Amidst the banal and mind-numbing spread of op-ed pages across the country, Aakar Patel’s recent piece on the civil-military imbalance in Pakistan (Express Tribune: Of Punjab’s partition, castes & martial races) was a refreshing departure from convention. Here’s what Mr. Patel had to say about the issue:
“My hypothesis is that the division of the Punjabi nation in 1947 produced a Pakistani Punjab that was heavily weighted in favour of the martial castes. The trading castes, which tend to be more pragmatic and balance society’s extremism mostly left to come to India. This has produced the imbalance which explains Pakistan’s fondness for a state dominated by soldiers. Gen Pervez Kayani runs the state’s foreign policy, security policy and most of its economic policy because the majority of Punjabis are comfortable with the idea of a warrior being in charge.”
Let’s get one thing straight though: this particular line of thinking, i.e. the association of caste with institutional ordering, isn’t new. In fact, it’s been present in the Indian subcontinent since at least the middle of the 19th century.
As the story goes, in the aftermath of the 1857 Mutiny the Empire wanted to re-structure the British Indian Army in a bid to expunge the treacherous Bengalis, and accommodate more loyal segments of society, i.e. the Punjabis. The premise for this ethnic revision, however, was less arbitrary than it sounds, and was actually based on anthropological work done by civil servants of the Raj. Volume upon volume, detailing every characteristic of how major and minor ethnic groups went about their daily lives, what they ate, how they spent their money, what were they good at, and what were their failings. These observations, put together in the shape of district gazetteers, pamphlets, and, in some cases, full book-length publications, ultimately led to the conclusion that some Punjabi tribes, i.e. the martial races (Janjuas, Awans, Ghakars etc), were best suited for military service.
This is precisely where Aakar Patel’s hypothesis overlaps with historical reality: The British, in their quest for passive consent from the Indians, skewed recruitment patterns to such an extent that 67% of all recruitment was happening in the hill-tracts of what is now Pakistani Punjab. As a stand-alone fact, this particular contingency makes Patel’s theory very believable. Punjab has a militaristic culture, it is the largest province in the country, it has, over time, achieved pre-eminence in the affairs of the state, and hence it organically supports the one institution that it both helps form, and sustain: the army.
All well and good on paper, but unfortunately, this theory falls flat in the face of everything else that’s happened in our 150 year long history. If Patel’s thesis were used to construct a counter-factual, it would have resulted in a number of things:
1) The army would’ve been popular and powerful from the day of independence.
This, as is well recorded, is not true. For starters, Pakistan had terrible military infrastructure in the first decade of independence, and a process of hardware accumulation became possible only after the CEATO-SENTO deals were negotiated with the US by a civilian government.
2) The two-nation theory, based on warrior-like posturing towards India, was a product of the Punjabi imagination.
False. While the two-nation theory is imbibed and perpetuated by a large segment of the society in North and Central Punjab, it was actually championed by the Muhajir bureaucracy in the first 25 years of independence. Ghulam Muhammad, an Aligarh educated accountant, and the first finance minister of Pakistan, gave a speech on the floor of the constituent assembly extolling the virtues of a powerful army, of diverting budgetary resources towards arms accumulation, and of being prepared to mount a credible defense (and where applicable, effective attack) in the face of an ever-looming Indian threat.
3) The pre-eminence of Punjabi caste-based militarism limited and, ultimately maligned, capitalistic growth in post-partition Punjab
Also not true. Patel, later on in the piece, cites the case of trading castes in Karachi and Indian Punjab as counter-balancing forces that keep militarism in check. This particular reading of reality completely ignores, well, reality. Pakistani Punjab, despite the large-scale flight of non-Muslim capital in 1947, now sees urbanization at nearly 35 percent, and a provincial GDP that has a greater contribution from trade, retail, transport, and manufacturing than agriculture. The Punjabi trading and artisan castes, Arain, Kashmiri, Sheikhs, Perachas, Lohars etc, not only dominate provincial politics (through parties like the PMLN), they’re also quite keen on having good relations with India.
