Beyond Crisis: Re-evaluating Pakistan

Beyond Crisis

Critical Asian Studies Series Editor: Veena Das Kreiger-Eisenhower Professor in Anthropology, Johns Hopkins University Critical Asian Studies is devoted to in-depth studies of emergent social and cultural phenomena in the countries of the region. While recognising the important ways in which the specific and often violent histories of the nation-state have influenced the social formations in this region, the books in this series also examine the processes of translation, exchange, boundary crossings in the linked identities and histories of the region. The authors in this series engage with social theory through ethnographically grounded research and archival work.

Also in this Series Living with Violence: The Anthropology of Events and Everyday Life Roma Chatterji and Deepak Mehta ISBN 978-0-415-43080-7 Enchantments of Modernity: Empire, Nation, Globalization (Ed.) Saurabh Dube ISBN 978-0-415-44552-8 The Intimate State: Love-Marriage and the Law in Delhi Perveez Mody ISBN 978-0-415-44604-4 Settlers, Saints and Sovereigns: An Ethnography of State Formation in Western India Farhana Ibrahim ISBN 978-0-415-44556-6 Shared Histories of Modernity: China, India and the Ottoman Empire (Eds) Huri Islamog˘lu and Peter C. Perdue ISBN 978-0-415-48166-3

Beyond Crisis Re-evaluating Pakistan

Editor

Naveeda Khan

LONDON NEW YORK NEW DELHI

First published 2010 by Routledge 912–915 Tolstoy House, 15–17 Tolstoy Marg, New Delhi 110 001

Simultaneously published in the UK by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, OX14 4RN

Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

© 2010 Naveeda Khan

Typeset by Star Compugraphics Private Limited 5–CSC, First Floor, Near City Apartments Vasundhara Enclave Delhi 110 096

Printed and bound in India by

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publishers.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-415-48063-5

To my parents Munawar and Shafique, my husband Bob and my children Sophie and Sulayman with my deepest gratitude

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Contents Glossary Foreword by Veena Das Acknowledgements Introduction Naveeda Khan

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Part I: Artificiality of the State 1. Towards a Lyric History of India Amir R. Mufti 2. The Politics of Commensuration: The Violence of Partition and the Making of the Pakistani State Tahir Hasnain Naqvi 3. A Real Terrorist Oskar Verkaaik 4. Reimagining the ‘Land of the Pure’: A Sufi Master Reclaims Islamic Orthodoxy and Pakistani Identity Robert Rozehnal

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61 89

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Part II: The Difficulty of Nationalist Visions 5. Registering Crisis: Ethnicity in Pakistani Cinema of the 1960s and 1970s Iftikhar Dadi

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6. Listening to the Enemy: The Pakistan Army, Violence and Memories of 1971 Yasmin Saikia

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7. Strength of the State Meets the Strength of the Street: The 1972 Labour Struggle in Karachi Kamran Asdar Ali

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8. Jama’at-e-Islami Pakistan: Learning from the Left Humeira Iqtidar

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Part III: Foreignness Within 9. The Paradoxes of Ahmadiyya Identity: Legal Appropriation of Muslim-ness and the Construction of Ahmadiyya Difference Asad A. Ahmed 10. Words that Wound: Archiving Hate in the Making of Hindu-Indian and Muslim-Pakistani Publics in Bombay Deepak Mehta

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11. Itineraries of Conversion: Judaic Paths to a Muslim Pakistan Sadia Abbas

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12. Iqbal and Karbala Syed Akbar Hyder

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Part IV: The Everyday 13. Look Who’s Talking Now: Voice and Authority in Pakistani Shi’i Women’s Gatherings Amy Bard

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14. Madrasa Metrics: The Statistics and Rhetoric of Religious Enrolment in Pakistan Tahir Andrabi, Jishnu Das, Asim Ijaz Khwaja and Tristan Zajonc

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15. Uncivil Politics and the Appropriation of Planning in Islamabad Matthew Hull

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16. Mosque Construction or the Violence of the Ordinary Naveeda Khan Afterwords Living the Tensions of the State, the Nation and Everyday Life David Gilmartin Anthropology and Pakistani National Imaginary Katherine Pratt Ewing Bibliography Note on the Editor Notes on Contributors Index

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521 531 541 565 566 569

Glossary This is a select list of the non-English terms that appear in the articles in this book. I have given the Urdu spellings although in a few cases I have indicated the more usual spelling by means of a backslash. For a few words I have opted for the Arabic spellings as the authors privileged them. I have not attempted to standardise names across the individual articles. adab alim amir aql arkan ashraf auliya/awliya auqaf awam azan baraka/barakat batai biradari chilla

dargah dars darsan darud/durud dastan dawa/dawat

civility; comportment religious scholar ruler; commander intellect; sense pillar; support, pl. rukn noblemen; well-born; Muslim gentry; s. of sharif literally friends of God; saints; pl. of wali religious endowments; pl. of waqf the people Muslim call to prayer blessing; spiritual quality transmitted by saint to his place of burial and his descendents division of agricultural produce among landlord and tenants brotherhood; patrilineage a period of 40 days demarcating such events as mourning, spiritual exercises, missionary trips, etc. shrine or tomb of a reputed saint which is the object of veneration and pilgrimage religious lesson seeing; looking; visiting a sacred shrine; worshipping in the presence of an image benedictions; prayer in praise of the Prophet Muhammad story; fable invitation; missionary activity

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dil din dua dunya dupatta fakir/faqir fana fatwa firqa fitna gasht ghazal gherao gunah Hadith/Hadis

hajj haqq haveli/haweli hijr imam

iman imambarah insan insaniyat ishq izzat jagirdar jahil jahiliyat

heart faith; the Islamic religion personal prayer world scarf mendicant; a sufi extinction; to be absorbed in God legal, non-binding opinion; pl. fatawa sect in Islam discord; perfidy; sin patrol a poetic form in Arabic/Persian/Urdu a protest in which workers encircle the place of work fault; offence; sin the words, actions and deeds of the Prophet Muhammad that have been transmitted by a chain of reliable authorities and recorded (pl. Ahadith or Ahadis) annual pilgrimage to the Kaaba in Mecca, required once of all able Muslims truth; due; obligation a term for private homes in India and Pakistan separation; desertion (of country and friends); absence a leader of prayer or the community within Sunni Islam; chosen of God as exemplar and leader within Shia Islam faith the site of religious assembly for Shia Muslims human humanity passionate love honour; dignity ruler of a local region ignorant; uncivilised ignorance; days or times of; the times prior to the manifestation of Islam

Glossary

jalsa janun jat jawan jihad Kaaba kafir kufr khalifa khanqah/khanaqah sufi khatib khirqa khuda khudi khutba madrasa malang malik majlis marsiya/marsia

mashaikh mashhad masjid maslak maulvi milad millat mohalla/muhalla

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a sitting; a meeting; an assembly madness respectability; rank; family; race; lineage; tribe; caste; sect young; soldier spiritual struggle; fighting in the cause of Islam the square temple at Mecca enshrining the Black Stone; the destination of the hajj unbeliever; non-Muslim; pl. kuffar unbelief; infidelity; impiety successor to the authority of a saint or religious leader residence one who delivers the khutba; a preacher cloak; dress of a mendicant or devotee God self; state of being besides oneself; ecstasy sermon delivered at the mosque, usually during the Friday prayers religious seminary; institution of higher learning; pl. madaris religious enthusiast; one who lets ones hair grow out and leaves it uncombed property owner meeting; assembly; party elegiac poem to commemorate the martyrdom of Husain and the events at Karbala in the 7th century A.D. sufi masters; pl. of shakyh/shaikh martyrdom place of worship; pl. masajid path; religious perspective title for a learned Muslim celebration; milad-un Nabi birthday celebration for the Prophet religion community urban neighborhood

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momin muhajir

Muharram

mujahidin munshi murid muezzin mulla

nafs namaz nat pahlvan peon pir potwari purdah/parda qabristan qabza qari qasba qaum

