Saturday, March 28, 2009
for gods sake.. were not hindus or sikhs!
I happened to listen to a few media reports on the recent violence in Pakistan's North-West. Often they interview civilians fleeing military offensives. Once too often one hears some flavor of the following comment from the poor hapless fleeing souls: "its not like were hindus or sikhs.. why the hell is our own government bombing our villages?". Is this messed up or is this messed up?
Not News
December 15th 2007 saw the death of young Zahoor Ahmad Mir at the hands of the police in Magam, Kashmir. This is not news in Kashmir. Young men are killed every day - militants, civilians, victims of encounters, policemen and others.
Zahoor was killed when police opened fire on a protest demanding the government create a college in Magam.
Inhuman, absurd and bizarre.
Again, this is not news in Kashmir. Kashmiris remember how, in the past, protests against electric supply shortages have ended with loss of life. Kashmir ranks among the many parts of the world where life goes cheap.
The inhuman, absurd and bizarre is not news in Kashmir. What can be more inhuman, absurd and bizarre.
Zahoor was killed when police opened fire on a protest demanding the government create a college in Magam.
Inhuman, absurd and bizarre.
Again, this is not news in Kashmir. Kashmiris remember how, in the past, protests against electric supply shortages have ended with loss of life. Kashmir ranks among the many parts of the world where life goes cheap.
The inhuman, absurd and bizarre is not news in Kashmir. What can be more inhuman, absurd and bizarre.
Wife of Abdus Samad Bhat
When Sara passed away, we buried her in our family's graveyard in the foothills of the "Suleman Teng" or "Shankaracharya Hill" in Srinagar, Kashmir. We marked the grave with white marble. At the head, below the bismillah, the caligraphy reads "Wafaate Ahleya Abdus Samad Bhat"; It marks the death of the "Wife of Abdus Samad Bhat". She was my grandmother, had been a proud and loving wife to the wonderful Abdus Samad Bhat, and her name was Sara.
Quite likely the omission of her given name was a manifestation of what-was-done and what-was-proper in the collective psyche. When i looked at it this September the marking struck me as a symbol of our, for want of a better word, male chauvinism.
This "our" identity seems to be defined by our nationality and culture and religion and history and the list can be longer. The "we" it constitutes puts women on a pedestal that seeks to grant respect but comes with a denial and suppression of feminine individuality. Apparently, it did not want to acknowledge Sara directly.
Quite likely the omission of her given name was a manifestation of what-was-done and what-was-proper in the collective psyche. When i looked at it this September the marking struck me as a symbol of our, for want of a better word, male chauvinism.
This "our" identity seems to be defined by our nationality and culture and religion and history and the list can be longer. The "we" it constitutes puts women on a pedestal that seeks to grant respect but comes with a denial and suppression of feminine individuality. Apparently, it did not want to acknowledge Sara directly.
May The Ghulam Hassans Please Stand Up
The year was 1992. The classrooms were dusty with their entrances hidden at the ends of dark, gloomy corridors in the dilapidated structures of the S.P. Higher Secondary School in Srinagar.
Kashmir had gone militant. Rebellion was pouring out, where it was due and where it was not; irrespective. Defiance of authority was in fashion that season. Anarchy was the law. For the fashion conscious young in school and college, this new style often manifested in defiance of (and frequently disrespect towards) all teachers and teaching institutions. The boys could come to class or to examinations armed, either with a weapon or with the possibility of pointing one later. Lecturers could get shouted at, and worse. Someone might desire a personal advantage; someone else might do it just because it was fun. Teachers, as an institution (and as individuals, by large) behaved like all other institutions and individuals in choosing to look the other way; wisdom favored discretion, rather than valor. The (otherwise sacred) spirit of rebellion among youth had cut loose of any constraints of direction.
Most classes were never held. Often, the lecturer would not show up. No one bothered to ask why. One assumed it had to do with the "haalaat" being "kharaab" (the times being bad). Maybe his haalaat were really kharaab that day. Maybe he was apprehensive his haalaat could turn kharaab in the hands of his class! Maybe he had just lost his drive to go thru the motions of holding class. The class wouldnt miss him much anyway. Even if he had turned up, few would have shown up in his bare classroom. Yes, many classrooms were indeed bare of furniture or held just remnants (I once took an annual exam in a bare room. The next day was better; they had desks; no chairs though!).
Among all this chaos, in a barely furnished damp classroom at the end of the same dark gloomy corridor, Ghulam Hassan would hold his English Literature class. Whatever desks were present in that hall would be occupied, as one might expect in normal times. However, the rest of the room would be packed as well; taken up by students standing to listen to the lecture. Some would be sitting on the window sills; others would be standing outside the large ground floor windows trying to listen in.
That year, the class had three different sections, each with its own lecturer. The overcrowding just described was due to all enrolled showing up in Ghulam Hassans class, while ignoring their assigned lectures.
Such a crowd and such absolute silence. Such times and such respect for authority. An amazing display of commanding respect, based in my opinion, on the sheer force of personality and individual ability.
As i write, the year is 2007. May the Ghulam Hassans please stand up.
Kashmir had gone militant. Rebellion was pouring out, where it was due and where it was not; irrespective. Defiance of authority was in fashion that season. Anarchy was the law. For the fashion conscious young in school and college, this new style often manifested in defiance of (and frequently disrespect towards) all teachers and teaching institutions. The boys could come to class or to examinations armed, either with a weapon or with the possibility of pointing one later. Lecturers could get shouted at, and worse. Someone might desire a personal advantage; someone else might do it just because it was fun. Teachers, as an institution (and as individuals, by large) behaved like all other institutions and individuals in choosing to look the other way; wisdom favored discretion, rather than valor. The (otherwise sacred) spirit of rebellion among youth had cut loose of any constraints of direction.
Most classes were never held. Often, the lecturer would not show up. No one bothered to ask why. One assumed it had to do with the "haalaat" being "kharaab" (the times being bad). Maybe his haalaat were really kharaab that day. Maybe he was apprehensive his haalaat could turn kharaab in the hands of his class! Maybe he had just lost his drive to go thru the motions of holding class. The class wouldnt miss him much anyway. Even if he had turned up, few would have shown up in his bare classroom. Yes, many classrooms were indeed bare of furniture or held just remnants (I once took an annual exam in a bare room. The next day was better; they had desks; no chairs though!).
Among all this chaos, in a barely furnished damp classroom at the end of the same dark gloomy corridor, Ghulam Hassan would hold his English Literature class. Whatever desks were present in that hall would be occupied, as one might expect in normal times. However, the rest of the room would be packed as well; taken up by students standing to listen to the lecture. Some would be sitting on the window sills; others would be standing outside the large ground floor windows trying to listen in.
That year, the class had three different sections, each with its own lecturer. The overcrowding just described was due to all enrolled showing up in Ghulam Hassans class, while ignoring their assigned lectures.
Such a crowd and such absolute silence. Such times and such respect for authority. An amazing display of commanding respect, based in my opinion, on the sheer force of personality and individual ability.
As i write, the year is 2007. May the Ghulam Hassans please stand up.
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