The basic premise of Aakar Patel’s piece is correct. The military is quite popular in Punjab, and in urban Pakistan as a whole, and its role in politics is not looked upon as an indiscretion. But his explanation is essentialist, and quite flawed. The real reasons for the army’s popularity are in the historical imbalances created by the ideology of a seceding state, by the exigencies of an aloof, migrant bureaucracy, by the machinations of global powers, by the self-serving accumulation of the armed foces themselves, and most importantly, the 64 year long project of villyfying mass-politics, political parties, and politicians. A project in which, to this day, media, and segments of the elite continue to be willing partners.
Originally published in Pakistan Today on 23/01/2012
Sunday, 22 January 2012
Monday, 16 January 2012
The Seen and the Unseen In Pakistan's Economy
“First winter in Islamabad?”
“I moved here a few weeks ago. Before that I was in Pakpattan, but I’ve spent some time in Multan and Khanewal as well. My mamoo taught me well; he works at an auto workshop in the main Bahawalnagar civil lines bazaar. Its the largest workshop in the entire district.”
“So you’ve been in this line of work for the last…?”
“16 years. Paid an agent 80,000 on two separate occasions for a job contact and visa in Saudia. Was refused by immigration authorities on medical grounds, both times. They said I had high blood pressure and an above average body temperature. Must’ve been because of all that time I spent playing cricket in the desert sun.”
Muhammad Shehzad now works at a small workshop in Islamabad. He gets paid, in cash, on a fortnightly basis, and rents a small room with 4 of his co-mechanics. The proprietor of his new workplace came to know of Shehzad through a local jobber (an informal employment agent), who in turn had met Shehzad a few months ago in Pakpattan.
The distance between Islamabad and Pakpattan is approximately 550 km. Shehzad had never visited Lahore, let alone Islamabad, had no relatives in the capital city, no friends, no warm clothes, and no place to stay. Yet here was, three weeks into a new job, cold and mostly hungry, but going about his business like many others across the country.
Contrary to what some of you might be thinking at this point, this column does not seek to narrate a human-interest story. In fact, this particular example has been cited precisely because of its relative tedium, its complete lack of exceptionality, and because, at any given point, it happens to be true for a very large number of individuals in Pakistan.
Let me explicate further:
These last few months, an English language daily has witnessed an intense, but mostly inconclusive debate on the nature of Pakistan’s economic crisis. In one camp are the mainstreamers; the orthodox economists who cite basic macroeconomic indicators (fiscal deficit, inflation, unemployment, growth rate, total debt) to point out the precarious position we currently find ourselves in. Crisis, they say, is an understatement. Full, unmitigated disaster captures the situation more effectively. In the other camp, there was only one man: Dr. S. Akber Zaidi. In his view, Pakistan’s economy is undoubtedly in a bad shape, but at the same time, most of this clamor and alarm about falling into an economic abyss was misplaced. The outcome, in his view, of a complete failure on part of mainstream economists to understand the nature of Pakistan’s economy.
According to Dr. Zaidi and political sociologist, Dr. Aasim Sajjad Akhtar, Pakistan’s economy exists in a seen-unseen formation, with the latter counterweighing the problems arising in the former. Most of those reading this piece, i.e. the 9 to 5, white-collar sorts with an NTN number, exist in the ‘seen’ portion. Muhammad Shehzad, the 9 to 9, paid-in-cash, auto mechanic, exists in the ‘unseen’ portion. This particular argument is premised on the fact that the unseen, or informal/undocumented portion of Pakistan’s economy is, potentially, as large as the documented portion, employs as many, if not more, people, and operates on a more nativist logic, using biraderi, zaat, tribe, and other such informal connections that produce a dynamism more capable of handling macro-economic problems. In 2003, Anwer Kemal estimated that nearly 50 percent of all employment in Pakistan happens in the informal, or semi-informal segment. Car mechanics, local shops, small-scale manufacturing units, domestic services like drivers, guards, and cleaners, all operate in the informal sector. People gain employment through intermediaries, colloquially known as jobbers, and stick around in mostly oppressive environments till they find something marginally better. This process is complemented by informal migration and subsequent remittance flows from the Gulf, which provides direct cash injection into many households in Pakistan.