Quran riba rishvat rukn salat

a believer refugee; one who has left country and friends; the name for an Indian Muslims who migrated to Pakistan at the time of the partition of India in 1947 the first month of the Islamic calendar; the first 10 days of this month in which the deaths of Husain and his companions at Karbala are mourned one who undertakes jihad scribe; secretary disciple of a pir one who gives the azan title for a Muslim learned; now often used as a derogatory term for those who are religious enthusiasts. the lower faculty of the human as opposed to the aql the five daily ritual prayers; also called salat (Arabic term) poetry in praise of the Prophet Muhammad a hero; wrestler office attendant of lowly rank sufi guide land registrar the state of being veiled graveyard forcible possession; in one’s possession one who recites the Quran small town a community based on religion, descent or nationality qawwali singing that largely occurs in sufi dargahs the central religious text of Islam interest bribe pillars; supports; pl. of arkan namaz in Arabic

Glossary

sayyid (m)/sayyidani (f) Shab-e Barat/ Shab-i Barat

shakyh/shaikh sharia/shariat sharif Shia shura sifarish silsila sufi Sunnah/Sunna Sunni sura tabarruk tariqa taslim tassawuff taziya tauba tehsil/tahsil ulama ummah ushr wafa wali waqf watan

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title signifying a claim to descent from the Prophet Muhammad The night before the fifteenth day of the Islamic month of Shaban when a vigil is observed with prayers, feasting and offerings made in the name of the dead. One’s upcoming future is said to be registered in heaven. title of respect given to sufis; pl. mashaikh Islamic law derived from the Quran and Hadith Muslim nobleman; pl. ashraf the minority sect of Muslims advisory council recommendation; introduction; intercession literally a chain; a chain of sufi masters a mystic; a follower of a path of spiritual devotion and discipline the sayings and habits of the Prophet Muhammad the majority sect of Muslims a chapter of the Quran the portion of presents presented to saints given to their dependants a path or way associated with a sufi surrender the theology of the sufis the representation of the tomb of Husain and Hasan carried during Muharram processions repentance an administrative unit religious scholars; pl. of alim the Muslim moral community tax on agricultural land loyalty literally friend of God; a saint; pl. awliya religious endowment; pl. auqaf one’s country

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wisal zakat

zakir (m)/zakira (f) zameer zimmi zina ziyarat

union a religious duty whereby Muslims give a fixed percentage in value of certain kinds of property as charity preacher conscience non-Muslim subject of a state governed by sharia law extramarital sex pilgrimage of a religious shrine

Foreword Much attention has been paid in recent years to the contiguity between sovereignty and the state of exception, a proposition first suggested by Carl Schmitt in Political Theology: Four Chapters on the Concept of Sovereignty and elaborated with some force in the recent writings of Giorgio Agamben. The puzzling question for Agamben is that if states of exception are directly related to political turmoil — which leads to the setting aside of law, then how do they get a legal form? Put differently, jural doctrine itself produces exceptional measures which, in the name of security (equated with security of the state), leads to the setting aside of normal law. But in whose favour is this suspension of law to be understood? In a now famous statement, Agamben talks of the state of exception as ‘encompassing life’ in a manner that both binds and abandons the subject to the law. The relation of the subject to the law must appear in a somewhat different light to the student of Pakistan, as if the picture painted by Agamben is slightly out of focus and has to be moved somewhat for the specific kinds of political crises and their relation to the production of the subject to be brought to light. The relation between law and life is precisely what is at stake, but the manner in which the subject is both bound and abandoned to the law must take the specificities of the political crisis produced in Pakistan in 1947 — when it emerged as an independent state, and in 1971 — when, after a bloody war, its east wing declared independence and became a new nation, Bangladesh. It might be recalled that the first time an Emergency was declared in Pakistan was on 27 August 1947 by the then Governor–General — 13 days after it was inaugurated as a new nation-state — under Section 102 of the adapted Government of India Act, 1935, on the grounds that the influx of refugees threatened the economic life of the country. The terse statement declared: ‘Whereas the economic life of Pakistan is threatened by circumstances arising out of the mass movement of population from and into Pakistan, a State of Emergency is hereby declared’. Yet these were not refugees produced by civil war in other countries or those escaping from economic disaster but refugees created by a decision of the colonial State to partition India and create two independent nations from the existing territory. As scholars of law

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and jurisprudence have argued, the juridical framework of Emergency was inherited from colonial law, and from the frequent practice of evoking State necessity as an essential part of the governance of the colonies. What, then, is the relation between law and life as it unfolded in the case of Pakistan, especially if we think of life as not only encompassed within the law but also as lived beside and with the law? It gives me great pleasure to introduce this multidisciplinary volume of articles on Pakistan, many written by a young generation of scholars, who address these issues through a deep engagement with the specificities of Pakistan’s history, politics and everyday life, and ask what bearing these specificities have on contemporary social theory? Naveeda Khan’s editorial labours and her brilliant Introduction to the volume show how a new way of comprehending the plenitude of Pakistan even in full wakefulness to its many crises is surely at hand. The book neither denies the various crises Pakistan has been mired in, nor is content with reiterating the inevitably of the failure of nationalism, or of state and sovereignty (the favourite triad of political science and security studies) but instead asks how these issues might be made productive for understanding what is at stake for various social actors — global, regional and local — by tracking these events in the everyday. With no hopes of doing it full justice, let me take a couple of examples from the rich set of articles on how the category of ‘crisis’ operates in this volume, and the manner in which it is joined to the everyday such that something new about what it is to inhabit failures of a promise comes to light. The two events of the Partition of India and emergence of Pakistan in 1947, and the division of Pakistan and independence of Bangladesh in 1971, as I said, form two important inaugural moments for Pakistan. Much has been written on the theme of Partition/Independence in 1947 and its legacy of distrust if not outright violence between Hindus and Muslims in India, and between different Muslim sects in Pakistan. Yet it is not possible to ignore the multiple definitions of the situation — if loss of home was one theme, the other was the idea of the experimentation with Muslim modernity, tied to national territory for those in Pakistan. Historians have made it amply clear that Pakistan was not created as a result of a massive popular demand but was in fact a result of various negotiated settlements among leaders of the Congress and the Muslim League, with a departing colonial power eager to divest

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itself from any further responsibilities towards the regions it had ruled. My wish is not to recapitulate that story but to point out that along with this revisionist picture of that period in connection with the demand for Pakistan, we need to recall the sense of excitement on the part of many Pakistani Muslims on the future of what they hoped would be a territory that could show how an Islamic vision might shape a political order in the contemporary world. This was evident in the Constituent Assembly debates of Pakistan when much emphasis was laid in the early discussion on what Islamic values would guide, for instance, the rights of lower caste Hindus who were promised a better deal than what they would get in ‘Brahmanic’ India. This was a different kind of political theology than say, imagined by Schmitt, and if it failed we must remember that it would be the task of social science to show not only the pathways to this failure but also the newness that these very failures produced. It is thus not the burden of these articles to make an assessment of Pakistan in terms of failures or successes but to move out of the habits of thought created by both cynicism and nostalgia for Pakistan to ask how we might go beyond the language of crisis. What are the processes taking place in Pakistan in the realm of education or arts or legal technologies that are obscured by the too-ready-at-hand trope of ‘crisis’? The second inaugural moment under consideration is that of the creation of Bangladesh on which scholarship and literary works abound from India and Bangladesh but on which, as Khan puts it, scholars of Pakistan (and not only those based in Pakistan) have not spoken. Several articles in this volume show how reflection on that particular failure — to give recognition to the desires of one region, that of East Pakistan — and the subsequent independence of it as Bangladesh initiated major changes on the idea of Pakistan. Not only is there the question of how Islamic ideas of ‘humanity’ and not just ‘Muslim’ might function in helping to remember atrocities by those who committed or authorised them, but there is also an experimentation in which the relation of the territory to Islam undergoes both intensification and reorientation. Thus, for instance, the success of regional cinema and later TV serials (especially in Punjabi) point to the manner in which official definitions of nationalism and language give way to a different kind of assertion about what it is to belong to Pakistan. Although there has been a flowering of multiple imaginations of Islam’s relation to modern forms of the state including, in Pakistan, the tendency in much scholarship and in

