into each other, rising, soaring…higher and higher!

“Munna”, Ayesha suddenly said turning around to face her little brother, “You wait here okay? Don’t move from this spot, I’m just going to cross the road to that black car – see that lady there, with the red hair and gold rings? She wants to buy some of my hair bands. Wait here now, I’ll be back. If you move, no candy floss. I mean it chotu.”

With his thumb wedged deep into his mouth, and his eyes intently focused on Ayesha, Munna nodded solemnly. Pulling him by his free hand, and guiding him to the book shop’s brick wall, Ayesha said: “Now stay here like a good boy.”

Crossing the main road carefully as cars, rickshaws, motorcyclists, cyclists (and a tonga) whizzed by, Ayesha, set her basket down near the wheel of the black car and started handing the lady (with the red hair and gold rings) different hair bands and clips.

Munna watched his sister fixedly, his eyes large and shiny like two round, polished stones, set beneath long, curling eyelashes.

Suddenly, someone in close proximity to Munna, cleared his throat and then grunted.

Turning around, Munna caught sight of a skinny, bearded man sitting cross-legged alongside a wicker basket full of fresh, tubby strawberries.

They glistened.

The man appeared to be in his early thirties. He was dressed in a shabby, dark brown shalwar kameez, with patches of sweat stains that circled underneath his arm-pits.

He was wearing a traditional, deep red, Sindhi cap on his head – which was embellished with small pieces of glass, beads and thick, woven thread which snaked its way around the cap in swirls of green, orange and navy blue.

He grinned slightly, his dark lips parting, revealing even darker teeth, two of which were badly chipped.

His skin was pock-marked and patchy, while his hair was stringy and damp which almost resembled long, miniature claws that sat feasting into his flat forehead.

“Sspock”, Munna’s thumb popped out of his mouth hesitantly, as he looked at the man infront of him with trepidation.

“Arey, come here…”, said the man coaxingly, “Look at these fresh strawberries! I just plucked them this morning. Would you like one?”

And as he finished his sentence, the man swiped a fat strawberry from his basket and bit into it. “Mmmmm”, he mumbled – keeping his eyes fixed on Munna.

“Delicious. Ajao, ajao. Here, let me give you one.”

Staring at the glistening strawberries, with his little thumb in mid-air (near his chest), Munna gingerly walked over to the man, who was by now holding out a strawberry for Munna.

Hoisting her basket back on her head, Ayesha turned around, and looked over at the other side of the road, to the brick wall, where she’d left her little brother.

But he was nowhere in sight. Ayesha’s heart raced.

Crossing the bustling road frantically, at the risk of being hit by a speeding automobile, Ayesha bolted to the book shop.

Looking towards her left and her right, and then, craning her neck to look down the road infront of her, Munna was nowhere in sight.

Ayesha was hysterical.

Running into shops, and stopping pedestrians on the road, Ayesha screamed out Munna’s name in shrill panic. But to no avail.

Hours later, her cries were reduced to soft whimpers. With tear-stained cheeks, blistered feet and a parched throat, Ayesha, returned home.

Standing by the front steel door, with its chipping, azure paint, Shireen clutched Ayesha, her eyes dark, flashing and feral as the little girl relayed what had transpired. Appearing quickly from behind, and just in time, Shahid held his wife swiftly as she collapsed into his arms.

Everything, was suddenly, eerily quiet.

A stillness in the air. The kind of stillness which comes just moments before the rain comes sweeping down, to wash away the fresh sins of an enigma of a city.

The days, weeks and months flew by – like black butterflies in mourning.

But Shahid never stopped searching for Munna – his little baby bubble, with his small shoulders and dimples…bouncing to and fro, in the summer wind.

In Lahore, the impoverished lie awake – night after night. Sleepless, and never serenaded. In truth, they stand as the forgotten ones.

When will they be remembered, if ever?

And as we sleep soundly, cocooned and serenaded sweetly by the shelter of our homes and the warmth of our dreams, they – like moths – swirl and bump into the light of dim lanterns…remaining sleepless, hungry, searching…

Evermore.

Chowk

http://chowk.com/articles/serenade-to-the-sleepless-sonya-rehman.htm

East west fusion

Posted by: Sonya Rehman on: November 15, 2009

By Sonya Rehman

“Life is so unexpected and spontaneous here” I wrote to my mother in an email the other day, “In Lahore, there was a comfort in planning/dreaming ahead…but by the same token, there is a comfort in knowing that the days, weeks and months ahead will lack uniformity.”

Pry yourself out of that bubble, that comfort zone, and you will fast gain perspective on what you’d like your little sphere of life to represent till the end of your days.

In the present, in New York, on quieter days as it rains gently, memories of Lahore roll out like a filmstrip of sepia-toned visuals. Choppy clips, without sound. The other day, I heard the sound of an ice cream van playing a soft jingle in the distance. It took me back to my babyhood and how my heart would race at the sound of the ice cream-wallah cycling down the street near my house. How quickly the years flee by. It was only then that I’d realized how short life is. How intensely short.  The realization hit me deeply and it made me think that my unborn children will, one day like me, race towards the gate for an ice lolly on a warm, sunny day – without a care in the world. And then years down the line the realization will hit them too…thus, the cycle will continue. Spinning in continuous motion, without suspension.

Apart from gaining an education here, I see myself gaining life experience too. On a daily basis. In the beginning the subways terrified me – and that was just one of many things mind you. New York, to me, represented a futuristic hodgepodge of shallowness and depth – much like Lahore.

I’m taking it all in: the loud roar of the trains, and the way they come screeching to a halt at the subway stations, the wizened, old people – how they hobble down the street with walking sticks…fragile, like paper dolls. Couples, holding hands. Stripped of inhibitions. A little poodle in a sweater sniffs a frothy puddle as her owner tugs the leash gently to move the puffball away from the muck. A woman with beautiful hips sways, her fingers lightly tapping her headphones, she is smiling, making her way to work. The orderliness of life; the subway passes, the credit cards, the debit cards, swiping cards, shopping, clothes, food, swipe your card some more, the immigrants and the rings under their eyes, the way they hold onto their culture fiercely, their wild-eyedness…The way of life here represents a mechanical orderliness which, on pensive days, makes me miss the loop-holes of the system back home. The rustic disorderliness. My Eastern heart, I oft realize is usually in over-drive; romanticizing her soil, her people. But, absence always makes the heart grow fonder.

In New York, there is music and spontaneity everywhere; turn the corner and you will find yourself in the midst of a street fair, walk down the stairs into a subway station and you’ll wind up hearing the most moving notes of music being played by a saxophonist in the corner somewhere.

I recently went with a friend to watch the live screening of ‘Madam Butterfly’ at the Lincoln Center. I’d always had an aversion to Opera, but watching ‘Madam Butterfly’ on a massive projector in the outdoors with scores of New Yorkers – I was touched. It was a magnificent, gripping production.

It’s true – when you’re living in another country on your own, your likes and dislikes continuously change because everything is new, foreign, and different.

Over Eid this year, I thought I’d be stuck in my room studying but wonderfully enough, I found myself tucking into home-cooked Pakistani food (such bliss!) with a bunch of engaging, young people. Afterwards, we walked down to Central Park and played kho-kho – running about in the sun, all of us twenty-somethings. I felt rather silly initially as I’d worn a traditional shalwar kameez and khussas, but off they came (only the khussas!) and I ran about on the grass like a self-confessed nutter, bare-footed in merriment.

In September, I found myself at the UN General Assembly at a ‘Concert for Pakistan’ which was held to raise awareness of the humanitarian crisis in Pakistan. It was put together by well-known musician, Salman Ahmad – who continues to give performances under the banner of ‘Junoon’. Why, I do not know – considering the fact that it has been yonks ever since Junoon disbanded and each musician went his separate way.

Still, the concert was pretty good – with performances by Gavin Rossdale, the band ‘Outlandish’ along with others. Nobel Laureate, Dr.R.K.Pichauri, Jeff Skoll, Bobby Sager and a host of other personalities and advocates gave speeches as well. The General Assembly was packed with Pakistanis. At one point the friend I was with sardonically stated: “This is what’s wrong with Pakistan.” Asking him what he meant he went on to explain that most Pakistanis make lives for themselves here, in the West, rather than go back to their homeland and contribute to the society. This, he’d elaborated, owed to the major brain drain back home. Whether he was right or not, his comments left a rather bitter taste in my mouth.

But onto happier things, I got to see U2 in the flesh this October at the Giant’s Stadium in New Jersey. Shelling out a hundred dollars for the ticket, I’d decided I could go hungry for a few days rather than miss seeing Bono sing ‘One’ live. What fantastic performers the band members of U2 are, they truly had the stadium – jam-packed with people – riveted. The highlight of the evening was not only Bono singing ‘One’, but ‘Stuck in a moment’ being performed as it drizzled. At one point, my eyes welled up. It made the traumatic experience of having a tipsy beefcake (who was belching and yelling in my ear) in the crammed train all the way to the stadium worth it.

Every morning, the smell of fresh pizza wafts out of a popular pizza joint as I make my way to class hurriedly. On a 113th and Broadway, I have just a few more blocks to go before the gates of my university are within view.

Winter is elbowing her way in speedily. My hands are cold. I need woolly gloves. The months are condensing. I must make the most of this, I tell myself often.

I feel like a different person. I am too, stripped of my old identity…but I hold onto my core and what defines me fiercely. Can’t wait to be home.

The Friday Times

Here I come

Posted by: Sonya Rehman on: September 13, 2009

By Sonya Rehman

The past few weeks have had me reeling.  I left Lahore on the 1st of August with a crazy, extended travel itinerary planned out ahead of me. Little did I know I was going to be air-bound, airport-bound and nauseated for over 24 hours.

I was super amped about my departure. This was because I’d waited for two years to finally attend Journalism School at Columbia University in New York. The wait was primarily due to a lack of aid to cover my fees for the year (a typical, run-of-the-mill student sob story – boo hoo).

Until however, the Fulbright Scholarship came along – like a buffed superhero – and swiped me off my feet.