The process of informalization has received several fillips since the Bhutto period: For starters, the de-regulation and de-nationalization of the economy during the 80s, and the stagnation of manufacturing in the 90s, saw a large pool of unemployed labor shift into the informal sector. Secondly, the services sector (51% of total GDP) in Punjab, and in Karachi, revolves largely around two major components: Transport & communication, and Retail & Wholesale. In the backdrop of a liberalized trade policy (as part of structural adjustment) the trading and retail, as well as transport, sector became major nodes of labor absorption. Thirdly, fueled by foreign inflows of cash (post 9/11), and a mostly artificial credit boom, the construction sector grew by nearly 48% in the last decade. Around 87.8% of all employment in this particular sector is informal and undocumented, and hence, beyond the purview of labor welfare related legislation.
Precisely because of its understudied dimension, it’s hard to pinpoint whether the visible dynamism of the informal economy is sufficient to offset Pakistan’s macro-economic crisis. The problem is further exacerbated when you consider that most people who deal with such questions (researchers, development practitioners) have failed to accord any substantive importance to the informal sector. Unlike in India, where the government has formed the National Commission for Enterprises in the Unorganized Sector (NCEUS), the academia, and the government in Pakistan continues to ignore the existence of this rapidly growing phenomenon, and consequently fails to see the very real forms of exploitation and oppression that take place within it. Safe to say, till such time that our analytical frame is broadened, all functional attempts to understand, and work with the economy will remain incomplete and hence, ineffective.
Originally published in Pakistan Today on 16/01/2011
“I moved here a few weeks ago. Before that I was in Pakpattan, but I’ve spent some time in Multan and Khanewal as well. My mamoo taught me well; he works at an auto workshop in the main Bahawalnagar civil lines bazaar. Its the largest workshop in the entire district.”
“So you’ve been in this line of work for the last…?”
“16 years. Paid an agent 80,000 on two separate occasions for a job contact and visa in Saudia. Was refused by immigration authorities on medical grounds, both times. They said I had high blood pressure and an above average body temperature. Must’ve been because of all that time I spent playing cricket in the desert sun.”
Muhammad Shehzad now works at a small workshop in Islamabad. He gets paid, in cash, on a fortnightly basis, and rents a small room with 4 of his co-mechanics. The proprietor of his new workplace came to know of Shehzad through a local jobber (an informal employment agent), who in turn had met Shehzad a few months ago in Pakpattan.
The distance between Islamabad and Pakpattan is approximately 550 km. Shehzad had never visited Lahore, let alone Islamabad, had no relatives in the capital city, no friends, no warm clothes, and no place to stay. Yet here was, three weeks into a new job, cold and mostly hungry, but going about his business like many others across the country.
Contrary to what some of you might be thinking at this point, this column does not seek to narrate a human-interest story. In fact, this particular example has been cited precisely because of its relative tedium, its complete lack of exceptionality, and because, at any given point, it happens to be true for a very large number of individuals in Pakistan.
Let me explicate further:
These last few months, an English language daily has witnessed an intense, but mostly inconclusive debate on the nature of Pakistan’s economic crisis. In one camp are the mainstreamers; the orthodox economists who cite basic macroeconomic indicators (fiscal deficit, inflation, unemployment, growth rate, total debt) to point out the precarious position we currently find ourselves in. Crisis, they say, is an understatement. Full, unmitigated disaster captures the situation more effectively. In the other camp, there was only one man: Dr. S. Akber Zaidi. In his view, Pakistan’s economy is undoubtedly in a bad shape, but at the same time, most of this clamor and alarm about falling into an economic abyss was misplaced. The outcome, in his view, of a complete failure on part of mainstream economists to understand the nature of Pakistan’s economy.