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public imagination to reduce all this multiplicity to either a binary of fundamentalist versus moderate Muslims or even to good Muslims and bad Muslims within the global arena, they do little justice to experiments on self-formation that must constantly re-imagine the Other. Naveeda Khan identifies this as the problem of foreignness within the Self or the condition of immigrancy, the term coined by the philosopher Stanley Cavell, to characterise the human condition. Others think of this issue as the condition of exile that can overtake you as it did the poet Faiz, as the definition of home changes. It would be easy to imagine that the everyday life to which this volume refers is the descent into habit and is opposed to either the pursuit of the moral life (dunya versus din) or to macro questions such as those relating to governance. The originality of the book, though, lies in showing us precisely that such binary distinctions that invest the everyday with some kind of organic wholeness are as illusory as the assumption that the everyday is only the scene of trance and illusion. In Khan’s words, ‘these lives are equally that of state institutions and artifacts, of political parties and religious traditions, as of the daily lives of average Pakistanis. It is not necessarily the case that the sheer existence of a daily-ness negates crisis, that is, in self-perpetuating everyday life gives lie to the crises that inform Pakistan’s past and present.’ However, the lens of the everyday helps us to ask new questions: how did the imperatives of governance modify the ideology of Pakistan as the exemplar of Muslim modernity for all Muslims and not only Muslims from Muslim majority states in India which is not to say that this claim was accepted by all. What stories do numbers tell and what do they hide from view as in the global media’s insistence on the madrasa crisis in Pakistan? How does the category of class function in defining belongingness? What accounts for the continuity of the cast of characters between the Left-inspired labour movements and the movements for Islamic reform? How is one to understand the militarisation and temporal rhythms through which the democratic project is sought to be now embraced, now abandoned? The reader is not going to get any definitive answer to such questions but they are posed in new and provocative ways. Finally, the book has the great merit of unsettling our ideas of Pakistan as a fixed entity in space. On the one hand there is the continued engagement with themes of betrayal in which Pakistan comes to stand for the anxiety within India that Muslims in India though larger in number than those in Pakistan, cannot truly want

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to belong to India. On the other hand, the imagination of Pakistan as a theological space that existed in history much before it was in fact realised in the form of a concrete nation-state makes such imaginations as that of certain Sufi poets available for rereading the past and for leaving the possibility open that the idea of Pakistan could acquire a different form in the future. None of these issues is settled; nor is there a teleology that is going to determine the direction of the future. If I might conclude on a personal note — for an Indian brought up with the idea of Lahore as the place from where one was exiled, there is the challenge of imagining a future that is not a hostage to the past. Perhaps one can think of Pakistan as both the making of small communities below the level of the nation (in neighbourhoods, schools and mosques) and large communities (that already include global families, circulation or art, literature and films), and the ever-present competition over which country — India, Pakistan or Bangladesh — has clerics who can give more enlightened fatwas. To suggest these possibilities is not to negate the nationstate but to enrich it with other repositories of ideas that might be available to craft a future that can speak to the particular genius of its own history. This is one way in which I understand how the relation between law and life goes beyond the notion of bareness of life and its appropriation by the state. October 2009

Veena Das Krieger-Eisenhower Professor of Anthropology, Johns Hopkins University

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Acknowledgements This book is the outcome of a conference held at Johns Hopkins University in April 2006 titled ‘Beyond Crisis: A Critical Second Look at Pakistan’. The conference was jointly funded by Johns Hopkins University (JHU) and the American Institute of Pakistan Studies (AIPS). I thank Ed Lattman of JHU and Jonathan Mark Kenoyer of AIPS for extending their faith to this effort. I thank Veena Das, David Gilmartin and Katherine Ewing for their strong backing of this project, without which I would have not had the courage to propose a conference on Pakistan that flew in the face of mainstream representations of the country. I am grateful for their attending the conference and providing critical and helpful commentary throughout. The participants of the conference and those who came on board later in the project, contributing their articles for inclusion in the edited volume, were outstanding. Neither the conference nor the book would have been possible without their scholarship, energy and generosity, most valuably towards me. The Department of Anthropology of JHU, specifically Becky Elmore and Sharon Trader, provided helpful administrative services during the conference, while Amrita Ibrahim, graduate student in the anthropology department, was crucial to this project from beginning to end, helping with the organization of the conference and the preparation of the manuscript for publication. The comments of the two anonymous reviewers were appreciated in finalizing the manuscript. As a number of the articles were published earlier and are being reproduced here by permission, I thank: Blackwell Press for ‘The Politics of Commensuration: The Violence of Partition and the Making of the Pakistani State’ by Tahir Hasnain Naqvi (2007) in Journal of Historical Sociology, vol. 20 (1/2): 44–71, March/June; Cambridge University Press for ‘Strength of the State Meets the Strength of the Street’ by Kamran Asdar Ali (2005) in International Journal of Middle East Studies, vol. 37: 83–107; Duke University Press for ‘Towards a Lyric History of India’ by Aamir Mufti (2004) in boundary 2, vol. 31 (2): 245–74;

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Oxford University Press, Inc. for ‘Iqbal and Karbala’ excerpted from Reliving Karbala: Martyrdom in South Asian Memory by Syed Akbar Hyder (2006); and University of Chicago Press for sections of ‘Religious School Enrollment in Pakistan: A Look at the Data’ by Tahir Andrabi, Jishnu Das, Asim Ijaz Khwaja and Tristan Zajonc (2006) in Comparative Education Review vol. 52 (3): 446–77. I thank Julia Hart for permission to use her translation of Oskar Verkaaik’s article. My gratitude to Asad Ali for his help with the initial preparations for the conference and book. Although he contributed an article to the book, he could not stay as involved because of the press of other deadlines. This book has been in the good care of Nilanjan Sarkar, my editor and Pallavi Narayan, my copy-editor at Routledge, New Delhi. I thank them both for seeing the book through. October 2009

Introduction Naveeda Khan Since its inception in 1947, Pakistan has faced numerous crises, from one-off catastrophic events, to the slow and steady intensification of debilitating conditions. The discourses through which crisis has been framed have been put securely in place through the exertions of disciplines such as political science, economics and more recently security studies.1 These disciplines have traditionally been in close relationships to states by putting themselves in the service of states while serving to evaluate them. It is no different in Pakistan.2 In fact, the three most obdurate evaluations of crises — the failure of the state, the failure of nationalism, and the external influence on the country compromising national sovereignty and security — were put in place quite early in Pakistan’s history. Moreover, these evaluations have greatly influenced subsequent intellectual inquiry and analysis in Pakistan. The key question for us is: have these evaluations of crises adversely affected thinking about Pakistan? Certainly one could argue that they have to an extent closed off attention to those aspects of Pakistan that do not fall within the category of crisis and do not seem deserving of urgent reportage.3 Yet, I would argue somewhat differently. While these evaluations have certainly overshadowed more nuanced perspectives on Pakistan, they are yet perspicacious in capturing the affect of not getting it right. Furthermore, this affect, differentially expressed and embodied by a diverse range of Pakistanis, is a crucial aspect of belongingness in Pakistan. In other words, one comes to attach oneself to Pakistan, claim it as one’s own, through disclaiming it. This argument will become clearer over the course of this introduction as I show how the evaluations appear with great regularity at different moments of crisis in Pakistan’s history expressing variations of the same affect. Furthermore, the essays in this volume help us to understand this mode of attaching to a modern nation-state, by showing how these evaluations carry ontological weight. In other words, through these essays we see how the failure of the state becomes a moment to ruminate on the artificiality of this most modern construct, the failure of nationalism, an opportunity to dream of alternative modes of association, and the failure of

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sovereignty to consider the threats and possibilities of the realm of foreignness within the nation-state as within the self. Only then do we come to see that to belong to a nation-state is not always premised on a sense of sharing a common origin, language, ethnicity, territory or goal but may entail a shared sense of being alienated from it. The ambition of this volume is not only to complicate standing representations of Pakistan. It is to take Pakistan out of the status of exceptionalism that its multiple crises have endowed upon it. By now many scholars have written of how exile, migrancy, refugeedom, and other modes of displacement constitute modern subjectivities (Cavell 1994; Agamben 1998; Said 2000). Through the argument I am making for Pakistanis’ mode of attaching to their nation-state, one inspired and sustained by the writings gathered here, I am saying that Pakistan is no stranger to this condition of human immigrancy (Cavell 1989; Eldridge 2003). Therefore, it can be pressed into service in helping us to understand our present condition. I begin with the crisis precipitated by the 1971 civil war between the eastern and western wings of Pakistan to show how the evaluations of crisis in scholarly discourse unfold along the lines I have already described. I choose this crisis as it is both a crisis event, that is, a war, and produced by crisis conditions that hold both before and after Pakistan’s subsequent break up into two nation-states, that is, the exacerbation of internal ethnic, linguistic and economic differences. The evaluations express, however mutedly, the sense that Pakistan is on the wrong course. Thereafter, I move forward in time to show how post-1971 evaluations of crisis return fixatedly to the problematic origins of Pakistan as if by way of explanation. Third, I move backwards to the earliest writings on Pakistan to show how these are also very pragmatic accounts of Pakistan’s shortcomings. I undertake this circuit of analysis so as to show just how integral the affect of not getting it right is to the fact of being of Pakistan.4 In the final section of this introduction I turn to the writings in this volume. By drawing out the theoretical and empirical work in them, I show how they transfigure the three evaluations of crisis with which we are working in this introduction. In so doing, they show crisis to index a more general, ontological condition of Pakistan, as of the world, but one that is also often exceeded.