So this is what my travel itinerary looked like: Lahore to Islamabad – Islamabad to Dubai – a 9-hour wait at the Dubai International Airport (yikes), followed by a 14-hour flight to Washington (double yikes) – a connecting flight to Albany – a two day stay at Albany (for the Fulbright Gateway Orientation) and then my final destination: New York City on the 5th.

‘Okaaaaay’, I thought, ‘I can do this’. I felt tough and independent, until PIA (Pakistan International Airlines) began ‘descending’ into Dubai’s International Airport.  Feeling like I was sitting on a razor-edged gangsta rap song, the plane literally plummeted, twirled and tumbled thousands of feet below to the tarmac. Holding onto my seatbelt and wheezing in utter panic, my mind raced: ‘I can’t die. No I can’t. God does NOT have sadistic tendencies. Uh oh – turbulence, air-pockets! Okay, okay, so uh, make eye contact with someone…anyone! Okay not the Arab guy, NOT THE ARAB GUY. Uh oh is the Arab guy staring? Yes he’s staring! Air-pockets! I’m a good girl I am!’

Minutes later, we had ‘descended’.

I don’t think I’ve ever loved PIA’s signature jingle as passionately as I did when it started playing, as the plane inched its way slowly down the landing strip. Quivering like a jellyfish with a bad case of hypochondria – I was suddenly a happy trooper.

But let’s not get started on the 14-hour plane journey to Washington. I will NOT go there! It was utter madness. By the end of it, I felt like one of those mutant chickens grown in the kitchens of KFC. Shiver me timbers!

On my way to Albany, however, I met with a few other wonderful Fulbrighters. Looking back now, I can’t help but laugh out loud when, as our little plane sliced through dense clouds and an overcast sky, I looked at this girl from Hunza (who was sitting next to me) and asked her worriedly, my brow furrowed; “Think we’re gonna crash?”

Suddenly, the poor girl, like me, was frightened out of her wits. That comforted me. 

But anyway, onto happier things – I arrived at the JFK airport in New York on the 5th of August after getting over my jet-lag in Albany (in addition to making some wonderful friends during the Fulbright Orientation program).

Hailing a yellow cab and loading in my suitcases, I took in as much of the city as I could – as the cab hurtled its way down the road. My senses were overloaded. The skyscrapers made me feel like a choonti, an ant.

The city was congested, throbbing with energy, pulsating with life. How clichéd. But so apt when describing New York.

In my initial few days, apart from everything else, two things about the city truly stuck out for me. Firstly, almost every second person on the street was walking a dog.

Dogs – in all shapes and sizes. Shitzus, Labs, Bloodhounds, Great Danes, Chihuahuas, Spaniels, Terriers and more. I simply couldn’t get enough of stopping almost every dog walker on the street and petting his/her pooch. So much so that I missed, and continue to miss my furry little companions back home immensely.

But it made me convinced that throughout my nine months in New York, I would continue kneeling down, giving a tail-wagging, wet-nosed, cheerful fella a quick pet and belly rub.

The second thing which stuck out for me in New York was that at night, the city looked like something out of a comic book: the mammoth skyscrapers, the lights, the slim winding roads, the sign posts, the shops and the people.

At night, the city is surreal, loud, mystifying. Like a trippy, artsy, bohemian sci-fi.

Or maybe I’m just an inexperienced traveler. But it’s true. To the foreign eye, New York is a mind-trip. And when I’d arrived, I was way past the ‘tripped out’ stage.

People from all walks of life, wearing everything and anything imaginable, tourists, New Yorkers – the city is a medley of cultures and colours.

And how can I forget the first time I walked by the Journalism School’s building. How my heart soared! I couldn’t stop smiling! The first few days of orientation went by like a breeze. Sitting in the school’s Lecture Hall amidst young, energetic journalists, each one of us was asked to introduce ourselves. When it was my turn, I stood up with a lump in my throat and looking over at the hall of students; I told them how happy and overwhelmed I was to have made it, to be with them – J-School’s Class of 2010!

In New York, and in Journalism School, I find myself inspired continuously. From my professors to my class fellows – it is almost humbling to be in the presence of so much brilliance. I’m also astounded by the approachability and humility of my professors and deans. Such remarkable role models they make, and how I value their constructive criticism.

And regarding my batch mates, one of them for instance, a girl from Hong Kong (called Ivy) has interviewed seven Nobel Laureates. One of whom was John Nash! And Ivy’s only 24-years-old.

She has to be one of the most unassuming, down to earth, young journalist’s I’ve ever met. Lacking even an iota of arrogance.

Living and studying on your own in a foreign country can be awfully overwhelming for an international student. Even though it’s been a little over a month that I’ve been here, I’ve only now felt myself acclimatizing to the way of life in the Big Apple. It was hardly instantaneous, not like I had imagined it to be. I didn’t take to it like a fish to water – more like a fish to a skateboard! But the freedom has been liberating, from the most basic of things such as walking down the road to a bookstore or a restaurant, or meeting a friend at a park or the movies. And apart from being overwhelming, for an international student, studying in another country can be astonishingly empowering. So empowering that with time, it can make one become a little haughty.

But last night, while looking out of my window, and letting the view of the Hudson River fill my eyes, I made a silent promise to myself: that no matter what happens; I’d never forget my roots. That I would remain humble and persevering and that upon my return to Pakistan next summer, I would remain tolerant of my surroundings.

Home is Home. How I miss Lahore and my loved ones. But I remain wistful, homesick, in joy.

The Friday Times

Down gun barrels

Posted by: Sonya Rehman on: July 17, 2009

By Sonya Rehman and Khaver Siddiqi
Evil has had many faces. During the 20th century alone, we have seen it in many forms. It has been shocking, it has been horrific, but most of the times it has always been close to home.
It was perhaps after the Second World War when the forces of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ realized that war was a profitable commodity, but it had to be re-branded. So the forces of evil were ‘re-branded’ and along came the Cold War, which had Communism as the face of evil. Communism went on to star in many sequels and is still, the star of the Korean peninsula.
But over time Communism began to wane and wilt and so a new ‘evil’ was introduced. Harvested and bred by the forces of good themselves, this ‘evil’ has proven that war is here to stay and the forces of good and evil can continue to profit, no matter the consequences of any inflation. The face of evil for the new generation is the Taliban. Once the gallant heroes of the Soviet-Afghan War, now the enemy of states across the world – the Taliban (much like the Communism of its time) are everywhere.
However, nowhere around the world is it more close than it is in Pakistan. Or is it?
Is the threat of total domination by the Taliban real, or is it concocted and thoroughly sensationalized by media houses both at home and abroad? Is the peril of ‘Talibanization’ within Pakistan a shock and awe strategy being implemented by internal and external forces for the achievement of an ulterior motive?
Up until the year 2000, the Swat valley and the areas surrounded it, were havens for tourists and travellers from around the world. Travellers from Europe, and even the United States, frequently visited these areas – soaking in the scenery and the culture.
Then came 9/11, the ‘War on Terror’ and Osama Bin Laden – and all of that changed. Suddenly, the once precious valley became volatile and off-limits, to foreigners and to the people of the region alike.
And it is dealing with this new-found threat that has become tricky with the Pakistani government.
After first making a deal with the Taliban, the Pakistani government decided to bomb them.
In an article titled ‘Alarmism does not help’ by Aasim Sajjad Akhtar (published in a local daily), the author subscribes to the notion that: “…the jihadis have cultivated significant pockets of support (even while employing outrageous brutality and coercion at the same time) by representing themselves as an alternative to incumbent state and class power, throughout invoking a divine mandate. Trying to bomb them into submission will serve only to make their millenarian mission into a self-fulfilling prophecy and increase their popularity.” This holds rather true. Those that empathize with the Taliban and their ‘cause’ must realize that the Taliban aren’t Robin Hoods. There is no reasoning with them.
Yet, it must be understood, and never forgotten, that the Taliban’s inception and the subsequent spread of militia within Pakistan was the result of the war in Afghanistan against the Soviets in the 70s. And therefore, the United States has had quite a large hand to play in the sculpting of this explosive militia.
In April this year, the US Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, stated: “We can point fingers at the Pakistanis. I did some yesterday frankly. And it’s merited because we are wondering why they just don’t go out there and deal with these people. But the problems we face now to some extent we have to take responsibility for, having contributed to it. We also have a history of kind of moving in and out of Pakistan. Let’s remember here… the people we are fighting today we funded them twenty years ago… and we did it because we were locked in a struggle with the Soviet Union.”
As long as the Taliban posed no imminent threat to the main cities within the country, the Pakistani government had nonchalantly assumed a backseat. But as the news reports of trigger-happy Taliban started seeping in, along with the mounting pressure from the United States, the Pakistani government snapped into action – resulting in an almost zero-tolerance, ‘wipe out’ policy of the Taliban in the Northern areas of the country.
Not very long ago, spine-chilling rumours regarding the threats given to established educational institutions by the Taliban had started doing the circuit. Apparently, educational institutions such as the well-known, all girls Kinnaird College (KC) in Lahore was under threat by individuals who had stood outside the campus and warned the students to cover up or else acid would be doused on them.
A host of other schools and colleges in Lahore too, were faced with similar threats resulting in the imposition of certain dress codes for women (no jeans, or Western attire could be worn) and both genders had to keep a certain degree of physical proximity from one another.
Overall, it is Lahore and Islamabad that are now facing the brunt of these attacks. Perhaps it is the proximity or perhaps the Taliban are now sending us a signal. That no matter where we are, and no matter who we are, the Taliban can (and will) reach us. Even the local police and rescue services are no longer safe.
In May, the country suffered its third bomb blast in as many months, when the Rescue 15 building (in Lahore) was completely levelled as the result of the blast. Twenty-six people, including an ISI colonel and 15 police officials, were killed and around 400 people injured – when an explosive-laden vehicle rammed into the Rescue 15 building.
For that matter, even those scholars that decry the Taliban movement are not safe either, as in the case of Sarfraz Naeemi who was killed in a recent suicide attack in Lahore. A leading Sunni Muslim scholar opposed to the Taliban, Naeemi was known for his outspoken views against suicide bombings and militancy. Being one of the few scholars who had openly supported the ongoing military operation in Swat, Naeemi had also labelled the activities of the Taliban as “un-Islamic”. He was a vital part of a conference of Islamic scholars, convened by the government in May, which criticised suicide attacks and the beheading of innocent Muslims as un-Islamic, stating that the Taliban were “misusing” religion for their activities and were bringing a bad name to the Islamic faith. His words seem to indicate that the Taliban were being used, rather than acting on their own.
And regarding the staggering number of internally displaced families, currently? It is heart-wrenching.
Abdul Basit, a young Pakistani who happened to visit the IDP camps stated: “I get shivers down my spine every time I step into a camp because of the agony infront of me. From Swabi to Mardan, the story is the same; the IDP’s are afflicted with troubles related to health, sanitation and the scorching heat. While I was there, I heard of an incident where a father and son were trying to cross into Mardan from Malakand during the curfew. They were attacked and the son died on the spot. The father however, managed to cross over. The son was only six – he didn’t deserve this…”
Mobisher Rabbani, another youngster (based in Dubai) who has been heavily involved with collecting aid for the IDP’s, said: “I’m proud of our soldiers who are bravely fighting these terrorist and criminal elements within the country. We should pledge all our resources into helping the IDP’s get back on their feet. Whenever I visit the camps for distribution of relief items, I apologize to the people for coming to their aid so late as they’ve scarified their today, for our tomorrow.”
Our police have been attacked, our rescue services have been attacked, and our very faith has been attacked by the Taliban. Whatever the Taliban may be, a part of them is a part of us. After all, we were a part of the forces that made them who they are now. Technically, we are a parent to their destiny and we have to owe up to that, unlike the other parent –  the United States – who conveniently walked out of this ‘family’ only to walk back in; guns blazing.
Only history knows the outcome of this conflict, but the sad part about that is that, history does not write herself, for she is written by the victorious.
In the final analysis, it is the soldiers of war, the preponderance of internally displaced families and the young men (roped in to fight for a ‘cause which isn’t as black and white as it’s made out to be) who are made to endure the repercussions of a ‘war’ gone horribly wrong – that are the truest of all casualties. And whose lives will never be the same again.

