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What we say goes – Noam Chomsky

Book review of Noam Chomsky’s What we say goes, published in Books&Authors on November 2, 2008.

Misinformation, or euphemistically put ‘altered information’, is characteristic of the New World Order. This machinery works overtime every four years when ‘hockey moms’ and ‘Joe six-packs’ go to the polls and elect America’s Commander-in-Chief. In the frenzy of capturing maximum air time, television networks are flooded with campaign ads which not only manipulate public opinion but at times seem to mock one’s capacity to think sensibly. In this mindless media circus What We Say Goes stands out as a much needed break. The book is a compilation of interviews and conversations Noam Chomsky had with David Barsamian over a period of two years on different international and domestic issues.

Critiquing the American media, Chomsky comes right to the point and states that the principles of American media do not allow journalists to state unfavourable truths. In his signature candid manner, he says that American journalists are only concerned with violations of international law when it is committed by the ‘enemy’ states.

As a reformative measure, Chomsky prescribes a certain degree of ‘civil disobedience to recreate a functioning democracy’ as opposed to the blind subordination to authority.

Discussing the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in July 2006, he questions the very premise for the attacks. Israel had launched the invasion as self defense after Hezbollah killed eight of its soldiers and captured two. Chomsky points out that Israel has been abducting and killing civilians for decades and no one has suggested an invasion of the country, so the reason given could not have been a justification for launching an offensive against Lebanon.

Chomsky makes a very interesting observation by pointing out American disapproval for secular nationalism in the Muslim world. According to him, America and Israel have been instrumental in promoting fundamentalist Islamic groups by eliminating secular forces.

Discussing the double standards towards democracy, he cites the example of the election victory of Hamas, which, despite meeting the international principles of democracy, irked the neo-con lobby. As a result Israel has turned Gaza into the ‘biggest prison in the world.’

The question of democracy is raised again, when the author explains the legitimacy of Latin American leaders. Evo Morales was declared a dictator when he nationalised Bolivia’s key resources, despite the fact that he was supported by 95 per cent of his populace. Chomsky links America’s aversion to Latin American democracy with neo-liberal economics. According to him, the capitalist policies, which aim to benefit the northern hemisphere, are disapproved by a democratic government hence it becomes essential for US interest to have a puppet dictatorship in place which can be easily managed. A case in point is Chile after the Pinochet coup in 1973. Chomsky also discusses the economic mess created by the infamous Chicago Boys in Chile after the coup.

The author turns his attention to American society next and analyses the divisions and contrasts within its fabric. He explains how the public is pitted against the power systems. For example on the issue of Iran, the majority of the populace favours diplomatic initiatives, but their opinion doesn’t matter much to the decision-makers.

Analysing the nature of debate and discourse, he discusses how anyone criticising the government becomes unpatriotic, and anyone questioning the rogue tactics against Iran becomes a supporter of Ahmedinejad — or worse, a Holocaust denier. Demonisation of the enemy protects the government’s right to lie.

When the book went into print, there was little indication of the global economic crisis, therefore it is interesting to see Chomsky’s warning about the fragility of the real estate sector. He predicts the collapse of the housing bubble and fears the consequences would be dire.

What’s in a slur?

As most of the Britain was busy protesting the Israeli offensive in Gaza or battling the job cuts, Prince Harry’s latest blunder surfaced in the shape of a home video. Recently, a news website released a video diary shot by Prince Harry during his training days at Royal Military Academy Sandhurst in 2005. The video is no different from the hundreds of home videos which are put up on social networking websites every day, save for one tiny detail – it shows the person third in the line to the throne using racist slurs, amongst other things.

Photo courtesy News of the World

Prince Harry is no stranger to controversy. At many an occasion, he has displayed an aloofness to cultural and religious sensibilities. From wearing a Swastika on his arm for a costume party to drunken fist fights with paparazzi, diplomatic decorum does not come naturally to the prince and from the looks of it, the royal staff hasn’t yet been successful in instilling some sense into the young prince either. In this particular video, Prince Harry referred to a fellow Pakistani cadet as ‘Paki’ and then called another one a ‘rag head’ – a slang used for religious extremists.