The Problem of Belongingness It was a rather unwieldy state that emerged in the aftermath of Partition, with its western and eastern wings physically separated by

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a 1,000 miles of enemy territory. In 1971, the eastern wing formally separated from Pakistan after a brutal civil war largely conducted between the Pakistani army and Bengali guerilla forces on the territory that was to become Bangladesh. I begin with this war because it was the crisis par excellance to which one finds affixed the three evaluations of Pakistan that I have mentioned previously; that of the failed state, failed nationalism, and failed sovereignty. More importantly, as I hope to show, the analysis of 1971 and the evaluations of Pakistan that emerge from it not only inform subsequent scholarship but also share much with earlier studies of Pakistan. This would suggest that belongingness has always posed a problem for Pakistan.5 First, a quick word about my sources. Leaving aside first-hand accounts by Pakistan’s generals and bureaucrats (Niazi 1998; Salik 1978), empirical descriptions of the unfolding of events (Choudhury 1974; Zaheer 1994), and some creative writing in English, Urdu and other regional literature (see Memon 1983), Pakistani analytic writings on 1971 are sparse.6 As the idea of the foundational texts of 1971 has yet to take shape, I rely upon three well-known works on the war offering us scholarly interpretations. While I have generally tried to draw upon Pakistani scholars,7 I use Philip Oldenburg’s well-known article on the war as it provides a clearer analysis of the failings of Pakistani nationalism in 1971 than any other work I have encountered (also see Ali 1970). Rounaq Jahan’s Pakistan: Failure in National Integration (1971) went to press at the same time that Bangladesh won its independence from Pakistan. In this prescient analysis, Jahan, a political scientist, captures the growing crisis of governance by which one government after the other, for the most part located in West Pakistan, mismanaged the politics and economy of East Pakistan. Such discriminatory practices forced a consolidation of the demand for separation and independence. You can hear the judgement of ‘failed state’ in the air in her description of the common problems facing new states: In the case of Pakistan, as we shall see, a disequilibrium arose in the development of the country’s different sectors, i.e., in economic development, modernization, state-building, and nation-building. The failure to develop adequate nation-building polities, in spite of success in other sectors, endangered the viability of the state (1971: 4).

Philip Oldenburg’s influential article ‘“A Place Insufficiently Imagined”: Language, Belief, and the Pakistan Crisis of 1971’ (1985) draws on Salman Rushdie’s words from his novel Shame (1997) to

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describe Pakistan as a place insufficiently imagined. Oldenburg, a political scientist, captures something of the cultural difference between East and West Pakistanis in their different accounts of why they went to war. East Pakistanis went to war to make explicit their demand for parity between the east and the west and, failing that, to express their demand for separation and independence. In Oldenburg’s description, West Pakistanis responded to this demand as if it were a trace of the machinations of Hindus living in East Pakistan. They felt that by decimating Hindu influence on East Pakistan this demand would die out. Oldenburg’s article conveys less the failure of the state to undertake national integration and more the failure of West Pakistan to acknowledge a shared nationalism: I shall show . . . that the exploitation of East Pakistan, the failure to build a nation encompassing the two peoples, and the tragic mistakes made in dealing with Bengali demands cannot be called inevitable unless one considers forces centered in West Pakistan which pushed the country apart. In this speculative view, the tragedy of Pakistan was in part the result of a failure of understanding by the ‘Pakistanis’, a failure to recognise what the meaning of Pakistan was for the Bengalis and a blind commitment by the ‘Pakistanis’ to their own model of the new state (1985: 712).

With Hasan Askari Rizvi’s early work Internal Strife and External Intervention: India’s Role in the Civil War in East Pakistan [Bangladesh] (1981), we have the classic evaluation of Pakistan’s sovereignty at risk due to undue external influence and outside intervention. Rizvi, a political scientist who now serves as a political and defence consultant of the region, shows that India was compelled to intervene on behalf of East Pakistan in its conflict with West Pakistan because of its shared linkages with East Pakistanis. These were, he recounts, ‘ideological linkages, linkages based on language and culture, and linkages between the Hindu community in East Pakistan and India’ (1981: 258). In other words, India and East Pakistan were clearly more sympathetically linked than East and West Pakistan. On the other hand, India’s motivations were also geopolitical: ‘It cannot be denied that there were humanitarian considerations underlying India’s intervention in the civil war in East Pakistan but we cannot ignore the fact that Indian intervention aimed at changing the political authority pattern of Pakistan’ (p. 260). India was encouraged in its ambitions by the implicit support of the Soviet Union, while Pakistan

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clearly benefited militarily from US and Chinese support. Through his appraisal of the flow of sympathies, linkages, influences and military and other material support, Rizvi provides us a view of the region as one in which state sovereignty is not so much chimera as a negotiated ideal. Thus we see how central the evaluations of the failed state, of nationalism and of sovereignty were to the analysis of the crisis of governance constituting the 1971 war and Bangladesh’s subsequent secession from Pakistan. As mentioned previously (also see endnote 5), there is little sustained work on 1971 in Pakistan. While it does suggest a certain degree of willed ignorance on part of the state and its subjects, I find it intellectually untenable to say that Pakistan suffers from amnesia, as some Pakistani intellectuals now say in criticism of their nation-state. 8 On the contrary, several essays in this volume show how 1971 produced marked effects on diverse domains of life in Pakistan. Moreover, there is one particular line of argument within scholarly discourse that would suggest an attempt to think through the aftermath of 1971. According to these views, Pakistan lost its meaning for existence as a homeland for South Asian Muslims after the losses it suffered in 1971, thus precipitating a stronger engagement with Islam (Weiss 1986). To put it less whimsically, the pragmatic approach the state of Pakistan had evolved to differences amongst Muslims prior to 1971 was replaced by a more ideological approach to Islam after 1971 (Cohen 2001). While I do not disagree that this break-up of Pakistan was followed by a more insistent turn to Islam, this argument denies the extended discussions over the place of Islam in a modern state and experimentation over Islamic modernity since the inception of Pakistan. By imputing amnesia to Pakistan, it imposes a psychological model, that of overcompensation, upon the state and society, letting commonsense substitute for empirically grounded analysis. In lieu of the perspective that sees only amnesia at work in Pakistan’s treatment of 1971 and that sees 1971 segue into a singular engagement with Islam, I posit that there is yet another way in which 1971 made its presence known in the post-1971 period. It is in the intensity with which Pakistani scholars and historians took to examining Pakistan’s beginnings. In other words, the intellectual soul-searching that 1971 generated in Pakistan did not actually attend to the events of 1971. Rather, it recursively extended to the origins of

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Pakistan. The most famous writing of the post-war period would be that by the well-known Pakistani historian Ayesha Jalal titled The Sole Spokesman: Jinnah, the Muslim League and the Demand for Pakistan (1985). This book, much more so than any other writings attending to the origins of Pakistan (Ali 1983; Mufti 1995; Ahmed 1997), lays bare how the demand for Pakistan did not arrive on the crest of widespread popular support but on a patchwork of agreements and horse trading amongst Muslim elites in Muslim majority states in colonial India, notably Punjab and Bengal. Not only was there no consensus on what Pakistan was to be, nor was there any mandate for its creation. There was simply a single spokesman — Jinnah. Thus, in one fell swoop this analysis anticipates, but only after the fact, the earlier evaluations of failed state, nationalism and sovereignty, as if Pakistan could fare otherwise given the conditions of its emergence. Jalal’s parting words summarily delineate the impossible circumstances out of which Pakistan was born: While Punjab writhed and turned under the impact of decisions taken in distant places, Mountbatten boldly claimed credit for having accomplished, in less than two and a half months, one of the ‘greatest administrative operations in history’. On behalf of the Hindus, Sikhs, and Muslims who were slaughtered in their hundreds of thousands and the refugees who in their millions stumbled fearfully across the frontiers of the two states, the historian has a duty to challenge Mountbatten’s contention and ask whether this ‘great operation’ was not in fact an ignominious scuttle enabling the British to extricate themselves from the awkward responsibility of presiding over India’s communal madness (1985: 293).