By Sonya Rehman and Khaver Siddiqi

Evil has had many faces. During the 20th century alone, we have seen it in many forms. It has been shocking, it has been horrific, but most of the times it has always been close to home.

It was perhaps after the Second World War when the forces of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ realized that war was a profitable commodity, but it had to be re-branded. So the forces of evil were ‘re-branded’ and along came the Cold War, which had Communism as the face of evil. Communism went on to star in many sequels and is still, the star of the Korean peninsula.

But over time Communism began to wane and wilt and so a new ‘evil’ was introduced. Harvested and bred by the forces of good themselves, this ‘evil’ has proven that war is here to stay and the forces of good and evil can continue to profit, no matter the consequences of any inflation. The face of evil for the new generation is the Taliban. Once the gallant heroes of the Soviet-Afghan War, now the enemy of states across the world – the Taliban (much like the Communism of its time) are everywhere.

However, nowhere around the world is it more close than it is in Pakistan. Or is it?

Is the threat of total domination by the Taliban real, or is it concocted and thoroughly sensationalized by media houses both at home and abroad? Is the peril of ‘Talibanization’ within Pakistan a shock and awe strategy being implemented by internal and external forces for the achievement of an ulterior motive?

Up until the year 2000, the Swat valley and the areas surrounded it, were havens for tourists and travellers from around the world. Travellers from Europe, and even the United States, frequently visited these areas – soaking in the scenery and the culture.

Then came 9/11, the ‘War on Terror’ and Osama Bin Laden – and all of that changed. Suddenly, the once precious valley became volatile and off-limits, to foreigners and to the people of the region alike.

And it is dealing with this new-found threat that has become tricky with the Pakistani government.

After first making a deal with the Taliban, the Pakistani government decided to bomb them.

taliban

In an article titled ‘Alarmism does not help’ by Aasim Sajjad Akhtar (published in a local daily), the author subscribes to the notion that: “…the jihadis have cultivated significant pockets of support (even while employing outrageous brutality and coercion at the same time) by representing themselves as an alternative to incumbent state and class power, throughout invoking a divine mandate. Trying to bomb them into submission will serve only to make their millenarian mission into a self-fulfilling prophecy and increase their popularity.” This holds rather true. Those that empathize with the Taliban and their ‘cause’ must realize that the Taliban aren’t Robin Hoods. There is no reasoning with them.

Yet, it must be understood, and never forgotten, that the Taliban’s inception and the subsequent spread of militia within Pakistan was the result of the war in Afghanistan against the Soviets in the 70s. And therefore, the United States has had quite a large hand to play in the sculpting of this explosive militia.

In April this year, the US Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, stated: “We can point fingers at the Pakistanis. I did some yesterday frankly. And it’s merited because we are wondering why they just don’t go out there and deal with these people. But the problems we face now to some extent we have to take responsibility for, having contributed to it. We also have a history of kind of moving in and out of Pakistan. Let’s remember here… the people we are fighting today we funded them twenty years ago… and we did it because we were locked in a struggle with the Soviet Union.”

As long as the Taliban posed no imminent threat to the main cities within the country, the Pakistani government had nonchalantly assumed a backseat. But as the news reports of trigger-happy Taliban started seeping in, along with the mounting pressure from the United States, the Pakistani government snapped into action – resulting in an almost zero-tolerance, ‘wipe out’ policy of the Taliban in the Northern areas of the country.

Not very long ago, spine-chilling rumours regarding the threats given to established educational institutions by the Taliban had started doing the circuit. Apparently, educational institutions such as the well-known, all girls Kinnaird College (KC) in Lahore was under threat by individuals who had stood outside the campus and warned the students to cover up or else acid would be doused on them.

A host of other schools and colleges in Lahore too, were faced with similar threats resulting in the imposition of certain dress codes for women (no jeans, or Western attire could be worn) and both genders had to keep a certain degree of physical proximity from one another.

Overall, it is Lahore and Islamabad that are now facing the brunt of these attacks. Perhaps it is the proximity or perhaps the Taliban are now sending us a signal. That no matter where we are, and no matter who we are, the Taliban can (and will) reach us. Even the local police and rescue services are no longer safe.

In May, the country suffered its third bomb blast in as many months, when the Rescue 15 building (in Lahore) was completely levelled as the result of the blast. Twenty-six people, including an ISI colonel and 15 police officials, were killed and around 400 people injured – when an explosive-laden vehicle rammed into the Rescue 15 building.

For that matter, even those scholars that decry the Taliban movement are not safe either, as in the case of Sarfraz Naeemi who was killed in a recent suicide attack in Lahore. A leading Sunni Muslim scholar opposed to the Taliban, Naeemi was known for his outspoken views against suicide bombings and militancy. Being one of the few scholars who had openly supported the ongoing military operation in Swat, Naeemi had also labelled the activities of the Taliban as “un-Islamic”. He was a vital part of a conference of Islamic scholars, convened by the government in May, which criticised suicide attacks and the beheading of innocent Muslims as un-Islamic, stating that the Taliban were “misusing” religion for their activities and were bringing a bad name to the Islamic faith. His words seem to indicate that the Taliban were being used, rather than acting on their own.

And regarding the staggering number of internally displaced families, currently? It is heart-wrenching.

Abdul Basit, a young Pakistani who happened to visit the IDP camps stated: “I get shivers down my spine every time I step into a camp because of the agony infront of me. From Swabi to Mardan, the story is the same; the IDP’s are afflicted with troubles related to health, sanitation and the scorching heat. While I was there, I heard of an incident where a father and son were trying to cross into Mardan from Malakand during the curfew. They were attacked and the son died on the spot. The father however, managed to cross over. The son was only six – he didn’t deserve this…”

Mobisher Rabbani, another youngster (based in Dubai) who has been heavily involved with collecting aid for the IDP’s, said: “I’m proud of our soldiers who are bravely fighting these terrorist and criminal elements within the country. We should pledge all our resources into helping the IDP’s get back on their feet. Whenever I visit the camps for distribution of relief items, I apologize to the people for coming to their aid so late as they’ve scarified their today, for our tomorrow.”

Our police have been attacked, our rescue services have been attacked, and our very faith has been attacked by the Taliban. Whatever the Taliban may be, a part of them is a part of us. After all, we were a part of the forces that made them who they are now. Technically, we are a parent to their destiny and we have to owe up to that, unlike the other parent –  the United States – who conveniently walked out of this ‘family’ only to walk back in; guns blazing.

Only history knows the outcome of this conflict, but the sad part about that is that, history does not write herself, for she is written by the victorious.

In the final analysis, it is the soldiers of war, the preponderance of internally displaced families and the young men (roped in to fight for a ‘cause which isn’t as black and white as it’s made out to be) who are made to endure the repercussions of a ‘war’ gone horribly wrong – that are the truest of all casualties. And whose lives will never be the same again.

The Friday Times

To possess, and to be possessed

Posted by: Sonya Rehman on: June 27, 2009

By Sonya Rehman

As of late, one of my dear friends was having ‘man trouble’ (such sweet pain a pair of pants can cause a good, wholesome woman).
We talked endlessly. Myself and her. Dissecting and scrutinizing every word he’d ever uttered to her over the past month – the country could well be taken over by those blubbering Johnnies from the mountains, but when it comes to issues with the opposite sex, nothing matters more than the affairs of the heart! Nothing.
But I reiterate; only for good, wholesome women. Those kittens who know how to ‘play the game’ don’t count. They never do.

For a week, my cell phone was my babe in arms. My little Chiquita. I’d spend hours on it with my soul sister, staying in constant touch – via sms, and sporadic, albeit extended conversations.
But one day, something happened. I sort of snapped. Like an angry, red elastic band stretched too wide, in the foolish hopes to tie up a thick, glossy mane. I snapped.