The debate, which has ensued as a result of this recent incident, is not over the maturity and poise – or lack of it – displayed by Prince Harry. The episode has sent the whole society introspecting on where it stands on the ever-so-delicate issue of racism.

The question is no longer whether people are racist or not, what’s being explored is what actually constitutes racism. In this age of networking and cyber babble, the offensive and derogatory terms have undergone a metamorphosis of sorts. What was previously deemed offensive no longer evokes the same response in certain situations. The usage of the ‘F’ word in every day talk has become so frequent that it may soon lose the derogative connotation once associated with it.

Same goes for many other words which are used as affectionate nicknames for friends. To some extent, the racist slurs have also become tolerable, but that depends on who is using them and in what context. I would surely be offended if called a Paki by a passer-by, but I get rather amused when my Russian friend calls me Paki and I, in return, call him Ruski. And perhaps, for the same reason Prince Charles can be excused for calling his Asian friend Kolin Dhillon ‘Sooty’, at least that is what Mr Dhillon wants us all to do. However, does our passive acceptance of such terms win them universal approval and general tolerance?

As Gordon Brown rushed forth pleading the prince be given ‘the benefit of doubt’, some commentators questioned why ‘Paki’ evokes rage while ‘Brit’ is taken as a mere modification of British. Others defended the beleaguered prince by saying that the reference was made affectionately and he did not mean any contempt. To be entirely fair, the prince’s commentary had a more playful tone than a hostile one. When all this is taken into account, one is forced to ask why this gaffe should not be brushed aside as yet another blunder by an immature prince, especially since the comment was made three years ago.

There are two answers to the question. Firstly, the comment was made by a prince, who is expected to become a role model for young people. Only recently, the two princes were given their separate offices with their own staff and personal crests. The Royal staff has been busy using Prince Harry’s military experience in Afghanistan to present him as someone the public can look up to. With his new image, Prince Harry has to take on new responsibilities and understand that his harmless banter might be seen as an approval of racist behaviour by others. Moreover, the British public pays taxes that contribute to the luxurious upkeep of the Royal Family, the least they deserve is some decorum from the royals.

Secondly, the new generation might not feel very strongly about racist or offensive terms, but there is a whole generation of ethnic minorities who had to fight their way out of racism in this country. Someone rightly pointed out that Paki is different from Brit because no British man can recall being beaten up by Asian skinheads or being hurled an insult at him. Same is not the case with many Pakistanis, who have physically and verbally suffered the hatred which came with the term Paki. The outrage of these people is justified and their sensibilities should be respected.

Therefore, while Mr Dhillon may not mind being called Sooty by his dear friend Prince Charles and the Pakistani cadet called ‘Paki’ may acquit Prince Harry of any racist behaviour, for the rest of us, the slurs remain as politically incorrect as ever.

Published in Images on Sunday on Feb 1, 2009.

Karachi

Shahrah-e-Faisal, one of the main arteries of the city. Photo by Faras Ghani

Sometimes I feel like I don’t have a partner
Sometimes I feel like my only friend
Is the city I live in
The city of angels
Lonely as I am
Together we cry

— City of Angels – Red Hot Chili Peppers

It is not the most beautiful city in the world, it is certainly not the richest nor the most luxurious – despite the pockets of luxury scattered on the fortunate side of the bridge – it is Karachi – the city of lights, blight and everything in between.

It is home to the politicians with big cars and even bigger promises, home to beggars who make more money than a blue-collar employee, home to street children who sell flowers by day and their innocence by night, home to morally suffocated masses who breathe in confusion and breathe out dogma, home to free spirits who cherish their polluted existences, along with all of this…Karachi is home to me…or at least it was.