Yet, one has only to look at the early literature of the 1960s on Pakistan by scholars such as K. B. Sayeed, K. K. Aziz or famously Hamza Alavi to find similar accounts of the problems of Pakistan at its origins. In his essay ‘Class and State’, the sociologist Hamza Alavi studies the oligarchic nature of the Pakistani state that must mediate vastly different interests and perspectives within its territorial rubric.9 At one point in the essay, Alavi calls the state ‘an alien force’ saying: We can begin by recognizing a plain fact: that there is a widespread tendency on the part of regimes in peripheral capitalist societies, such as Pakistan, to acquire an authoritarian character and to proliferate military dictatorships (1983: 42).

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In The Making of Pakistan: A Study in Nationalism (1967), the historian K. K. Aziz reminds us of the great many ideas of Pakistan that crowded the colonial scene: Every nationalism is sui generis and takes on its character and shape from its context and environment. Each is a mixture of all these ingredients — but never in equal proportions. It is a compound of all these in varying dogma, another that of sentiment, still another that of policy. The same nationalism may appear sometimes to underline its doctrinal foundation and sometimes to over-accentuate its mythical content. However, it is unwise to underestimate or ignore the role of myths in nationalism (1967:15).

With this he launches into a critique of the mythical strains that constitute Pakistani nationalism so as to make tenuous the fact of its emergence. As a final example, in The Political System of Pakistan (1967), K. B. Sayeed, the political scientist who intermittently served in the government, explored how Pakistan’s inheritance of the colonial structure influenced its experimentation with various political systems. Writing about Ayub Khan’s experimentation with Basic Democracies, at one point he says: Ayub’s approach to Pakistan’s politics in similar to that of the British regime in India. The British felt that the demand for representative politics and political independence was largely confined to urban groups, particularly the city lawyers, and therefore, if they were kept in check, it would be relatively easy to control the rural areas (1967: 213).10

The wording of these analyses are much different from later evaluation. In speaking of an oligarchic state, Alavi is not yet speaking of a state bound to failure; in speaking of competing nationalisms, Aziz is not declaring nationalism a failed project; and in speaking of the continuation of the colonial structure into the present, Sayeed is not decrying the impossibility of sovereignty. Rather, they speak pragmatically in the expressed hope that Pakistan may yet overcome its problems. However, this literature review from 1971 forward and then backward in time is useful as it shows how there has always been a strain within Pakistani studies concerned with its tenuous origins, systemic weaknesses and possible/eventual failures in the field of

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statecraft, nationalism and sovereignty to which crises have served as instances for expressing these anxieties. At one level, my analysis would seem to signal the problem of belongingness; how faultlines such as I have been outlining perpetually undercut belongingness to Pakistan. Yet the persistence with which these faultlines are visited and revisited suggest that something else may be afoot. I would venture to say that it is not that belongingness is a problem in Pakistan but rather that belongingness is premised upon acknowledging and mulling over the problems of Pakistan. I am not in any way suggesting that Pakistan does not have serious issues with which it has to contend, but nonetheless reading these evaluations of crisis against the grain is productive. It allows one to understand the consistency of certain discursive preoccupations of the state of Pakistan and its subjects, intellectuals and laymen alike, and thereby to excavate a more complex means by which attachment to Pakistan happens.

Crisis and Ontology How are we to understand the specific relationship between crisis and the ontological condition of human immigrancy I am imputing to Pakistan? It is not the case that life in Pakistan is in a state of perpetual crisis. To say so would deprive crisis of its definitional import as a critical turning point within a given event or condition. It would also cast life in Pakistan in a somewhat unreal light to think of it as always crisis-ridden. Rather, crisis in Pakistan has served as the occasion to articulate evaluations that express something about Pakistan, in particular the modes of attaching to it. Moreover, the way in which the essays and excerpts in this volume treat these evaluations, we see how they come to carry ontological weight. In other words, reflections upon a specific set of crisis events and evaluations express something more generally about the present. In so doing, the writings render the evaluation of Pakistan as a failed state into a meditation on the artificiality of the modern state, that of the failure of nationalism as a difficulty of committing to one vision of things, and the failure of sovereignty as an anxiety over the foreignness that resides within. Yet, no sooner as they do as much, they rearrange established historical facts, relocate themselves elsewhere than the point of view of the state, bring into view new vistas of innovation and forces of contingency, and provide alternative ways of being. In particular, they draw our attention to that which exceeds crisis. And more often than not this excess accrues from the dimension of the everyday that runs

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through any event or condition and that cannot be delimited to crisis alone. In other words, the writings gathered here simultaneously inhabit crisis and the horizon beyond it. In the interest of drawing out the fullest scope of the work undertaken by these writings, I arrange my discussion of them according to the following themes: (i) the artificiality of the state, (ii) nationalist visions, (iii) the foreignness within, and (iv) the everyday. I put these themes into conversation with broader theoretical perspectives on the state, nationalism, sovereignty and the everyday. I should say at the outset that each of these writings could be taken to speak to several of these themes, and to speak to others besides, but I have chosen to group them so as to draw out our themes more forcefully.

Artificiality of the State Timothy Mitchell’s now classic essay ‘The Limits of the State: Beyond Statist Approaches and their Critics’ (1991) put forward some of the crucial Foucauldian lineaments of the study of the state that endure to the present. Most notably, Mitchell gave us the state that does not have presence as such but which is retrospectively produced by a dispersed field of bureaucratic and administrative effects. In Magic of the State (1996) Michael Taussig gave a different understanding in which the state substantiates itself through its entanglement with local practices of magic, sorcery and secrecy. In their introduction to Anthropology at the Margins of the State (2004) Veena Das and Debbie Poole proffer a useful conjoining of the two perspectives by emphasising that the state partakes of both logics, that of transparent government and hidden practices by appearing both legible and illegible to its constituencies.11 Legibility and illegibility are mutually constitutive and are present together in the everyday life of the state. The varied experiences of the state in Pakistan provide a specific take on the issue of the legibility and illegibility of states. While the state is pervasive in everyday life, actualised and naturalised through material artifacts such as decrees and documents, the state is also experienced as artificial, in so far as it does not fit individual circumstances. It appears differentially remote and indifferent. While this perception of the state would raise the crucial question of whether it indicates an opting out of Pakistan, in line with the analysis that I have been putting forth in this introductory essay, I would ask that we consider this discomfort with the state not as seeking separation from it but assimilation within it, to borrow Aamir R. Mufti’s felicitous