So, why did I snap? Her ‘obsession’ with him, was slowly yet surely doing me in. So much so that I wanted to stick my head into an oven. Sylvia Plath style.
I absolutely erupted, and one day, I let my dearest, doe-eyed friend have it. Good and proper.
“You may hate me for saying this”, I told her sputtering, “But I’m going to be honest and harsh with you rather than pussy-foot around this entire issue. Let go now and get a grip on yourself.”
What followed was dead silence. And then she hung up on me. For a long while, I simply stared at my babe in ar-oops, I meant, cell phone.
What I actually was doing, was confronting my very own, personal demons. An ugly bugly personal demon of unflinching obsession, and possession.

And so I thought and I thought. I mulled over what had just transpired until I felt a sudden pang of regret.
Grabbing my cell phone, I typed out to her: “I hurt when you hurt. Especially when it’s about a mere pair of pants. You’re a good woman. You didn’t drag me down, but in all honesty, what you’re going through is reminding me of what I went through at one point in my life. And what every woman goes through when her heart aches incessantly. Why are women like us so black and white?”

She responded back almost immediately telling me how much she loved me, and how vital it was to remain black and white. And how it was only the good, wholesome, men – who compartmentalize their lives in the blacks and whites, just as us – who were really worth it at the end of the day.
I could almost picture my friend sighing internally, in quiet relief, as she typed out her message to me. In a way, I think she finally started ‘letting go’ that day. And, so did I.

But my friend, I knew inherently, only let go of the obsession in connection with the person. Her obsession with life, and giving love many chances would run free, consistently.
Deep down, she or I for that matter couldn’t, and perhaps, didn’t want to ever change.

But it still made me ruminate. How does one curb passion and obsession? Or should it be curbed? And I don’t just mean ardor regarding an individual, but also towards life, towards one’s work, dreams, goals…

To possess and be possessed is quite like stepping into a patch of quick-sand. It’s like sinking deep, toe-first into a honey pot, letting the gooey swirls of sugary syrup cloak you completely.
Can one live their life with the conscious subtraction of passion? But would not that be like leading a half-life? A dour life, patchy and humdrum? But then again, how much passion is enough? Should it be balanced out? Defined? And can it be? Should it be left limitless, and frantically feral?

At the base of a passionless disposition lies an immense fear of disappointment. And that very base remains strengthened, and lined in place, with one’s ego.
After all, if you love any one thing, or anyone, and you face an off-hand dismissal, what truly makes one crumble? Is it not the bruised ego and wounded pride, which speaks, then?

I only understand now, that painfully honest people, who live their lives without any fancy guises, without elaborate facades tend to nurse fantastic hopes, fantastic, boundless passions which glitter like miniature pearls in the caskets of their hearts, forever.

And at the end of the day, that is their saving grace…their salvation.

*The title of the article was changed to ‘Magnificent Possession’ once published in TFT. But I’ve kept the original title here, because I liked it better.

 The Friday Times

What’s wrong with this picture?

Posted by: Sonya Rehman on: June 8, 2009

By Sonya Rehman
There’s a billboard on the bridge in Cantonment (Lahore) which features a pink little baby snoozing away on a slice of bread.
The caption reads: “Gifted with softness”. If you haven’t guessed already, the advertisement is for a local bread manufacturer – or…for those who fancy newly born babies (on toast) with a side order of fries and coleslaw.
Advertising in Pakistan can be categorized into three categories; 1.) Ripped off ideas (or blatantly copied) ads from foreign ones, 2.) Good ads with original concepts, and 3.) Boring, insipid ads that would make shooting yourself in the left foot seem like a riot.
The advertising industry in Pakistan is one that has its share of blemishes, but that being stated, it stands as one that is constantly growing – provided Art Directors discontinue slapping babies on toast! Seriously, what were those cannibals thinking?
For the fashion industry, advertising in the local market has now become a true necessity for almost every small-scale (and big-wig) designer, make-up artist, fashion event managers/companies, and so on. If you’re not splashed all over the local press, then it’s ‘ship out and have a fabulous hike dah-ling’ for most involved in the fashion scene.
Therefore, given the necessity of the (now) communal lock between fashion and advertising, a question arises: is fashion in Pakistan being advertised properly? Some would subscribe to the notion that it isn’t – that too much emphasis is placed on the styling, the hair, the make-up, the accessories, the back-drop, the colour scheme of the ad, the font size/text and so on and so forth.
Too messy, some would state, so much so that it takes the viewer’s attention away from the clothes and onto other things featured in the elaborate layout. But let’s not make any generalizations because there are a lot of ads out there which really manage to bring out the designer’s clothes, which can leave viewer’s gobsmacked.
Fashion, at times, warrants using the ‘shock and awe’ strategy. Hey, it’s fashion not thermal underwear. Therefore fashion the world-over has and always will remain unapologetic for its plethora of idiosyncrasies.
Remember the print ads and billboards which featured model Aamminah Haq all wrapped up and cozy in solely ties – courtesy designer Ammar Belal’s men’s line? At first glance one would be prompted to say ‘Mama Mia’, but at second glance, one would think; ‘How weird, why wrap a female model up in men’s ties when the ad can feature male models donning suits and the ties?’
But see, here’s the thing; the aforementioned ad is one fine example of the ‘shock and awe’ strategy.
And hey you know what? It works. It manages to convey the designer’s attitude vis-à-vis his clothes, and in addition it gives interested buyers a message that the clothes convey a certain lifestyle and personality type. One that is fun, spunky and risqué – and has nothing to do with wrapping women up with ties (don’t get any ideas).
On the OTHER hand, some fashion print ads can be particularly asinine. Such as models floating underwater holding purses or swishing about their designer garb whilst looking like terrified goldfish. Ads like that don’t make head or tail. I mean, what’s the designer or the creative dude behind the ad trying to put across? It’s not like any woman out there (while flipping through a fashion glossy) would exclaim (as she comes across the ad) in excitement wishing that she too could swish about dramatically 10 feet deep in a tank of water!
And just as blatant copying/plagiarism exists in advertising – no matter which product is being advertised – some local fashion shoots and print ads are too, ripped off from international glossies such as Vogue, Cosmopolitan, Harper’s Bazaar, Vanity Fair, etc. At times, there really seems to be a serious dearth of both creativity and originality in both the local fashion and advertising industries.
On a totally different tangent (yet remaining within the fashion/advertising issue at hand), it is also said that certain local publications approach certain well-established designers for interviews and only let them go into print with the bargain of getting an ad in return from the designers. Therefore the question here arises is: how much support do our local designers really get from the local print media in terms of publicity?
“A lot of the content that you see in these fashion publications is planned according to the likes of the designers/make-up artists who regularly buy advertising space in a magazine”, Anum Pasha a twenty-something fashion journalist states, “This can be anything from a cover story to a one-paragraph mini feature. Very few fashion magazines will have an unbiased approach towards fashion. As it is in the fashion industry itself that backbiting, and the ‘I-scratch-your-back-you-scratch-my-back’ phenomenon are common elements, a lot of fashion journalists are bombarded with pleas, favours, threats, and so on. Thus, coverage carries a huge element of bias in Pakistan.”
That’s a pretty interesting spin on the entire subject wouldn’t you agree? So while some publications may ‘blackmail’ designers to buy advertising space in their rag-mags with promises of promotion, designers too wind up wining and dining editors of these very publications to get coverage, publicity, support and yes – a sugary dollop of favouritism.
I’ve seen it happen – up close and personal. Therefore, at the end of the day it really all is a two-way street. Fashion and advertising is not as black and white as you may think it is – it can be shady, vibrant and dubious all at once.
In the words of reputed ad-man, Leo Burnett: “I am one who believes that one of the greatest dangers of advertising is not that of misleading people, but that of boring them to death”, and, “Fun without sell gets nowhere but sell without fun tends to become obnoxious.” So very true, especially when advertisers and designers consider over the top ad themes as ‘mod-run’ and ‘new-age’ by placing babies on toast and models in water tanks!

By Sonya Rehman

There’s a billboard on the bridge in Cantonment (Lahore) which features a pink little baby snoozing away on a slice of bread.

The caption reads: “Gifted with softness”. If you haven’t guessed already, the advertisement is for a local bread manufacturer – or…for those who fancy newly born babies (on toast) with a side order of fries and coleslaw.

Advertising in Pakistan can be categorized into three categories; 1.) Ripped off ideas (or blatantly copied) ads from foreign ones, 2.) Good ads with original concepts, and 3.) Boring, insipid ads that would make shooting yourself in the left foot seem like a riot.

The advertising industry in Pakistan is one that has its share of blemishes, but that being stated, it stands as one that is constantly growing – provided Art Directors discontinue slapping babies on toast! Seriously, what were those cannibals thinking?

For the fashion industry, advertising in the local market has now become a true necessity for almost every small-scale (and big-wig) designer, make-up artist, fashion event managers/companies, and so on. If you’re not splashed all over the local press, then it’s ‘ship out and have a fabulous hike dah-ling’ for most involved in the fashion scene.

Therefore, given the necessity of the (now) communal lock between fashion and advertising, a question arises: is fashion in Pakistan being advertised properly? Some would subscribe to the notion that it isn’t – that too much emphasis is placed on the styling, the hair, the make-up, the accessories, the back-drop, the colour scheme of the ad, the font size/text and so on and so forth.

Too messy, some would state, so much so that it takes the viewer’s attention away from the clothes and onto other things featured in the elaborate layout. But let’s not make any generalizations because there are a lot of ads out there which really manage to bring out the designer’s clothes, which can leave viewer’s gobsmacked.

Fashion, at times, warrants using the ‘shock and awe’ strategy. Hey, it’s fashion not thermal underwear. Therefore fashion the world-over has and always will remain unapologetic for its plethora of idiosyncrasies.

Remember the print ads and billboards which featured model Aamminah Haq all wrapped up and cozy in solely ties – courtesy designer Ammar Belal’s men’s line? At first glance one would be prompted to say ‘Mama Mia’, but at second glance, one would think; ‘How weird, why wrap a female model up in men’s ties when the ad can feature male models donning suits and the ties?’

But see, here’s the thing; the aforementioned ad is one fine example of the ‘shock and awe’ strategy.

And hey you know what? It works. It manages to convey the designer’s attitude vis-à-vis his clothes, and in addition it gives interested buyers a message that the clothes convey a certain lifestyle and personality type. One that is fun, spunky and risqué – and has nothing to do with wrapping women up with ties (don’t get any ideas).