So what do I write when I bid adieu to my city. As I pen my farewell note to the city which has shown me the good, bad and the ugly life has to offer, I must commit the crime of being clichéd by stating that I do love Karachi, why… I don’t know. Maybe I love the city because it’s been kind enough to house me, or maybe because this is all the world I’ve known so far, whatever the reason be, one thing is undeniable, this city has shown me the ugliest face of humankind, the brutality to which one can stoop to and the callousness we are all capable of possessing. With all of that, Karachi has taught me to stand up to this, to be brave, to face my worst fears…it’s taught me that life goes on, no matter what.

I wanted to leave the city by after feeling the dynamic, chaotic pace of things; after soaking in the serene stretches of the beach; after enjoying the eclectic colours of life that are so beautifully woven in the fabric of Karachi; that is the city I had wanted to say good-bye to. Sadly, the city I bid adieu to was a ravaged skeleton of its former self. As I drove to the airport, I felt drained, tired and sad. What I had expected to be a moment of joy, was eclipsed by an unknown fear and a strong sense of guilt. While waiting for the final call to the greener pastures, I felt I was betraying my city by leaving it at its worst and the weakest moment. Good-byes are never easy, and this particular one was the most difficult of them all.

Identity

It is said that 21st century is the age of confusion and indeed it is one. From the east to west people are gripped in identity crises. Where do we belong? Which group actually represents us? And to whom do we owe our full loyalties?

A wave of revivalisms has swept us away, be it the revivalism of faith, culture or nationalistic passions, the ones at the receiving end are more confused than ever.

Someone has claimed the end of history, some have re-launched their quest to shed off the white man’s burden, while some have foreseen the clash of civilizations, the only result these phenomena have generated is that they have sent us back to our roots, groping for an identity so that we can put up our defenses against the new world order where belonging to a specific religion or race is a crime in itself, where identity of one is a threat to another.

In reviving our identities, we have lost what little consciousness we had of our human identity. The cultural/ religious divide has bifurcated the world in ‘us’ and ‘them’. The fault lies in all of us, no one group, race or religion can be acquitted of the charges of bias, discrimination and prejudices. What needed is the revival of the human identity, once that is restored, the rest would follow.

The art of (wo)manipulation

From Sun Tzu in the East to Machiavelli in West, the social and political evolution of man and womankind is dotted with attempts by humble creatures to master the art of manipulation and diplomacy. What came to the wise ones after much effort and thought comes rather naturally to the women of the subcontinent.

The shrewdest political architects would find in our good ol’ lady of the house a formidable rival if competing in the art of trickery. A little tear here, a little sob there and mothers, grandmothers, wives and sisters would have entire households on their knees, racked with guilt and willing to shed blood to appease the drama queens.

It’s amazing how the machinations of the fairer sex work. Yes, they are weak and suppressed and what not, but those who find the breach in the repressive chauvinistic fabric of our society, exploit it to the hilt.

The most effective trick in their bag is the quintessential sobbing. Mind you, this is not full-fledged weeping with water works, et al; it is done rather tastefully with a tear or two escaping the eye and a throaty voice to add emotional depth to the situation. Case in point, a dissatisfied begum who must have the latest, branded lawn jora; when the husband dares to point out the four dozen joras hanging in the closet, which is bursting at seams, the manipulation starts, ‘Koi baat nahi, mein puranay kapray hi pehan loon gi’, this coupled with teary eyes melts the husband’s heart and begum sahiba gets to add a jora or two to her collection.

Cursing their fate is another tactic often used by women to draw sympathetic obedience. Beating the chest with high-pitched wailing not only invokes sympathy but often instils a strange kind of fear in the victim. This tactic is usually applied when a rebellious son refuses to marry mommy’s dear darling niece. Since mommy jee has already envisioned her son’s future with her niece and even picked out names for their progeny, the rebellion should be dealt with post-haste. Hence comes the emotional blackmailing, ‘Aik hi beta mila aur who bhi aisa nikla, ab kismet hi kharab ho tou banda kya karey’. This seemingly harmless act can rein in the most disobedient lot.