According to Dr. Zaidi and political sociologist, Dr. Aasim Sajjad Akhtar, Pakistan’s economy exists in a seen-unseen formation, with the latter counterweighing the problems arising in the former. Most of those reading this piece, i.e. the 9 to 5, white-collar sorts with an NTN number, exist in the ‘seen’ portion. Muhammad Shehzad, the 9 to 9, paid-in-cash, auto mechanic, exists in the ‘unseen’ portion. This particular argument is premised on the fact that the unseen, or informal/undocumented portion of Pakistan’s economy is, potentially, as large as the documented portion, employs as many, if not more, people, and operates on a more nativist logic, using biraderi, zaat, tribe, and other such informal connections that produce a dynamism more capable of handling macro-economic problems. In 2003, Anwer Kemal estimated that nearly 50 percent of all employment in Pakistan happens in the informal, or semi-informal segment. Car mechanics, local shops, small-scale manufacturing units, domestic services like drivers, guards, and cleaners, all operate in the informal sector. People gain employment through intermediaries, colloquially known as jobbers, and stick around in mostly oppressive environments till they find something marginally better. This process is complemented by informal migration and subsequent remittance flows from the Gulf, which provides direct cash injection into many households in Pakistan.
The process of informalization has received several fillips since the Bhutto period: For starters, the de-regulation and de-nationalization of the economy during the 80s, and the stagnation of manufacturing in the 90s, saw a large pool of unemployed labor shift into the informal sector. Secondly, the services sector (51% of total GDP) in Punjab, and in Karachi, revolves largely around two major components: Transport & communication, and Retail & Wholesale. In the backdrop of a liberalized trade policy (as part of structural adjustment) the trading and retail, as well as transport, sector became major nodes of labor absorption. Thirdly, fueled by foreign inflows of cash (post 9/11), and a mostly artificial credit boom, the construction sector grew by nearly 48% in the last decade. Around 87.8% of all employment in this particular sector is informal and undocumented, and hence, beyond the purview of labor welfare related legislation.
Precisely because of its understudied dimension, it’s hard to pinpoint whether the visible dynamism of the informal economy is sufficient to offset Pakistan’s macro-economic crisis. The problem is further exacerbated when you consider that most people who deal with such questions (researchers, development practitioners) have failed to accord any substantive importance to the informal sector. Unlike in India, where the government has formed the National Commission for Enterprises in the Unorganized Sector (NCEUS), the academia, and the government in Pakistan continues to ignore the existence of this rapidly growing phenomenon, and consequently fails to see the very real forms of exploitation and oppression that take place within it. Safe to say, till such time that our analytical frame is broadened, all functional attempts to understand, and work with the economy will remain incomplete and hence, ineffective.
Originally published in Pakistan Today on 16/01/2011
Monday, 9 January 2012
21st Century Populism
In the aftermath of the Cold War, the process of pro-market reform has, more or less, continued unabated in large parts of the free, liberated, and would-be-liberated world. Pakistan itself has seen large-scale privatization, (which, by the way, still isn’t enough for some people), de-regulation in the financial sector, and an unabashed willingness to open up for foreign investment. People have mobile phones, new cars, and 15 different kinds of cooking oils to choose from. In the backdrop of this hasty, and somewhat selective, engagement with consumerist capitalism, Pakistan has seen a huge rise in the absolute size of a middle-income group, which, according to PIDE, is now estimated to be around 30-35 million.
That’s 30-35 million people who want to live their lives a certain comfortable way.