On the OTHER hand, some fashion print ads can be particularly asinine. Such as models floating underwater holding purses or swishing about their designer garb whilst looking like terrified goldfish. Ads like that don’t make head or tail. I mean, what’s the designer or the creative dude behind the ad trying to put across? It’s not like any woman out there (while flipping through a fashion glossy) would exclaim (as she comes across the ad) in excitement wishing that she too could swish about dramatically 10 feet deep in a tank of water!

And just as blatant copying/plagiarism exists in advertising – no matter which product is being advertised – some local fashion shoots and print ads are too, ripped off from international glossies such as Vogue, Cosmopolitan, Harper’s Bazaar, Vanity Fair, etc. At times, there really seems to be a serious dearth of both creativity and originality in both the local fashion and advertising industries.

On a totally different tangent (yet remaining within the fashion/advertising issue at hand), it is also said that certain local publications approach certain well-established designers for interviews and only let them go into print with the bargain of getting an ad in return from the designers. Therefore the question here arises is: how much support do our local designers really get from the local print media in terms of publicity?

“A lot of the content that you see in these fashion publications is planned according to the likes of the designers/make-up artists who regularly buy advertising space in a magazine”, Anum Pasha a twenty-something fashion journalist states, “This can be anything from a cover story to a one-paragraph mini feature. Very few fashion magazines will have an unbiased approach towards fashion. As it is in the fashion industry itself that backbiting, and the ‘I-scratch-your-back-you-scratch-my-back’ phenomenon are common elements, a lot of fashion journalists are bombarded with pleas, favours, threats, and so on. Thus, coverage carries a huge element of bias in Pakistan.”

That’s a pretty interesting spin on the entire subject wouldn’t you agree? So while some publications may ‘blackmail’ designers to buy advertising space in their rag-mags with promises of promotion, designers too wind up wining and dining editors of these very publications to get coverage, publicity, support and yes – a sugary dollop of favouritism.

I’ve seen it happen – up close and personal. Therefore, at the end of the day it really all is a two-way street. Fashion and advertising is not as black and white as you may think it is – it can be shady, vibrant and dubious all at once.

In the words of reputed ad-man, Leo Burnett: “I am one who believes that one of the greatest dangers of advertising is not that of misleading people, but that of boring them to death”, and, “Fun without sell gets nowhere but sell without fun tends to become obnoxious.” So very true, especially when advertisers and designers consider over the top ad themes as ‘mod-run’ and ‘new-age’ by placing babies on toast and models in water tanks!

Synergyzer Magazine

Passion for Pakistan

Posted by: Sonya Rehman on: May 29, 2009

 

By Sonya Rehman
Just a few weeks ago I had the pleasure of meeting Ethan Casey, an American journalist who was recently in Pakistan gathering material for his second book, the sequel to ‘Alive and well in Pakistan’ (published by Vanguard).
The heat wave in Lahore had not yet hit, but it was almost there – hanging by the periphery waiting to unleash its toasted, crispy spell on the inhabitants of the city. 
And the morning that I had met Ethan (at the Lahore Gymkhana) with his friend, Pete Sabo (who had accompanied him on the trip), the weather was rather pleasant and thankfully, not uncomfortably warm.
Sitting outside on the veranda which overlooked Gymkhana’s plush green lawn and the tennis courts (towards our left), Ethan began tracing his journey as a journalist, and the path that led him to Pakistan – a path which would keep bringing him back to the country over the next many years. 
Ethan’s story is an appealing one. Nursing an irresistible urge of wanderlust in his early 20s, Ethan set out for Nepal as a student in 1986. 
Growing up in a small town in America where everyone was white, “Life was nice but kinda boring”, Ethan stated with a grin, “My parents were a little unusual; my father in particular, encouraged me to be curious about the world. He set the example by leaving Texas and going to other parts of America. So that prepared the way for me to leave America…”
“At the time”, Ethan continued, “Asia was really far away from America, there was no internet and I had no particular reason to go – I just felt that I was young and that I really needed to be far away from home. So I did and spent six months in Nepal and had lots of adventures. And that established my interest in Asia. Years later I went to live in Bangkok because I wanted to make a career as a journalist, because I realized that you can’t just write a literary masterpiece and expect to make a living – so journalism was a way to get paid to write…and also get paid to see the world.” 
Working as a freelance journalist and a foreign correspondent in Bangkok for a few newspapers, Ethan eventually found himself taking an avid interest in the Kashmir situation in the mid-90s.  
Around that time, “The Kashmir uprising was heating up, and so I started reading up on it and thought; ‘well I want to go there and see it for myself’. In 1993, during the siege of the Hazratbal shrine, militants had taken hostages and were inside the shrine. The Indian army had surrounded it and the siege lasted for several months. It was a big thing at the time…something that had caught the world’s attention for a little while; and just after that I decided to go to Srinagar, Kashmir.”
Ethan traveled to Kashmir several times over two years (in 1994 and 1995) and began nurturing a deep interest in the Kashmir issue since it defined the relationship between the countries of both Pakistan and India. Infact some of his experiences in Kashmir are recorded in a few chapters in ‘Alive and well in Pakistan’. 
“Kashmir led me to my interest in Pakistan”, Ethan said amidst the shrill cries of the peacocks that strutted about in their cage (situated on the lawn). “And so I visited Pakistan in March in 1995 because I felt it was important for me to travel into Kashmir through the Pakistani side and talk to Pakistani and Kashmiri politicians and the people. So that’s what I did, and that piqued my interest in Pakistan itself. I met people, heard stories by the Pakistanis (which I was able to cover as a journalist), and I just kept going and coming back to Pakistan…”
Making long, extensive trips to Pakistan back in 1995, Ethan decided to travel to Karachi, which was at the time, bullet-ridden (literally) by sectarian violence. And then in 1999, “During the Kargil situation, I visited in the LOC for the first time in an army jeep with a Major”, Ethan recounted, “1999 was an interesting time to be here in Pakistan as Nawaz Sharif’s government was getting more and more isolated till the coup happened in October”. 
“This book…” Ethan stated, pointing at a copy of his book (which he’d brought for me), “Covers a decade worth of my experiences in Pakistan from 1994 to 2004 on a personalized level…in the sense that it isn’t specifically about politics. It’s almost the only book about Pakistan which isn’t about politics”, chuckled Ethan. 
A month or so ago, I’d happened to have met a Malaysian who told me that he found Pakistan to be something of an incredible enigma. Even though he was floored by the country, its people and its culture, he was still realistic and understood its drawbacks. Yet, he, just as Ethan, found himself consistently pulled back to Pakistan. 
I told Ethan this. To which he said: “A few years ago, I was sitting in Najam Sethi’s office talking about politics – every time I come to Pakistan I look him up since he’s been in the thick of Pakistani politics. So I asked him if he thought Benazir would ever come back into power, and he chuckled and said; ‘Well, stranger things have happened!’ and at the time there seemed to be no chance of her coming back, bit she did. Let me address this a bit more”, Ethan said whilst he reclined back into his chair, “Western people are always predicting doom for Pakistan – but I’ve been watching and visiting this country for 15 years, and it hasn’t yet broken up. Now it is a country with very severe problems – it’s not what people outside think it is…So for me, as an American, who tries to communicate to Americans about Pakistan – it’s an uphill battle. Pakistan is a durable nation. People here have achieved something – several generations have pioneered a nation which didn’t exist before…you’ve had to start from scratch, you’ve had a lot of disadvantages and a lot of things which have gone against you. At times Pakistanis have been their own worst enemies but they’re also remarkable and deserving of respect. Pakistan is a country which deserves respect just as much as any other nation does.” 
Just then, a waiter arrived, a smart man in his 30s with a bit of a belly. Placing an order for toast and porridge (for himself and Pete), Ethan told me about his experience at the Beaconhouse National University (BNU) here in Lahore where he taught International Journalism in 2003. 
“At the time in my late 30s, as a journalist, traveling and working largely alone for a decade, is a lonely life. You also develop these working practices of what it means to be a working reporter, and to teach was a great point in my life and career. The compulsion to teach others forced me to articulate it for myself. I had a blank slate to teach, whatever I wanted under the rubric of International Journalism. I learnt as much as I taught at BNU.” 
In addition to penning his sequel book, Ethan also runs a blog which is basically an extension of his book, ‘Alive and well in Pakistan’. 
“I think books are great but in today’s world blogs are also where a lot of people do their reading.” 
“Most Americans think I’m crazy to be in Pakistan”, Ethan laughs. Then how does he justify himself when they ask him why he’s coming to Pakistan? 
“I don’t need to justify myself”, he laughs again, “I’d tell them Pakistan is safe and interesting. It has become personally very important to me. As a personal commitment it’s become important for me to keep coming back – even if Pakistan were to be in (God forbid) a really awful situation, much worse than now, I would still feel a compulsion to come back.”
As he completed his sentence, the waiter brought two plates of eggs and toast. Apparently, there had been a misunderstanding. The waiter had thought Ethan said ‘poached’ when infact he’d asked for ‘porridge’. 
An insignificant misunderstanding which made all of us smile and laugh a little (including the waiter); Ethan and Pete gracefully settled for the toast which was brought with butter and jam. 
Interestingly, over the course of the interview, I discovered that Ethan speaks at churches, civic organizations, rotary clubs and universities about Pakistan. “It’s important to take this human dimension of Pakistan and show it to Americans.”
So what’s the response been like (since some Americans do carry a certain level of anger and resentment towards Pakistan)?
“Americans have been on a steep learning curve since 9/11”, Ethan replied, “And it represents the beginning of the end of American innocence…”
At the end of the interview, I had realized something, as I made my way back to my car. And this was that perhaps we as Pakistanis take our country for granted. 
To the foreign eye, Pakistan stands as an enigma, a pomegranate ripe with seeds of the ‘unexpected’ – which could explode at any given minute.
Maybe this is what leads foreigners, like Ethan to our land. And maybe, just maybe, this is what makes them fall in love with a country whose inhabitants have always taken for granted.  
By Sonya Rehman
Just a few weeks ago I had the pleasure of meeting Ethan Casey, an American journalist who was recently in Pakistan gathering material for his second book, the sequel to ‘Alive and well in Pakistan’ (published by Vanguard).
The heat wave in Lahore had not yet hit, but it was almost there – hanging by the periphery waiting to unleash its toasted, crispy spell on the inhabitants of the city. 
And the morning that I had met Ethan (at the Lahore Gymkhana) with his friend, Pete Sabo (who had accompanied him on the trip), the weather was rather pleasant and thankfully, not uncomfortably warm.
Sitting outside on the veranda which overlooked Gymkhana’s plush green lawn and the tennis courts (towards our left), Ethan began tracing his journey as a journalist, and the path that led him to Pakistan – a path which would keep bringing him back to the country over the next many years. 
Ethan’s story is an appealing one. Nursing an irresistible urge of wanderlust in his early 20s, Ethan set out for Nepal as a student in 1986. 
Growing up in a small town in America where everyone was white, “Life was nice but kinda boring”, Ethan stated with a grin, “My parents were a little unusual; my father in particular, encouraged me to be curious about the world. He set the example by leaving Texas and going to other parts of America. So that prepared the way for me to leave America…”
“At the time”, Ethan continued, “Asia was really far away from America, there was no internet and I had no particular reason to go – I just felt that I was young and that I really needed to be far away from home. So I did and spent six months in Nepal and had lots of adventures. And that established my interest in Asia. Years later I went to live in Bangkok because I wanted to make a career as a journalist, because I realized that you can’t just write a literary masterpiece and expect to make a living – so journalism was a way to get paid to write…and also get paid to see the world.” 
Working as a freelance journalist and a foreign correspondent in Bangkok for a few newspapers, Ethan eventually found himself taking an avid interest in the Kashmir situation in the mid-90s.  
Around that time, “The Kashmir uprising was heating up, and so I started reading up on it and thought; ‘well I want to go there and see it for myself’. In 1993, during the siege of the Hazratbal shrine, militants had taken hostages and were inside the shrine. The Indian army had surrounded it and the siege lasted for several months. It was a big thing at the time…something that had caught the world’s attention for a little while; and just after that I decided to go to Srinagar, Kashmir.”
Ethan traveled to Kashmir several times over two years (in 1994 and 1995) and began nurturing a deep interest in the Kashmir issue since it defined the relationship between the countries of both Pakistan and India. Infact some of his experiences in Kashmir are recorded in a few chapters in ‘Alive and well in Pakistan’. 
“Kashmir led me to my interest in Pakistan”, Ethan said amidst the shrill cries of the peacocks that strutted about in their cage (situated on the lawn). “And so I visited Pakistan in March in 1995 because I felt it was important for me to travel into Kashmir through the Pakistani side and talk to Pakistani and Kashmiri politicians and the people. So that’s what I did, and that piqued my interest in Pakistan itself. I met people, heard stories by the Pakistanis (which I was able to cover as a journalist), and I just kept going and coming back to Pakistan…”
Making long, extensive trips to Pakistan back in 1995, Ethan decided to travel to Karachi, which was at the time, bullet-ridden (literally) by sectarian violence. And then in 1999, “During the Kargil situation, I visited in the LOC for the first time in an army jeep with a Major”, Ethan recounted, “1999 was an interesting time to be here in Pakistan as Nawaz Sharif’s government was getting more and more isolated till the coup happened in October”. 
“This book…” Ethan stated, pointing at a copy of his book (which he’d brought for me), “Covers a decade worth of my experiences in Pakistan from 1994 to 2004 on a personalized level…in the sense that it isn’t specifically about politics. It’s almost the only book about Pakistan which isn’t about politics”, chuckled Ethan. 
A month or so ago, I’d happened to have met a Malaysian who told me that he found Pakistan to be something of an incredible enigma. Even though he was floored by the country, its people and its culture, he was still realistic and understood its drawbacks. Yet, he, just as Ethan, found himself consistently pulled back to Pakistan. 
Ethan (L) and Pete (R)
Above: Ethan (L) and Pete (R) at Gymkhana