One might think that only men are subjected to this wonderful art of blackmail and manipulation; however, that is not quite the case. Women, who are uninitiated in the art of diplomacy often fall prey to these machinations. Similarly, men too make full use of these tactics to get their way out sticky situations, however the effectiveness of their trickery is somewhat correlated to their age and position in the family; an elder can manipulate the younger lot more easily than a young gun trying his hands at the art.

It is not very uncommon to hear a male elder admonish daughter or granddaughter for wanting to pursue a career ‘Humari tarbiyat mein hi kuch kammi reh gayi hogi’.

The art of manipulation is perhaps as old as the human race, okay maybe not that old, but it has been around for some time now. It would not be wrong to suggest that you need a little shove every now and then to get what you want. The beauty of the game is when the players appear meek, submissive and powerless while they not only hold all the cards, but also have the trump up their sleeve. If the above-mentioned examples are any indication, then it would be safe to assume that we have quite a few seasoned players amongst us.

Published in Images on Sunday on April 12, 2009.

The Grinch Diaries

This year on Eid, I came out and confessed I was a Grinch. I do not enjoy Eid and as I was on my own this year and under no obligations to fake the holiday spirit, I spent the whole day in my PJs and had a Lost marathon.

However, for someone who has strong aversion to religious holidays, or holidays which require you to display a certain amount of cheerful enthusiasm, I am surprisingly enjoying Christmas. I have even agreed to make turkey for my husband.

To be honest, I have always liked Christmas better than Eid. It has always been more fun and less hassle. My earliest memories of Christmas are of fun school parties with yummy snacks, presents and a Santa Claus *big grin*. On the other hand, my earliest Eid memories include being rudely awoken at a godforsaken hour on a holiday, then getting dolled up and visiting all the relatives and family friends and aquaintances present in the city. It would be unfair to discount the ‘ka-ching’ factor, which served as a motivation to drag my lazy ass all over the city, but as soon as I started earning, I had to, rather reluctantly, become the one spreading the financial joy instead of being the recepient. That took away what little interest I had in the holiday.

Eid-ul-Azha never had a chance to become my favourite holiday with all that blood and gore. Not being a red meat enthusiast, actually quite the opposite, I would never find anything good to eat at the numerous dinner parties thrown on the occasion. Not to forget the unbearble stink of meat and blood and intestines and whatever that can be dug out of the poor animals.

Which leaves us with Christmas. One must admit that it is marketed way better than Eid. The decorations are nicer; the jingles and carols are easy on the ears and the sales are amazing. Add to all this the freedom from annoying ‘Eid Mubarak’ text messanges and all those obligatory visits (if in Pakistan) or phone calls to relatives  (if living abroad) and you have the perfect holiday. Hallelujah!

Friendships a la mode

For the longest time fairy tales sold little girls the idea of the perfect prince charming, then someone introduced Mills and Boons which stuffed the confused prepubesecent minds with the idea of perfect sex and when the overcharged wave of feminism woke women up from their girdle-restrained slumber, someone created chick flicks to rebrand the whole idea of friendships, as if we didn’t have enough manuals on men and sex, there was a model for the rest to follow to have the perfect friendships.

According to the manual, you should have at least one ridiculously successful friend, who only wears designer business suits and keeps telling her friends women should not be apologetic for their success even when the friend in question is merely complaining about PMS.

Then there has to be a hardcore feminist friend who says fuck at least 10 times in a minute, she hates men and loves to rave about her latest sexual conquests.

To balance the equation there is a friend who is a helpless housewife with a dozen children and at least one on the way at all times, she never combs her hair or wear fancy clothes, her brood is driving her crazy and you would feel tempted to kill some of the crying morons to relieve her of her misery or at least bitchslap her nice but indifferent husband out of his oblivion, but guess what, she loves them all. She is the first to cry and call for group hug on any occasion.