Interestingly enough, one of the things that Pakistan’s tottering economy has exposed is the degree to which our middle classes have become accustomed to this idea of relative comfort. Historically pampered with subsidized fuel, electricity, and controlled food prices, urbanites are having a hard time dealing with financial hardship, inflationary trends, and a rapid deterioration in state-sanctioned service delivery. The obvious response, and a natural one at that, is to blame the sitting government – something that they’ve become adept at for the last three and a half years. And let’s face it, in an era of objective crises, contextualized and nuanced reactions are neither present and nor should they be expected from the populace in general. If things are bad, people will throw eggs at whoever’s in the driving seat. It happened in the late 70’s, the late 90’s, and it’s happening again in 2012.
The substantive difference between the three cases is that this time around, there’s an organized, coherent, and, most importantly, civilian instrument of opposition in the shape of the PTI.
As much as Imran Khan would like to believe, PTI’s popularity has less to do with his personality, and much more to do with structural causes that have historically given rise to dissident sentiment. A while ago, an office-bearer of the Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf, who moonlights as an orthodontist (or is it the other way around?), wrote an opinion piece drawing parallels with Z.A. Bhutto’s rise to power, and Imran Khan’s increasing popularity. Both leaders, he said, were accepted by a cross-section of the polity, both were able to mobilize effectively, and both relied on their personal charisma to engage with previously dormant segments of society. Based on these three characteristics alone, and ignoring the substantive content of their respective brands of populism, the comparison possesses some merit. PTI, like the PPP of the late 60’s, is promising to change the current order of things and for a large number of people, the rhetoric of change is more than enough to win them over.
The PTI effect, and that’s what I’m going to call it now, is an interesting culmination of three inter-connected trends in Pakistan since the 80’s: selective pro-market reform, middle class growth, and, most important of all, the gradual dissipation of working class politics. The first two are fairly obvious, while the third one is something most of us don’t bother dwelling on despite the fact that it holds the key to explaining party politics in contemporary Pakistan.
The very fact that local heavyweights are considered to be the biggest factor in determining electoral success shows the nature of political contestation in the country. A particular big-wig, say a large landholder like Shah Mehmood Qureshi, is considered to be a representative of everyone, rich, middle class, or poor, who lives in his constituency. The imbibed assumption is that an honest, hard-working, and good-intentioned representative will bring benefits to all and sundry, while the remote possibility that politics could be a zero-sum affair is considered to be an outdated notion, something that withered away with the fall of the Soviet Union.
Unfortunately, the truth is that this has little to do with socialism or communism, and everything to do with the way our political economy functions. The patwari, which PTI will replace with the computer operator, does not hold sway over the rural poor because of his position as a Class II government employee. He’s powerful because of the relationship he enjoys with the local big-wig, with the local magistrate, and with the police, which allows him to block a tenant’s right to land, to ensure female disinheritance, and to, generally, affect the process in a certain way. Replacing the patwari with a computer and an operator doesn’t alter the way power is structured and exercised at that particular level. It will at most force entrenched interests to adapt to a new reality. Consequently, the irony of talking about ‘getting rid of the patwari’ whilst having a landlord sitting right behind him on stage is completely lost on Imran Khan.
In the 60’s, Bhutto was made a leader by the rural and urban poor because of the circumstances left by Ayub’s Green Revolution and industrialization. Growing inequality, exclusion from land, and a heavy urban bias gave people tangible issues to rally around. Bhutto responded by leading a government, which despite its many flaws, managed to make the most significant rich-to-poor redistribution in this country’s history. Today, a desire for cheap fuel, uninterrupted electricity, trains and airplanes that run on time, and national honor fuel a new kind of movement. A kind that can only be built on the premise of a pro-market, neo-liberal economic agenda; can only run when middle class institutions (media, higher education, bureaucracy, armed forces) side with a segment of the elite for their own benefit; and can only gain traction when genuinely progressive alternatives have ceased to exist.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is populism in the 21st century.
Originally published in Pakistan Today on 09/01/2012
That’s 30-35 million people who want to live their lives a certain comfortable way.