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words (2007). These experiences of the state are useful because they show how statecraft is a fine management of senses of artificiality and naturalness, how quickly a state can flip from one sense of it to another or how both senses of the state may persist alongside each other. It is with Aamir R. Mufti’s contribution to this volume that I begin my discussion of those essays that bring to mind ruminations on the artificiality of the state. Mufti’s essay, ‘A Lyric History of India’, speaks of the Urdu progressive poet Faiz Ahmed Faiz who hailed from Sialkot and resided in Lahore, Punjab. Lahore was granted to Pakistan during partition. That was how Faiz came to be in Pakistan after 1947. Thus, by the sleight of hand of states, Mufti claims, Faiz found himself an exile in his own hometown from his beloved India. Faiz gave most poignant expression to the artifice and artificiality of states by setting himself up in the role of an outsider to the state in which he found himself marooned. At one point he left for Beirut, Lebanon in self-imposed exile. This movement outwards was not to mark his distance from Pakistan but to move to a desired picture of it, for he used his position of exile to launch the most stringent criticisms of Pakistan’s various military governments. The central crisis in Faiz’s life was his irreparable separation from himself, that is, from that version of himself that persisted in undivided India. Mufti finds Faiz to give fullest expression to his sense of separation from himself in what Mufti describes as ‘lyric poetry’. This poetry, specifically (i) the ghazal and (ii) the nazm forms, has been largely ignored for being decadent, claimed as masochistic by Faiz’s leftist compatriots in Pakistan for self-indulgently mourning the loss of a beloved without any explicit political objectives. Yet, deep within Faiz’s lyric poetry Mufti finds that the lost beloved was none other than the Indian subject, a collective selfhood. The self as Indian that resists reification as a stable singularity nicely illustrates the theme of foreignness residing within, a theme further developed in the essay by Deepak Mehta in this collection, through the introduction of the very possibility of the Hindu within the self. It also expresses a critique of the nationalist project in that it asks to what extent a common vision of a future can be forged when the past, with the figure of the Indian/Hindu as the trace of a time of commingling and conflict, of separation and union, remains repressed. Thus, partition serves as a foundational event in Mufti’s account, from which point issue out

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trajectories of the sense of the state as artificial, the repression of memories and unfulfilled nationalist aspirations. In ‘The Politics of Commensuration: The Violence of Partition and the Making of the Pakistani State’, Tahir Hasnain Naqvi also treats partition as a foundational event in the history of Pakistan. However, he speaks of it as such from the perspective of the state which, he says, staked its sovereignty upon the management of refugees pouring into Pakistan in the aftermath of partition. As the movement of people reached momentous proportions with the outbreak of unanticipated violence between the two opposing streams of refugees, Pakistan state worked furiously to cast wide its net so as to appear to have anticipated the violence and thus to have planned for all exigencies. In so doing, Naqvi says, the state revealed its paradoxical selfpositioning. Unlike the worldwide refugee situation at the time when the European state, for instance, staked its sovereignty on its ability to produce and dispose of ‘bare life’ such as that of refugees (Agamben 1998), Pakistan staked its sovereignty on the appropriate reception and integration of refugees, that is, on the fullest flowering of their lives. In so doing it also had to subsume within itself the violence for which the refugees, that is, its future citizens, were responsible. Thus, it ended up staking its sovereignty upon violence. However, in not being able to countenance violence, in other words, in not being able to admit that the violence exceeded its governmental plans and projections, it both gave expression to its act of self-construction and to the limits of its constructed nature. In a sense then the refugees became the marker of this paradoxical self-positioning, both an integral part of the state’s construction of itself and outside of it. Shahmim Raza, a refugee quoted in Naqvi’s paper, eloquently gives expression to this paradox. Thankful to have reached Pakistan, she expresses her gratitude to Pakistan for giving her refuge. But in the same breath she speaks of having returned to her homeland and awaits her full rights as its citizen. The refugee would seem to refract the artificiality of the state, both legitimising the state while serving as the foreign within. Oskar Verkaaik’s contribution, ‘A Real Terrorist’, an excerpt from his book Sayyid Pakistani and the Wedding of the Dead, continues the saga of the refugees from India, self-designatedly the muhajirs, into the recent past in Pakistan. Uneasily integrated into major urban centres in Sind, notably Hyderabad and Karachi, the muhajirs had by now a violent history of confrontation with both the provincial and

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federal government, arising out of their sense of the state’s failure to follow through on its promises to this constituency. It was a most peculiar constituency; without any autochthonous claim upon Pakistan but which constituted the bulk of the political movement for Pakistan and upon whose linguistic and cultural provisions Pakistan relied, as evidenced by Pakistani films of the 1960s about which Iftikhar Dadi writes in this collection. In this particular essay Verkaaik explores how young men born in Pakistan feel the state to be remote and indifferent to their lot, yet simultaneously feel themselves to be intimately connected to it in so far as their violent actions impinge directly upon its body politic. In so doing, he provides the perspective of the muhajirs on the paradoxical relationship between themselves and the state of Pakistan, as previously outlined by Naqvi, some 40 years since Partition in which their violence founds the state but stands outside of it. Verkaaik conveys a variegated sense of this distant yet intimate connection to the state through the stories of two young men, friends, both of whom are recruited by the MQM (Muttahida Qaumi Movement), the major political force that emerged in the 1980s to represent the interests of the muhajirs. While Adil feels strongly the force of political rhetoric and is quickly persuaded to undertake a difficult, possibly violent mission, Javed experiences the rhetoric as hollow and the invitation to action as the sly overtures of a political machine that willingly sacrifices its young for its own perpetuation. Risking the derision of his friends, he chooses instead to marry, desire his wife and find a job. Verkaaik’s lyrical description of muhajir dominated Hyderabad and of the boys’ lives therein strongly introduces the singular dimension of the everyday with its own siren calls that cut through the entanglement of lives with the state. Yet, by the 1980s, it was not the provincial and ethnic dissonance of which Naqvi and Verkaaik speak that informed one’s sense of alienation from Pakistan. It was the sectarian divides that emerged most forcefully under President Zia ul-Haq. Most notably, sectarianism felt as though produced by the state’s policies and practices underlining public perception of the state as an alien force (Zaman 2007). Through his close analysis of the text The Magnificent Power Potential of Pakistan written by Shakyh Wahid Baksh Sial Rabbani, Rob Rozehnal shows how a prominent shakyh (leader) of the Pakistani branch of the Sufi silsila (lineage), the Sabri Chistiya, attempted to

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establish the spiritual prefiguring of Pakistan to castigate the state for wasting Pakistan’s heritage.12 In ‘Re-imagining the “Land of the Pure”: A Sufi Master Reclaims Islamic Orthodoxy and Pakistani Identity’ Rozehnal shows Wahid Bakhsh writing that, irrespective of who and what actually brought Pakistan into being, it was already augured by Sufi saints of the region. In other words, it was to come into being, irrespective of human agency. Pre-figured in a spiritual vision, it was to be the world’s first spiritually grounded nation-state powered as much by spirituality as by its other material and military resources. So even though Sufis and Sufism had fared poorly in Pakistan, due as much to administrative interference into their material affairs as to a widespread suspicion of them inculcated by modernist Islam, it was Sufism that grounded the creation of Pakistan. It was Sufism that would allow it to overcome the violence of its origins, the perceived artificiality of its state, and the dispersal of its nationalist project into contending sectarian and political visions to produce unity towards ensuring its worldly success. Albeit based in love for humanity, this was Sufism with a fighting spirit in that it would fight for Pakistan in the face of enduring polytheism, modern paganism and western materialism, a Sufism clearly cognisant of the threats of the foreignness both within and without. What Shakyh Wahid Bakhsh calls ‘the power potential of Pakistan’, Mazher Sahib, the self-styled pir (spiritual guide) in Verkaaik’s piece, calls ‘super potential’.