No group is complete without the ’sane one’, this kind has a heart of gold and is neurotic in an adorable way. Very often she finds herself in sticky situations but through no fault of her own, because she cannot do no wrong. She does not have a wildly successful career but she always has the money to shop at designer boutiques and attend parties. She meets, dates and sleeps with the ‘perfect’ men regularly but there is always something wrong with them and so she has to part ways, but only after sleeping with them.

This group cannot discuss their issues unless they are in a chic cafe a big fancy store, apparently you cannot resolve a problem unless you talk it over a pair of stilettos. All the women argue in the beginning of every discussion, which starts with one speaking and then everyone jumps in and the next thing you know everyone is screaming, but since they are ‘best friends’ the discussion always ends in a group hug.

In the beginning, this idea of branding female friendships seemed nice; God knows I watched every season of Sex and the City religiously, in fact, if you go back a few posts there is a good 1000 words dedicated to the movie based on the show, but I think my biological clock on corny friendship gimmicks has now set off the alarm. As you grow old and find that there is no one you can call at 3 in the morning, as opposed to what the chick flicks would show, you start seeing how ridiculous the whole idea is. One fine day, you wake up and realise that friendship is not about group hugs and incessant mwah-ing, it’s something deeper than that.

There is no prince charming and there are no fairy tale friendships, stop selling us this crap already!

Breathless in Bradistan

When moving abroad one takes along an excess baggage of emotions, hopes and fears. There is the sad realisation of leaving your best friends behind, comforts of domestic help, your job, and the sense of belonging.
However, the sorrow is balanced with the joy of knowing that you will be in a place where people do not judge you for what you wear, eat, drink, breathe and think. You can’t help feeling relieved that you can walk out in your favourite pair of jeans and even in your night suit when you’re feeling too lazy to change.
By the time you are airborne, you quite happily relinquish the social formalities, which are part and parcel of the Pakistani lifestyle –– no uninvited guests, boring dinner parties and mindless gossip.

You’re a free bird and off you go. However, if your chosen destination is Bradford, the ultimate desi hub of England, then you are in for a big-unpleasant-reeking-of-curry-surprise.

It would be wrong on my part to say that I didn’t see it coming. I was given a fair amount of warning from all quarters. I was told Bradford can be mistaken for Lahore. But, the description is quite inaccurate. Bradford does not look like Lahore, heck no, Lahore is way too modern and, dare I say, ‘western’.
Bradistan is as desi as Daska. Living in this city is nothing short of an experience where you travel back in time –– 1960’s to be precise. The Pakistanis who migrated here to fuel the industrial boom seem to be in a time warp; in terms of their thinking and ideas they are very much in the decade when they left their homeland.
Preservation of your culture is a given, but to obstinately resist integration is quite irrational. The narrow mindedness and double standards that plague Pakistani society exist here in abundance.

A large chunk of the older generation refuses to learn English, it’s funny because they do not mind enjoying the benefits offered in this country, but when it comes to learning the language, even if it’s for the sake of integration, their desi sensibilities get offended. I was warned that lingual affiliations are so strong here that one is deemed too ‘modern’ if found conversing in Urdu –– the vernacular being Mirpuri, Brahvi and other regional languages.
It is needless to say if found speaking English, you’re dismissed as a pariah. So do not be surprised if you step in a taxi and are greeted by Noorjahan or Attaullah Essa Khelvi singing their lungs out of the music player; and if your taxi driver is not into music, then there’s a good chance you might end up listening to tilawat or dars.
The fashion is as ancient as the ideas which Bradford desis live by. With 80 per cent of women in burqas and naqaab, you can feel like a fish out of water if dressed in western attire and have old women glare at you. Those who do not wear burqas wear shalwar kameez, which prompt you to say ‘hey 1980s called, they want the hemlines back’. I am not a very fashion savvy person, but such blatant violations of fashion can irk anyone with even the remotest idea of what the current trends are.