I told Ethan this. To which he said: “A few years ago, I was sitting in Najam Sethi’s office talking about politics – every time I come to Pakistan I look him up since he’s been in the thick of Pakistani politics. So I asked him if he thought Benazir would ever come back into power, and he chuckled and said; ‘Well, stranger things have happened!’ and at the time there seemed to be no chance of her coming back, bit she did. Let me address this a bit more”, Ethan said whilst he reclined back into his chair, “Western people are always predicting doom for Pakistan – but I’ve been watching and visiting this country for 15 years, and it hasn’t yet broken up. Now it is a country with very severe problems – it’s not what people outside think it is…So for me, as an American, who tries to communicate to Americans about Pakistan – it’s an uphill battle. Pakistan is a durable nation. People here have achieved something – several generations have pioneered a nation which didn’t exist before…you’ve had to start from scratch, you’ve had a lot of disadvantages and a lot of things which have gone against you. At times Pakistanis have been their own worst enemies but they’re also remarkable and deserving of respect. Pakistan is a country which deserves respect just as much as any other nation does.” 
Just then, a waiter arrived, a smart man in his 30s with a bit of a belly. Placing an order for toast and porridge (for himself and Pete), Ethan told me about his experience at the Beaconhouse National University (BNU) here in Lahore where he taught International Journalism in 2003. 
“At the time in my late 30s, as a journalist, traveling and working largely alone for a decade, is a lonely life. You also develop these working practices of what it means to be a working reporter, and to teach was a great point in my life and career. The compulsion to teach others forced me to articulate it for myself. I had a blank slate to teach, whatever I wanted under the rubric of International Journalism. I learnt as much as I taught at BNU.” 
In addition to penning his sequel book, Ethan also runs a blog which is basically an extension of his book, ‘Alive and well in Pakistan’. 
“I think books are great but in today’s world blogs are also where a lot of people do their reading.” 
“Most Americans think I’m crazy to be in Pakistan”, Ethan laughs. Then how does he justify himself when they ask him why he’s coming to Pakistan? 
“I don’t need to justify myself”, he laughs again, “I’d tell them Pakistan is safe and interesting. It has become personally very important to me. As a personal commitment it’s become important for me to keep coming back – even if Pakistan were to be in (God forbid) a really awful situation, much worse than now, I would still feel a compulsion to come back.”
As he completed his sentence, the waiter brought two plates of eggs and toast. Apparently, there had been a misunderstanding. The waiter had thought Ethan said ‘poached’ when infact he’d asked for ‘porridge’. 
An insignificant misunderstanding which made all of us smile and laugh a little (including the waiter); Ethan and Pete gracefully settled for the toast which was brought with butter and jam. 
Interestingly, over the course of the interview, I discovered that Ethan speaks at churches, civic organizations, rotary clubs and universities about Pakistan. “It’s important to take this human dimension of Pakistan and show it to Americans.”
So what’s the response been like (since some Americans do carry a certain level of anger and resentment towards Pakistan)?
“Americans have been on a steep learning curve since 9/11”, Ethan replied, “And it represents the beginning of the end of American innocence…”
At the end of the interview, I had realized something, as I made my way back to my car. And this was that perhaps we as Pakistanis take our country for granted. 
To the foreign eye, Pakistan stands as an enigma, a pomegranate ripe with seeds of the ‘unexpected’ – which could explode at any given minute.
Maybe this is what leads foreigners, like Ethan to our land. And maybe, just maybe, this is what makes them fall in love with a country whose inhabitants have always taken for granted.  
The Friday Times