Difficulties of Committing to a Single Vision and Foreignness Within While older studies of nationalism made a virtue of the substantive sharing of common origins, languages, ethnicities, etc., in his now classic statement Imagined Community (1991), Benedict Anderson shifted our focus from the substance of what is shared to the modular modes of sharing itself, particularly, the selective memorialisation and collective forgetting practised by a buoyant nationalism and emergent nation-state. Yet, what if that which is shared is exactly the inability to memorialise and collectively forget, the winnowing through competing claims to an agreed upon version of the useful past and a possible future? The early subaltern historians (Guha and Spivak 1988) responded to this challenge with detailed studies of divergent tendencies within Indian nationalism under British colonial rule, showing how

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consensus was often no more than a momentary agreement that dispersed into acts of coercion and what has famously been called ‘dominance without hegemony’ (Guha 1998). More often than not, however, they were qualifying a nationalism whose success, in so far as it produced freedom from colonialism, they took for granted. Furthermore, they delimited difference in their accounts as they tended to pit subaltern groups as relatively homogenous against a highly individualised and internally differentiated nationalist elite. What if we were to take account not only of the differences that run internal to any community but within any imaginary or even within the individual? Would it render uncertain the success of nationalism? What would it do to the assumed sovereignty of the self as of the state? In Fetish, Recognition, Revolution (1994), James Siegel recounts a famous scene in the writings of an Indonesian nationalist in which he realises that a Dutch policeman has mistaken him, however fleetingly, for a Dutch colonial. In that moment of misrecognition the author realises in a flash that he could pass for someone else, not necessarily Dutch but not necessarily a Javanese-speaking person linguistically and culturally tied to a specific locality. It is this other thing for which he could pass, the foreignness within him that the Dutch policeman’s mistake inadvertently captures, which constitutes an emergent Indonesian identity. In other words, it is precisely difference internal to a self, a self that is hidden to itself, militating against any notion of the sovereignty of the self which opens up the possibility of nationalism. Transposing this picture of the self upon the sovereignty of a state unsettles the assumption of a state known to itself and its citizens. Once again, the experiences in Pakistan can contribute both specifically and generally to a discussion of divergent tendencies within nationalism and foreignness within oneself. As mentioned previously, nationalism has been declared a failed enterprise in Pakistan, as much a failure of citizens to fully subscribe to a single vision, as of the state in successfully naturalising such a vision. Yet if one looks at Pakistan’s relation to Islam, which is usually taken to be singular, multiple imaginations of this relatedness abound, from recasting Pakistan’s troublesome origin as one of fulfilling a Sufi vision (see Rozehnal) to considering Pakistan the guard house of an archaic Islam (see Abbas). These arguments would suggest the flowering of imagination

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in the absence of an official nationalism. While the threats of an excess of imagination have been amply explored, the possibilities remain as yet understudied perhaps because of their challenge to an always emergent official nationalism. Furthermore, it cannot be assumed that an official nationalism has not been effective. In the ways in which certain imaginations of solidarity and possibilities for relatedness, such as those based on class consciousness (see Dadi and Ali), have been rendered as though non-existent in the history of Pakistan would suggest how influential even the most unsuccessful form of officialdom has been. An exploration of foreignness further suggests just how complicated a task it is to forge a nationalism premised on sameness or to assume sovereignty as self-contained. While foreignness has most often been studied as the extent of external influence and intervention in Pakistan, it must also be of consideration in the ways in which a particular colonial past continues to be present even in one’s ways of speaking and living. Furthermore, foreignness may reside in the ways in which shared pasts are repressed within one’s memories, repugnant others are rendered intimate within the recesses of one’s self, and selves turn against themselves. As such it may be considered an elsewhere lining one’s interior, perhaps, even a productive outside located within oneself from which to look upon oneself and one’s milieu. Thus, while Mufti, Naqvi, Verkaaik and Rozehnal give us essays that explore how the state appears to its citizens, the essays by Dadi, Saikia and Ali more explicitly address the interrelations and tensions among different bodies of the citizenry suggesting the difficulties, if not the impossibilities, of sustaining a nationalist vision. Iqtidar’s essay is a close study of the interrelations between two political parties that suggest not so much limits of nationalism as how one’s bitterest rival, in clear opposition to everything one stands for, can serve to educate one. In ‘Registering Crisis: Ethnicity in Pakistani Cinema of the 1960s and 70s’, Iftikhar Dadi makes Pakistani Urdu films, lush melodramas of the 1960s and 1970s, the subject of his essay. He finds in them a growing anxiety that nothing concrete holds Pakistan together. And this anxiety is articulated cinematically through the failure of Urdu to establish its linguistic and cultural hegemony. This hegemony was, after all, the promise that the muhajirs once held for the state of

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Pakistan and upon which the Urdu-speaking non-muhajir Pakistanis, notably the Punjabis, count to pull Pakistan together. Dadi explores the sense of crisis from within the nationalist project to establish Urdu as the lingua franca of the nation-state through the changing selfrepresentation of the Urdu-speaking person in Pakistani cinema. In the movie Arman (Desire), made in the mid-1960s in the heyday of Ayub Khan’s modernist military leadership, the Urdu-speaking elite are presented as free of the trappings of tradition and joyfully immersed in an American-style modernity. However, by the time the movie Anari (Novice) was made in the mid-1970s, the representation of the Urdu-speaking person had undergone a major transformation from being cosmopolitan to appearing provincial. So although the Urdu-speaking village buffoon, the protagonist of the film, prevailed, his representation as close to caricature revealed deep ambivalence over his success. Thus, says Dadi, Urdu cinema ceased to be; moving into television serials to be replaced by the popular regional films, of which Punjabi films have been particularly successful. In ‘Listening to the Enemy: The Pakistani Army, Violence and Memories of 1971’, Yasmin Saikia presents a small portion of her long-term study of the after-effects of the war between West and East Pakistan in 1971 of which I spoke in an earlier section. What is noteworthy about Saikia’s study is that she brings India into the picture such that we see this war as a complex three-way struggle as opposed to a unilateral offense by West Pakistan. Within this context, Saikia attempts to redress the excess of speech over the war on the part of nationalist Bangladesh and triumphal India, and the continued silence on the part of the aggressor, Pakistan, by speaking of the collective suffering the war has entailed and its possible overcoming through the philosophy of insaniyat (humanity). Thus, she attends as carefully to the narratives of events of war by military generals and their subalterns as those of the numerous victims of war in Bangladesh, India and Pakistan. She most vividly recounts the narratives of encounter between West and East Pakistanis when the generals and subalterns of the predominantly West Pakistani army are sent to East Pakistan in preparation for war. The culture shock is palpable in the West Pakistani soldiers’ accounts of finding themselves air-dropped into rural East Pakistan where the dense vegetation, the watery landscape and the Bengali-speaking people feel alien. The raping, the killing and the scavenging for food all run into one another as just so many

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tasks within a day’s work in the army. The shock of encounter is very illuminating of the fact that the West and East were strangers to one another despite being of one nation-state, putatively united under one religion. Thus, Dadi gives us the cinematic scene of encounter between the Urdu-speaking elite of Pakistan and Punjabis, and Saikia the military encounter to death between West and East Pakistanis, both showing in their distinct ways the difficulties besetting the nationalist project in Pakistan. With Kamran Ali’s essay ‘Strength of the State Meets Strength of the Street: The 1972 Labour Struggle in Karachi’, we are offered an account of a different kind of project which tried to rise above regional and ethnic divides, even above nationalism, to engender class consciousness. He writes of the workers’ struggle of the 1960s culminating in the 1972 Labour Struggle in Karachi. Within Ali’s careful account, we learn that workers experienced Ayub Khan’s military regime quite differently than the Urdu-speaking elite mentioned in Dadi’s paper. The regime did not come with buoyant promises of modernity, as with heavy repression and governmental procedures shortchanging international labour standards. However, what comes across in Ali’s account is how worker politics continued to be quite lively with popular strikes and encirclements. Also clear is the varied and paternalistic nature of the trade union movement that tried to graft itself on to worker politics. While Ali is careful not to overplay the ethnic divides, it is clear that workers were as marked and placed within hierarchies by ethnicity as by class positions. Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto’s ascension to the Presidentship of Pakistan following the 1971 war brought promise of a new era of labour politics. However, when a worker strike in June 1972 was met by an unprecedented intensity of police violence it became clear that the Pakistan People’s Party government lead by Bhutto was not that different from Ayub’s military government. While Ali leaves us with a sense of the dissolution of the worker struggle into weakened trade unions and a slide into patron–client relations with the state, we are nonetheless given to learn that such a place with a heavy interpenetration of bureaucracy, industry and military could and did once give birth to vibrant worker politics. Following Ali’s lead in describing a once vibrant leftist movement in Pakistan, Humeira Iqtidar’s essay ‘Learning to be Left: Jamaat-e Islami (JI) in Pakistan’, shows just how influential the left labour movement once was by exploring how the religious party, Jamaat-e