Cinemas are yet another place where the eccentric fashion sense comes on display. On weekends, women put on every bling item they have in their wardrobe, we’re talking gold, diamante encrusted sandals, organza shalwar kameez (no exaggerations here) and chandelier earrings. With boutiques like ‘Laadli’ and ‘Dulhan ka Raaj’ in abundance, the bling-brigade is never out of supplies.

However, having excessively ranted about the city, it would be unfair on my part to ignore the positive aspects, which I benefit from immensely and to some extent facilitated my adjustment. Take, for instance, the easy availability of desi foodstuff;  with Dial-a-roti nearby, I can enjoy my chicken curry with tandoori naans anytime of the day; I have to just step out of my house to get the entire range of Shan masalas, lentils, Rooh Afza, and all the other complicated  condiments which go into making ultimate Pakistani cuisine; and whenever I miss Karachi, I can hop to the Kashmir Bakery and get my choice of samosas, sweetmeat, chaat and pani puri.

At the end of the day, despite all its eccentric characteristics, Bradford is a home away from home. The city has been the closest thing to Pakistan I could have here and has saved me from being homesick. So I guess, for the initial adjustment phase, a place like Bradford is not bad, however, you can get an overdose of your own medicine if you stay here for too long.

This is my article I wrote for The Review recently. Something equally funny and weird happened yesterday, which I would have included in the piece, had it happened earlier. Recently, I have had some brief encounters with my neighbours’ kids. Even though, I secretly dislike the annoying twits who make it impossible to take afternoon naps, I give them a friendly smile when I see them. This I believe is the reason why two of my neighbour’s seven-year-old sons/nephews (whatever) invaded my backyard when I was there. It is quite strange to see two kids jump over the wall and enter your backyard without permission, what do you in that situation? As I was trying to figure out what to do, they asked me if I lived here with my boyfriend and then before waiting for my answer asked if he was Muslim. Now if these idiots weren’t seven, I would’ve given them a piece of my mind, but I just went inside.

If at this age these kids deem someone who is not attired in shalwar kameez abnormal, I wonder what will become of them when they grow up.

Bradford is an example of desi supremacy. Pakistanis complain about rascism and discrimination when they are successfully running a desi ghetto here. How many Pakistanis would tolerate a British establishment with pubs and churches anywhere in Pakistan?

Random couplets

Going through my old writings I found these random thoughts I’d penned some years back. Even though I am emotionally and physically removed from the circumstances that prompted these thoughts, a part of me can still identify with the ideas.

I’ve treaded the empty corridors
And I’ve walked the crowded ones.

I have been vocal in the silence
And have been silent in commotion

I’ve been dead when alive
And embraced death with full life.

I wrote this sometime towards the end of 2005. I was sitting in KU, early in morning, in my favourite spot which gave a good view of the long empty corridor at 8am.

Chained am I by the sweet obligations;
Locked am I in others’ perception.
Suffocation is all I feel;
Freedom is all I seek.
Damnation is all I shall receive;
For my rebellion.
- April 27, 2004, 13:14

This was an outburst, followed by quite a few in the years to come. I think this was the first time I became conscious of my incompatibility with my cultural surroundings.

I am neither an infidel nor a worshipper;
I am neither a suicide bomber nor a war monger;
I am neither a dove nor a hawk;
I am neither a hero, nor a saviour,
I am no annihilator either,

War and peace, good and bad,
Are vague ideas beyond my reach
I will not change this world,
Nor the world will change me,
For I am a spectator here waiting to leave

I am the part of a game
Where we sin to repent and repent to sin
I am a prisoner on a death row,
Counting down the hours to the electric chair
And then one day I will be gone,
For I was created from a muscle,
To vanish as sand.
- February 28, 2006

Wrote this on a lazy day at work (The Review). This was the realisation that I am just a speck of dust in the bigger scheme of things. This was the day when cynicism replaced my idealism.