Interestingly enough, one of the things that Pakistan’s tottering economy has exposed is the degree to which our middle classes have become accustomed to this idea of relative comfort. Historically pampered with subsidized fuel, electricity, and controlled food prices, urbanites are having a hard time dealing with financial hardship, inflationary trends, and a rapid deterioration in state-sanctioned service delivery. The obvious response, and a natural one at that, is to blame the sitting government – something that they’ve become adept at for the last three and a half years. And let’s face it, in an era of objective crises, contextualized and nuanced reactions are neither present and nor should they be expected from the populace in general. If things are bad, people will throw eggs at whoever’s in the driving seat. It happened in the late 70’s, the late 90’s, and it’s happening again in 2012.
The substantive difference between the three cases is that this time around, there’s an organized, coherent, and, most importantly, civilian instrument of opposition in the shape of the PTI.
As much as Imran Khan would like to believe, PTI’s popularity has less to do with his personality, and much more to do with structural causes that have historically given rise to dissident sentiment. A while ago, an office-bearer of the Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf, who moonlights as an orthodontist (or is it the other way around?), wrote an opinion piece drawing parallels with Z.A. Bhutto’s rise to power, and Imran Khan’s increasing popularity. Both leaders, he said, were accepted by a cross-section of the polity, both were able to mobilize effectively, and both relied on their personal charisma to engage with previously dormant segments of society. Based on these three characteristics alone, and ignoring the substantive content of their respective brands of populism, the comparison possesses some merit. PTI, like the PPP of the late 60’s, is promising to change the current order of things and for a large number of people, the rhetoric of change is more than enough to win them over.
The PTI effect, and that’s what I’m going to call it now, is an interesting culmination of three inter-connected trends in Pakistan since the 80’s: selective pro-market reform, middle class growth, and, most important of all, the gradual dissipation of working class politics. The first two are fairly obvious, while the third one is something most of us don’t bother dwelling on despite the fact that it holds the key to explaining party politics in contemporary Pakistan.
The very fact that local heavyweights are considered to be the biggest factor in determining electoral success shows the nature of political contestation in the country. A particular big-wig, say a large landholder like Shah Mehmood Qureshi, is considered to be a representative of everyone, rich, middle class, or poor, who lives in his constituency. The imbibed assumption is that an honest, hard-working, and good-intentioned representative will bring benefits to all and sundry, while the remote possibility that politics could be a zero-sum affair is considered to be an outdated notion, something that withered away with the fall of the Soviet Union.
Unfortunately, the truth is that this has little to do with socialism or communism, and everything to do with the way our political economy functions. The patwari, which PTI will replace with the computer operator, does not hold sway over the rural poor because of his position as a Class II government employee. He’s powerful because of the relationship he enjoys with the local big-wig, with the local magistrate, and with the police, which allows him to block a tenant’s right to land, to ensure female disinheritance, and to, generally, affect the process in a certain way. Replacing the patwari with a computer and an operator doesn’t alter the way power is structured and exercised at that particular level. It will at most force entrenched interests to adapt to a new reality. Consequently, the irony of talking about ‘getting rid of the patwari’ whilst having a landlord sitting right behind him on stage is completely lost on Imran Khan.
In the 60’s, Bhutto was made a leader by the rural and urban poor because of the circumstances left by Ayub’s Green Revolution and industrialization. Growing inequality, exclusion from land, and a heavy urban bias gave people tangible issues to rally around. Bhutto responded by leading a government, which despite its many flaws, managed to make the most significant rich-to-poor redistribution in this country’s history. Today, a desire for cheap fuel, uninterrupted electricity, trains and airplanes that run on time, and national honor fuel a new kind of movement. A kind that can only be built on the premise of a pro-market, neo-liberal economic agenda; can only run when middle class institutions (media, higher education, bureaucracy, armed forces) side with a segment of the elite for their own benefit; and can only gain traction when genuinely progressive alternatives have ceased to exist.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is populism in the 21st century.