A Tale of Two Cities

Posted by: Sonya Rehman on: May 17, 2009

A Tale of Two Cities
By Sonya Rehman and Khaver Siddiqi
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”. Charles Dickens’ literary masterpiece, ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ begins with these words. Though the novel has a theme of self-sacrifice and resurrection, the starting line of the novel can be applied here in Pakistan, to the two of its largest and most prominent cities; Karachi and Lahore.
Indeed both cities have seen the best of times and the worst of times, as far as the music industry is concerned, but how do these cities relate to one another? How does their music combine and form the modern music scene as we know it?
The music that originates from the Punjab is as intricate as its historic architecture. Lahore, the Garden of the Mughals, has seen a myriad of melodies, genres, and vocals alongside a variety of musical instruments (both new and old) over the past few decades. This has given rise to the city’s diverse sound of music and rapidly evolving culture.
From the earthy qawwals of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, the Punjabi ditties of Abrar-ul-Haq, the pop sensations; Atif Aslam and Ali Zafar, the underground Lahori grunge/rock revolution (of a handful of bands) in the early 90s and to the revolutionaries of yesteryear – Noor Jehan, Farida Khanum, Ustad Amanat Ali Khan and many more. In addition, the dhol maestro, Pappu Saien, and the master of the ek tara, Saien Zahoor (both of whom have shared their glory performing for people at shrines to concerts), to the fresh crop of commercialized Lahori pop acts (of both the past and today), to the jaded, angst-ridden rockers/bands such as Shahzad Hameed, Call, and eP…music from Lahore has been assorted at best.
Infact the Lahori music scene has churned out so many musicians over the years that it would be almost impossible to list each band/musician down. Nonetheless, each has contributed to the country’s music scene on a macro level – making it what it is today; pulsating with promise.
Even though things have been on the downslide – given the worldwide economic recession and the security situation within the country – our local musicians have still managed to stay in the game by taking out albums (some of which are completely self-funded), and playing at concerts and gigs throughout the country.
Therefore, given the innumerable genres, the music from the Punjab cannot really be ‘defined’ as such, rather, just ‘felt’, and taken in. And perhaps this is what sets the city of Lahore’s music apart from Karachi’s music scene. Where Karachi carries its very own, signature sound, melodies from Lahore come wrapped in unrequited love, Sufi-istic devotion, and nostalgia – which oft reminds one of warm diyas, and fresh jasmine.
On the other hand, Karachi as a city can best be described as a potpourri of people, traditions, lifestyles and history. This stepping stone of Mohammad Bin Qasim, a picturesque city of light and lightlessness, has its own distinct sound which permeates through the air and settles amongst its populace.
Music has been a vital part of this city, whether it is the sound of the drums at Abdullah Shah Ghazi’s Mazar or the tone of socialism in Faiz Ahmad Faiz’s poetry, the music (and its words) very much echo the mood of the city. It is somber and realist, laced with satire and melancholy. Karachi music has no definite history to speak of, such as Lahore has. This is because compared to Lahore; Karachi is a modern city with a modern sound. It is the sound of realism, sometimes the harshness of reality and sometimes an echo of its soul.
The music from the city by the sea is gritty, real and often makes many political statements. ‘Social Circus’ by Ali Azmat is an album that, in recent times, speaks this city’s language. Take this album and drive along the streets of Karachi and you’ll find yourself traveling the city with an accompanying soundtrack. From the raging guitars of the intro track accompanied by the blaring W-11 and all, to the calming rushes of the waves at the coast, this album really does speak the language of this city.
But its not just Azmat’s album that beckons the sights and sounds of Karachi, bands like Strings and Junoon evoke a particular Karachi sound. In terms of heritage, giants like Allan Fakir and Abida Parveen evoke a rich texture unto the language of the entire province. Going further deep into heritage we come to the mazars of Karachi, most particularly the Abdullah Shah Ghazi, the monument that is perhaps the epitome of this land, long before our time and the British Raj. One will often find people from all walks of life loitering about the mazar; some simply paying their respects through prayer whereas others through their stories of song. And it is those stories of song that truly paint an unseen picture of the city by the sea. No matter where you are in the world, if you hear tracks by these artistes or the songs of these faithful, one would be compelled to think of Karachi.
Comparisons between Lahore and Karachi are ultimately inevitable. Though we are one nation and one people, we speak many languages and we have a collective history of many generations. Though the two cities are so vastly different, so vastly apart, they are indeed just branches of the one same tree.
In Pakistan, we have at our disposal, a thoroughly rich and diverse cultural heritage, which has blossomed over the decades, if not centuries. From almost every facet of what ‘art’ encompasses – such as; music, fashion, poetry, architecture and so on.
That being stated, there is a hidden but devastating war taking place. Unlike our neighbors that celebrate, support and cherish their culture, our culture is slowly being eroded by ourselves. Our children are more familiar with Miley Cyrus’ songs and Aamir Khan’s 15 minute memory that they are ambiguous and lost to the rich culture that is their own.
And what is the result of that?
The result is we are now on the brink of losing our identity. Our art and culture must be held on to with an unflinching zeal. It must constantly be nurtured, nourished and cultivated without letting and allowing ‘borrowed culture’ from overseas sully it. For in these trying times, art seems to be our only release, making everything, at the end of the day seem all the more worthwhile. By Sonya Rehman and Khaver Siddiqi

By Sonya Rehman and Khaver Siddiqi

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”. Charles Dickens’ literary masterpiece, ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ begins with these words. Though the novel has a theme of self-sacrifice and resurrection, the starting line of the novel can be applied here in Pakistan, to the two of its largest and most prominent cities; Karachi and Lahore.

Indeed both cities have seen the best of times and the worst of times, as far as the music industry is concerned, but how do these cities relate to one another? How does their music combine and form the modern music scene as we know it?

The music that originates from the Punjab is as intricate as its historic architecture. Lahore, the Garden of the Mughals, has seen a myriad of melodies, genres, and vocals alongside a variety of musical instruments (both new and old) over the past few decades. This has given rise to the city’s diverse sound of music and rapidly evolving culture.

From the earthy qawwals of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, the Punjabi ditties of Abrar-ul-Haq, the pop sensations; Atif Aslam and Ali Zafar, the underground Lahori grunge/rock revolution (of a handful of bands) in the early 90s and to the revolutionaries of yesteryear – Noor Jehan, Farida Khanum, Ustad Amanat Ali Khan and many more. In addition, the dhol maestro, Pappu Saien, and the master of the ek tara, Saien Zahoor (both of whom have shared their glory performing for people at shrines to concerts), to the fresh crop of commercialized Lahori pop acts (of both the past and today), to the jaded, angst-ridden rockers/bands such as Shahzad Hameed, Call, and eP…music from Lahore has been assorted at best. Infact the Lahori music scene has churned out so many musicians over the years that it would be almost impossible to list each band/musician down. Nonetheless, each has contributed to the country’s music scene on a macro level – making it what it is today; pulsating with promise.

Even though things have been on the downslide – given the worldwide economic recession and the security situation within the country – our local musicians have still managed to stay in the game by taking out albums (some of which are completely self-funded), and playing at concerts and gigs throughout the country.

Therefore, given the innumerable genres, the music from the Punjab cannot really be ‘defined’ as such, rather, just ‘felt’, and taken in. And perhaps this is what sets the city of Lahore’s music apart from Karachi’s music scene. Where Karachi carries its very own, signature sound, melodies from Lahore come wrapped in unrequited love, Sufi-istic devotion, and nostalgia – which oft reminds one of luminous diyas, and fresh jasmine.

On the other hand, Karachi as a city can best be described as a potpourri of people, traditions, lifestyles and history. This stepping stone of Mohammad Bin Qasim, a picturesque city of light and lightlessness, has its own distinct sound which permeates through the air and settles amongst its populace.

Music has been a vital part of this city, whether it is the sound of the drums at Abdullah Shah Ghazi’s Mazar or the tone of socialism in Faiz Ahmad Faiz’s poetry, the music (and its words) very much echo the mood of the city. It is somber and realist, laced with satire and melancholy. Karachi music has no definite history to speak of, such as Lahore has. This is because compared to Lahore; Karachi is a modern city with a modern sound. It is the sound of realism, sometimes the harshness of reality and sometimes an echo of its soul.

(Above: Abida Parveen)

The music from the city by the sea is gritty, real and often makes many political statements. ‘Social Circus’ by Ali Azmat is an album that, in recent times, speaks this city’s language. Take this album and drive along the streets of Karachi and you’ll find yourself traveling the city with an accompanying soundtrack. From the raging guitars of the intro track accompanied by the blaring W-11 and all, to the calming rushes of the waves at the coast, this album really does speak the language of this city.

But its not just Azmat’s album that beckons the sights and sounds of Karachi, bands like Strings and Junoon evoke a particular Karachi sound. In terms of heritage, giants like Allan Fakir and Abida Parveen evoke a rich texture unto the language of the entire province. Going further deep into heritage we come to the mazars of Karachi, most particularly the Abdullah Shah Ghazi, the monument that is perhaps the epitome of this land, long before our time and the British Raj. One will often find people from all walks of life loitering about the mazar; some simply paying their respects through prayer whereas others through their stories of song. And it is those stories of song that truly paint an unseen picture of the city by the sea. No matter where you are in the world, if you hear tracks by these artistes or the songs of these faithful, one would be compelled to think of Karachi.

Comparisons between Lahore and Karachi are ultimately inevitable. Though we are one nation and one people, we speak many languages and we have a collective history of many generations. Though the two cities are so vastly different, so vastly apart, they are indeed just branches of the one same tree.

In Pakistan, we have at our disposal, a thoroughly rich and diverse cultural heritage, which has blossomed over the decades, if not centuries. From almost every facet of what ‘art’ encompasses – such as; music, fashion, poetry, architecture and so on.

That being stated, there is a hidden but devastating war taking place. Unlike our neighbors that celebrate, support and cherish their culture, our culture is slowly being eroded by ourselves. Our children are more familiar with Miley Cyrus’ songs and Aamir Khan’s 15 minute memory that they are ambiguous and lost to the rich culture that is their own.

And what is the result of that?

The result is we are now on the brink of losing our identity. Our art and culture must be held on to with an unflinching zeal. It must constantly be nurtured, nourished and cultivated without letting and allowing ‘borrowed culture’ from overseas sully it. For in these trying times, art seems to be our only release, making everything, at the end of the day seem all the more worthwhile.

Images, Dawn

The caged bird sings…

Posted by: Sonya Rehman on: May 1, 2009

 

BSonya Rehman 
A Lawyer, a Journalist, a PR Manager and a Politician – four young Pakistanis feature in director Nasir Khan’s topical documentary, ‘Made in Pakistan’, produced and released under the banner of ‘Talking Filmain’ (a production house in Lahore), this year. 
Shot over a span of a few months, ‘Made in Pakistan’ features Waleed (a lawyer), Rabia (a journalist running her very own publication), Mohsin (a politician following in his father’s footsteps) and Tara (a PR and event manager). 
While Waleed is shown discussing the lawyer’s movement and the impact that it has had on himself and the Pakistani lawyer community in general, Rabia is featured both as a young mother and wife, dealing with the day to day challenges of managing her monthly publication along with her team. 
Mohsin on the other hand is revealed as a budding politician – going about his days speaking with people at the grassroots, while Tara is shown handling a mammoth event (sponsored by a multinational) for one of Pakistan’s most well-known designers.
Unlike other productions made with the intention of ‘challenging stereotypes’ and carrying with it a rather defensive tone, ‘Made in Pakistan’ steers clear of making any such statement. 
Infact, I was slightly surprised when I happened to come across a few reviews in the local press about Nasir’s documentary aiming at challenging the world’s boxed-in view of Muslims and Pakistanis in general. 
I reiterate, ‘Made in Pakistan’ lacks an edgy, self-protective tone. And thankfully so. 
All that this one-hour, unscripted documentary does is  present its audiences with a slice of life of four middle-class, young Pakistanis in light of Musharaff’s November 3rd imposition of a state of emergency (in 2007), followed by the country’s law and order situation going to pot and ruin after the imposition. 
‘Made in Pakistan’ doesn’t make a ‘statement’, nor does it want you, the viewer, to assume anything too quickly. 
It leaves one ruminating from start to finish, and its theme – open to interpretation – allows you to understand the grey areas (present in Pakistan’s socio-political condition) which are in stark contrast against the basic blacks and the whites. 
The treatment of Nasir’s ‘Made in Pakistan’ reminds one a little of Michael Moore and Morgan Spurlock’s documentaries in its overall treatment. 
But unlike Moore and Spurlock who attempt at making tongue-in-cheek remarks and peppering their scripts/scenes with caustic humour (especially Spurlock, which at times makes him seem as if he’s trying a little too hard to ape Moore), ‘Made in Pakistan’ in its treatment is real and unhurried. Basic, yet factual. 
It depicts Pakistan standing too close for comfort, on the periphery of the gulch of total demolition – yet, hanging on tight by a sliver of hope. 
And Rabia, one of the young Pakistani’s featured in the documentary echoes this very notion. With her face somber and pensive, she states: “We are a very hopeful nation. We are very optimistic”. 
Watching Rabia say that broke my heart a little. This is because she was right. No matter how fiercely the odds have worked against Pakistan in the recent few years, our people – from each echelon of life – remain positively frustrated and jilted yes, but at the same time, still hopeful. Still resilient. Still persevering. 
And that is what is heart-breaking. The realization of it all cuts deep. 
The security situation within the country stands as a charade – so much so that countless lives have perished at the hands of it. How much can a nation of people take? How much longer before it becomes too late? How much longer before we are awoken from our deep slumber?  
‘Made in Pakistan’ manages to stir up all these questions within its viewers quite effortlessly. 
Currently, Nasir is trying to swing a cinema release for his documentary. Also, in the eminent future, the director hopes to release ‘Made in Pakistan’ on local television in addition to taking it out on DVD as well. 
One hopes that the documentary gets as much media mileage as it can get because it stands as an earnest undertaking which is a poignant treat to watch. 
That being stated, this is one documentary which also needs to be featured at film festivals overseas because this is one Pakistani documentary that western audiences must view by all means – to grasp what life truly is for the young generation in Pakistan.  
And that is; that amidst the carnage, hope – the caged bird – sings. That nothing in Pakistan is taken for granted, and that life goes on…it always has to.