Originally published in Pakistan Today on 09/01/2012
Sunday, 1 January 2012
Paying Tribute to an Idea
Two days from the time this column goes to print, a small segment of Pakistani society will observe the first death anniversary of ex-Governor, and businessman, Salmaan Taseer. The day will be marked with vigils, memorial services, and (mostly) quiet congregations in Islamabad, Lahore, and Karachi. These gatherings will be organized by family members of the deceased, by human rights activists, by the liberal intelligentsia, and, perhaps in certain rare cases, by the Pakistan Peoples Party.
The English press will grant one editorial, and possibly two opinion spaces to this topic in its 4th January publications, while broadcast media would run a segment or two in the 9 o clock news. And then the fifth of January will be upon us, and most, if not all of this, will be swept away by a new ‘gate’, another supreme court ruling, a thinly veiled army chief statement, or the unavailability of natural gas.
One news day gives way to another. Such is the order of things.
The rupture exposed by Taseer’s assassination is perhaps as revealing and as, if not more, stark as it was a full year ago. The context of his murder, in the backdrop of a blasphemy case, a mobilized right-wing machine, and a seething media was a glimpse of the worst shape our urban socio-cultural realm can potentially take. The subsequent reaction to the tragedy, characterized by passive acceptance, and in some disgusting cases, active approval, was an even more uncomfortable revelation.
Safe to say, this event remains the strongest indictment, in recent times, of how public space has grown hostile to alternative ideas of a certain variety.
The thing with ideational contestation is that it takes place at the level of society, and is subsequently meant to inform the debate at the level of the state. These exchanges determine limits upon personal freedoms, legal jurisdictions, and in some cases, inter-personal relations, while allowing space for disagreement, and guaranteeing security to minority opinion. Looking back at our history, however, reveals that our cultural realm has rarely been open to dialogue. From the time of independence, a top-heavy state structure has determined two of our principal relationships: 1) The relationship of social identity to national identity, and partially following from this, 2) the role of religion in social identity construction.
From the time of independence, structural impediments, and authoritarian expediency, has bred the construction of a heavily centralized narrative of existence. Pakistan is a single entity, forged by the wishes of a single nation, and guided, at least on paper, by the exigencies of a single divine code. For a large part of our history, and even now, the mainstream challenge to this insular understanding of a country comes from ethno-nationalist movement. Bengali, Baloch, Sindhi, Pashtun, and more recently, Muhajir and Seraiki nationalists have challenged the state narrative on social identity, and the politics of ‘rights’. The debate on the second relationship, i.e. religion and social identity, has historically remained subsumed in these ethno-nationalist struggles, or remained the primary concern of a liberal fringe, dominated by dissident leftists, human rights activists, and since the last two decades, the non-profit sector.
While the back and forth on social identity and national identity continues, the debate on religion as a constituent portion of social identity has largely been forgotten, especially in the urban context. A growth in the number of towns and cities, increasing entrenchment of capitalism, and, consequently, a general disregard for ‘ideological’ debate since the 70s has, by now, resulted in the passive acceptance of the state-ordained, right-wing backed formula of what it means to be a citizen.
Taseer’s stand on the blasphemy laws gained currency with the same fringe that’s been vocal about these issues for the last three decades. The only thing that has changed since then is the public reaction that the non-fringe has to such positions.
Whereas previously, these two social strands would exist in mutually exclusive environments, in their own respective spaces, the gradual removal of spatial barriers, and a shared ‘public’ sphere (thanks to broadcast media and the internet), has led to the hardening of fault-lines, and recognition of the ‘other’. A state-society nexus that circulates a narrative of being under-siege, under attack, and in constant danger not only looks outside of its borders for an apparent enemy, it looks at hostile collaborators within it as well. This is why the case of Aasia Bibi was not so much a question of theology, as it was a question of maintaining the sanctity of a perceived form of Pakistani culture.
An endorsement of Taseer’s bravery, and of his decision to take a principled stance in an era of public expediency is the bare minimum required to initiate a process of reform in the cultural realm. The more appropriate, and an infinitely more lasting, tribute to his legacy would be if the conception of what it means to be a citizen is revised, and those that hold monopoly over the power to define ‘identity’ and ‘culture’ are held accountable and challenged in society.
Originally published in Pakistan Today on 2/01/2012
The English press will grant one editorial, and possibly two opinion spaces to this topic in its 4th January publications, while broadcast media would run a segment or two in the 9 o clock news. And then the fifth of January will be upon us, and most, if not all of this, will be swept away by a new ‘gate’, another supreme court ruling, a thinly veiled army chief statement, or the unavailability of natural gas.
One news day gives way to another. Such is the order of things.
The rupture exposed by Taseer’s assassination is perhaps as revealing and as, if not more, stark as it was a full year ago. The context of his murder, in the backdrop of a blasphemy case, a mobilized right-wing machine, and a seething media was a glimpse of the worst shape our urban socio-cultural realm can potentially take. The subsequent reaction to the tragedy, characterized by passive acceptance, and in some disgusting cases, active approval, was an even more uncomfortable revelation.
Safe to say, this event remains the strongest indictment, in recent times, of how public space has grown hostile to alternative ideas of a certain variety.
The thing with ideational contestation is that it takes place at the level of society, and is subsequently meant to inform the debate at the level of the state. These exchanges determine limits upon personal freedoms, legal jurisdictions, and in some cases, inter-personal relations, while allowing space for disagreement, and guaranteeing security to minority opinion. Looking back at our history, however, reveals that our cultural realm has rarely been open to dialogue. From the time of independence, a top-heavy state structure has determined two of our principal relationships: 1) The relationship of social identity to national identity, and partially following from this, 2) the role of religion in social identity construction.
From the time of independence, structural impediments, and authoritarian expediency, has bred the construction of a heavily centralized narrative of existence. Pakistan is a single entity, forged by the wishes of a single nation, and guided, at least on paper, by the exigencies of a single divine code. For a large part of our history, and even now, the mainstream challenge to this insular understanding of a country comes from ethno-nationalist movement. Bengali, Baloch, Sindhi, Pashtun, and more recently, Muhajir and Seraiki nationalists have challenged the state narrative on social identity, and the politics of ‘rights’. The debate on the second relationship, i.e. religion and social identity, has historically remained subsumed in these ethno-nationalist struggles, or remained the primary concern of a liberal fringe, dominated by dissident leftists, human rights activists, and since the last two decades, the non-profit sector.
While the back and forth on social identity and national identity continues, the debate on religion as a constituent portion of social identity has largely been forgotten, especially in the urban context. A growth in the number of towns and cities, increasing entrenchment of capitalism, and, consequently, a general disregard for ‘ideological’ debate since the 70s has, by now, resulted in the passive acceptance of the state-ordained, right-wing backed formula of what it means to be a citizen.
Taseer’s stand on the blasphemy laws gained currency with the same fringe that’s been vocal about these issues for the last three decades. The only thing that has changed since then is the public reaction that the non-fringe has to such positions.
Whereas previously, these two social strands would exist in mutually exclusive environments, in their own respective spaces, the gradual removal of spatial barriers, and a shared ‘public’ sphere (thanks to broadcast media and the internet), has led to the hardening of fault-lines, and recognition of the ‘other’. A state-society nexus that circulates a narrative of being under-siege, under attack, and in constant danger not only looks outside of its borders for an apparent enemy, it looks at hostile collaborators within it as well. This is why the case of Aasia Bibi was not so much a question of theology, as it was a question of maintaining the sanctity of a perceived form of Pakistani culture.
An endorsement of Taseer’s bravery, and of his decision to take a principled stance in an era of public expediency is the bare minimum required to initiate a process of reform in the cultural realm. The more appropriate, and an infinitely more lasting, tribute to his legacy would be if the conception of what it means to be a citizen is revised, and those that hold monopoly over the power to define ‘identity’ and ‘culture’ are held accountable and challenged in society.
Originally published in Pakistan Today on 2/01/2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)