By Sonya Rehman 

A Lawyer, a Journalist, a PR Manager and a Politician – four young Pakistanis feature in director Nasir Khan’s topical documentary, ‘Made in Pakistan’, produced and released under the banner of ‘Talking Filmain’ (a production house in Lahore), this year. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shot over a span of a few months, ‘Made in Pakistan’ features Waleed (a lawyer), Rabia (a journalist running her very own publication), Mohsin (a politician following in his father’s footsteps) and Tara (a PR and event manager). 

While Waleed is shown discussing the lawyer’s movement and the impact that it has had on himself and the Pakistani lawyer community in general, Rabia is featured both as a young mother and wife, dealing with the day to day challenges of managing her monthly publication along with her team. 

Mohsin on the other hand is revealed as a budding politician – going about his days speaking with people at the grassroots, while Tara is shown handling a mammoth event (sponsored by a multinational) for one of Pakistan’s most well-known designers.

Unlike other productions made with the intention of ‘challenging stereotypes’ and carrying with it a rather defensive tone, ‘Made in Pakistan’ steers clear of making any such statement. 

adil-rizwan-and-nasir-5

 

Above: Adil, Rizwan and Nasir of ‘Talking Filmain’

Infact, I was slightly surprised when I happened to come across a few reviews in the local press about Nasir’s documentary aiming at challenging the world’s boxed-in view of Muslims and Pakistanis in general. 

I reiterate, ‘Made in Pakistan’ lacks an edgy, self-protective tone. And thankfully so. 

All that this one-hour, unscripted documentary does is  present its audiences with a slice of life of four middle-class, young Pakistanis in light of Musharaff’s November 3rd imposition of a state of emergency (in 2007), followed by the country’s law and order situation going to pot and ruin after the imposition. 

‘Made in Pakistan’ doesn’t make a ‘statement’, nor does it want you, the viewer, to assume anything too quickly. 

It leaves one ruminating from start to finish, and its theme – open to interpretation – allows you to understand the grey areas (present in Pakistan’s socio-political condition) which are in stark contrast against the basic blacks and the whites. 

The treatment of Nasir’s ‘Made in Pakistan’ reminds one a little of Michael Moore and Morgan Spurlock’s documentaries in its overall treatment. 

But unlike Moore and Spurlock who attempt at making tongue-in-cheek remarks and peppering their scripts/scenes with caustic humour (especially Spurlock, which at times makes him seem as if he’s trying a little too hard to ape Moore), ‘Made in Pakistan’ in its treatment is real and unhurried. Basic, yet factual. 

It depicts Pakistan standing too close for comfort, on the periphery of the gulch of total demolition – yet, hanging on tight by a sliver of hope. 

And Rabia, one of the young Pakistani’s featured in the documentary echoes this very notion. With her face somber and pensive, she states: “We are a very hopeful nation. We are very optimistic”. 

Watching Rabia say that broke my heart a little. This is because she was right. No matter how fiercely the odds have worked against Pakistan in the recent few years, our people – from each echelon of life – remain positively frustrated and jilted yes, but at the same time, still hopeful. Still resilient. Still persevering. 

And that is what is heart-breaking. The realization of it all cuts deep. 

The security situation within the country stands as a charade – so much so that countless lives have perished at the hands of it. How much can a nation of people take? How much longer before it becomes too late? How much longer before we are awoken from our deep slumber?  

‘Made in Pakistan’ manages to stir up all these questions within its viewers quite effortlessly. 

Currently, Nasir is trying to swing a cinema release for his documentary. Also, in the eminent future, the director hopes to release ‘Made in Pakistan’ on local television in addition to taking it out on DVD as well. 

One hopes that the documentary gets as much media mileage as it can get because it stands as an earnest undertaking which is a poignant treat to watch. 

That being stated, this is one documentary which also needs to be featured at film festivals overseas because this is one Pakistani documentary that western audiences must view by all means – to grasp what life truly is for the young generation in Pakistan.  

And that is; that amidst the carnage, hope – the caged bird – sings. That nothing in Pakistan is taken for granted, and that life goes on…it always has to.

The Friday Times

Introducing ‘13′

Posted by: Sonya Rehman on: April 12, 2009

By Sonya Rehman

While some critics would subscribe to the notion that the local music scene’s growth curve has tipped its way into an abyss of ambivalence, the fact of the matter is that currently, a majority aren’t really aware – nor bothered – about the breaking and entering of music acts, both old and fledgling.

These days, unfortunately or fortunately, what really matters is how aggressively a musician/band is promoted. This is because no one really has the time anymore to flitter away the hours channel surfing local music channels. 

Because, quite honestly, instead of the tube, people are far more tuned into the World Wide Web. 

That’s how musicians (and bands) like Zeb and Haniya, Sahil, Arooj Aftab (and countless others) got ‘discovered’ and hit the media jackpot as they were promoted by a host of newspaper agencies, radio stations and television channels. 

And with ‘13’, the story is somewhat similar. Not that these fellas have hit the media jackpot just yet, but they’re (hopefully) bound to. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Above: Ian, Wahaj and Faraz

Comprising of Faraz Ahmed (a musician who has played with the likes of Mekaal Hasan, ‘The Trip’, and ‘Noori’), Ian Eldred (the golden boy of Shah Sharabeel’s musical productions – one of his finest roles which he played in ‘Moulin Rogue’), and Wahaj (who has musically dabbled in alternative acts such as ‘Azaish’, ‘New York Reflections’ and ‘Myle’). 

“The band ‘13’ was formed in 2006 with myself and Hassan Taimur”, Faraz states, “We’d been playing with a lot of underground bands in Pakistan such as ‘The Trip’, ‘Noori’ and Mekaal Hasan’s project ‘Bare Chords’, among the lot. In 2005 Hassan and I were asked to play with an American Opera singer called Heather Schmid who was touring Pakistan and raising funds for the earthquake victims at the time.” 

Soon after, Hassan left Pakistan to pursue higher studies abroad, resulting in the introduction of Ian and Wahaj to ‘13’. 

Interestingly, via 13’s internet promotion, I’d learnt that the band also included a young female drummer called Mehreen Baxm. 

“She’s Pakistan’s first professional girl drummer who is also involved in composing, lyric-writing, designing and promotions for our band”, Faraz states, “But currently she’s on indefinite hiatus due to a demanding program at a university in Georgia, United States.” 

So considering the band’s played at public and private gigs, do they plan on releasing an album (since that stands as Step Number 2 for any new band entering into the local music scene)?

“With there being only one major record label in the country”, Faraz answers, “The window of opportunity has constricted which means less variegation within the music industry. Foreign labels are a hard deal because without an agent most bands get lost in some corner of the information highway.”

Fair enough. But a music video, then? “Yes we plan to make a video for our debut song and we’re currently looking for sponsors, even though the rubrics most of these potential sponsors we approach are addling at best – for example we had two different people within one corporation tell us that our music was not commercial and grunge enough but yet was also too commercial in nature to be considered marketable rock/pop”.

Faraz then goes on to state something which has been echoed by our local musicians, young and old, over the years; “You see it’s a very discernible and disturbing phenomenon, if you want to be a sure fire hit today and have the backing of a host of sponsors then unfortunately you will have to sell your ideals and principles by letting go of the music that you truly want to play and share with other people. Eventually you must become a cardboard cut-out that can be stereotyped and easily packaged by people ‘showing you the money’. It is terribly deleterious and can only mean the slow and attritional emaciation of diversity and heterogeneity.”

Part of the rock scene in Melbourne, Australia (in the 90s), Faraz, on his arrival back in Pakistan joined the Lahori underground scene in 2001 (and played with a few bands as mentioned earlier). 

“Music had gall back then – from the late 90s to 2003”, he says, “Music was more then just an end to a means, it was collective consciousness, everyone was part of something, something that was just invigorating, facultative and binding. It wasn’t just a bunch of snooty-nosed kids playing guitars and indulging in all sorts of bourgeois nonsense”.

But of the music scene as it stands currently? Faraz remains optimistic. While the political and economic vista of the country may appear to be in shambles, Pakistani musicians – like each of us – have developed a to-hell-with-it attitude…carrying on with what they know best, yet dealing with it pragmatically on a day to day basis. 

So whether or not the returns don’t flow in as soon and/or as much as they should, and whether or not record deals are struck (or lost) the local music scene is and always will be, in constant metamorphosis. 

The Saturday Post & Sunday, Daily Times

Older Entries

Search


Categories

Archives

Blog at WordPress.com.

Albeo theme by Design Disease