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Islami, I belligerently anti-left and anti-communist since the 1980s, learnt from it. While it has been generally assumed that the JI is an elitist party, subscribing to a vanguard theory of political leadership (Nasr 1994), Iqtidar shows how JI incorporated techniques of grassroots mobilisation utilised by the left through participation in leftist political rallies of the 1960s and early 1970s. In the 1990s the Pakistan Army attempted to force a new style of contract upon the country’s peasants. At this time the peasants turned to none other than JI’s Kisan Board (Farmers Board) to solicit its help in negotiating with the army. This suggested its success in winning over workers and peasants. Moreover, the choice of JI over any other groups is interesting in that it is made by Christian peasants, leading one to ask what promise a political party with an explicitly Islamic agenda has for its Christian constituency. It suggests, as Iqtidar nicely brings out, that the JI did not simply learn organisational tricks from the left but that they may have learnt to be left-leaning. With the essays by Ahmed, Abbas, Mehta and Hyder, we move to a consideration of the theme of foreignness. Foreignness within Pakistan has most often been spoken of as the undue external influence and intervention into its inner workings, by the United States, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Libya or any other nation. Pakistan’s porous nature often makes suspect the intentions and workings of its state, political parties and civil institutions to the average person (Verkaaik 2001). Yet foreignness may also be thought of as the persistence of colonial structures of government into the present as has been well explored by many Pakistani scholars (Sayeed 1967; Jalal 1990). The essay by Asad Ahmed, ‘From Muslims to Apostates: The Legal Construction of Muslim Identity and Ahmadi Difference’, goes further in examining the extent to which colonial categories and procedures continue to inform civil and criminal law, which are said to have been reformed by bringing them into alignment with the tenets of Islam. Through close readings of parliamentary debates on constitution making and amending in the 1970s, cases in the high courts and the parallel structure of sharia (Islamic Law) courts in the 1980s, culminating in a Supreme Court decision in the early 1990s, Ahmed shows how the state uses syncretic modes of legal reasoning and a wide range of legal instruments to secure its position as the ultimate authority on Islam. In his exploration of how the state struggles to render Ahmadis, the newest entrants to the Islamic community, into non-Muslims through laws and courts largely given to it by

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the colonial state, he shows how colonialism continues to animate contemporary struggles over Islam. A persistent aspect of foreignness that has come up several times already in our discussion is that of the Hindu within the Pakistani body polity and self. Earlier, I discussed Oldenburg describing how West Pakistanis were convinced of Hindu influence in East Pakistan, leading them to think that if they were able to eradicate this influence East Pakistanis would fall in line. We discussed Mufti’s subtle exposition of Faiz pining for his collective self, that is, his self as Indian/Hindu. Then we had Wahid Bakhsh decry the lingering influence of polytheism in Islam in Pakistan in Rozehnal’s essay. Thus, we see how the Hindu moves from being a physical presence within a body polity, to being a part of the inner self, to being a metaphysical scourge upon monotheism. These examples also point to the efforts by Pakistanis to continue to grapple with the place of India in their memories, imagination and anticipations. Thus, the figure of the Hindu and of India more generally constitutes a dense symbolic system within the Muslim imaginary in Pakistan, one that is yet to be properly unpacked. Deepak Mehta’s contribution to this collection, ‘Words that Wound: Archiving Hate in the Making of Hindu-Indian and Muslim-Pakistani Publics in Bombay’, goes some way in undertaking the unpacking for us. In an examination of the colonial archives in Bombay of the 1920s, Mehta finds a fine equilibration of insults and counter-insults that sustains the structure of hate between Bombay’s Muslim and Hindu communities in the present. The archives suggest two communities who once lived cheek by jowl with intimate knowledge on how to hurt each other, a deep familiarity with one’s enemy being necessary for putting everyday life under jeopardy and ensuring it. But what makes Mehta’s essay most relevant for our volume on twentieth-century Pakistan is the extent to which Pakistan constitutes the foreign within India. There is a standing imagination of Pakistan that draws upon the colonial archives of hate, as Mehta provocatively calls them, and a vigilance of Muslim communities by Hindu nationalist groups to see that they do not try to act Pakistani or grow a Pakistan within present day India. In other words, the idea of Pakistan does not belong to Pakistan alone. While also serving as intimate referents in the speech of Indian Muslims, Pakistan and Pakistani circulate among and acquire elements of the fantastic in the political speech of extremist Hindu groups in India.

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The theme of foreignness as mediated by colonialism gets a different twist in Sadia Abbas’s essay, ‘Itineraries of Conversion: Judaic Paths to a Muslim Pakistan’. She writes of how Imran Khan, the reputed Pakistani ex-cricketer, ex-playboy and budding politician, chooses a route of return to Islam sharply distinguished from the Islam inherited by Pakistan from its colonial and pre-colonial predecessor states, the Islam of which Wahid Bakhsh once complained as being dispersed into numerous and conflicting sectarian visions (see Rozehnal). He selects as his sources of inspiration two famous Jewish converts to Islam, Muhammad Asad and Maryam Jameelah, who claim access to an archaic form of Islam in which they see the perfect expression of Universal Judaism against the narrow strictures of Zionist Judaism. Abbas claims that in the process of converting out of the Islam, into which Khan is presumably born as a Pathan in Pakistan, into this archaic vision of Islam, Imran Khan uncritically reproduces the orientalist tropes utilised by Jameelah and Asad in speaking of Islam as an unchanging constant and Muslims as bearing the permanent inscription of Islam upon them. Moreover, the fact that Imran Khan marries a Jewish girl from England and converts her to Islam, hints Abbas, indicates there may be a fantasy at work of conquering and subsuming Jewry within Islam. We are made to see how there is something very singular and perhaps unassimilable about this particular vision of Islam, unlike that of Shakyh Wahid Bakhsh’s that aims to reunite all Pakistanis under the rubric of Sufism. At the same time, Abbas raises for us the marvellous question of what is it about Pakistan that gives occasion for such fantasies. By speaking of Muhammad Iqbal, the Indian poet–philosopher posthumously declared Pakistan’s poet laureate, Akbar Hyder’s contribution, ‘Iqbal and Karbala’, brings to the fore the one historical persona who expresses all the ambivalences preoccupying Pakistanis, which I have been elaborating. Muhammad Iqbal is said to be the visionary of Pakistan. Yet, in all his writings he militates against the form of the modern state, seeing it as too artificial to capture the organic nature of the ummah (community of believers). He is upheld as the exponent of a certain variant of Indian nationalism. However, in his later life, he is said to have thought coexistence impossible with religious others. Further yet, his writings continually speak of the foreign within through the figuration of Hinduism as the Brahmin or the temple.

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In this essay, Hyder introduces another paradox into Iqbal’s persona. Iqbal is said to have been disapproving of Sufism, considering it a form of flight from the world. Hyder unveils him to be a sensitive Sufi in the Sunni tradition for whom Karbala, the symbol of oppression of the Shias, served as the trope of martyrdom for all Muslims, regardless of sectarian affiliation. Most astonishingly, Hyder claims, Iqbal rendered the two polar opposites within the Karbala drama, the martyred Husain and the oppressive Yazid who ordered his killing, as a dialectical unity. This dialectic, presumably lying within Muslims, further complicates any picture of a sovereign state or a self.

The Everyday While anthropology is the discipline most often preoccupied with everyday life, it is unfortunate that the two contemporary theorists who have exerted great influence on the concept of everyday life have not sufficiently attended to the dimension of the everyday in and of itself. In other words, they have tended most often to see it as derivative of a standing political and economic order. While Henri Lefebvre in The Production of Space (1991) considers everyday life to be the passive site where structural inequalities play themselves out, in The Practice of Everyday Life (1984) Michel de Certeau asserts the agential nature of everyday life by showing how people resist and undermine structures of dominance from within. Yet neither considers how everyday life may have its own inner dynamics and temporalities in which structural forces have their place. If scholarly attention to Pakistan has by and large been preoccupied with the state and nation, it is only very recently that the dimension of the everyday has been brought into clearer focus, more precisely through the exploration of individual lives in the writings of Ewing (1997), Verkaaik (2004) and Ring (2006). Moreover, these lives are equally that of state institutions and artifacts, of political parties and religious traditions, as of average Pakistanis. It is not necessarily the case that the sheer existence of a ‘daily-ness’ negates crisis, that is, in self-perpetuating everyday life gives lie to the crises that inform Pakistan’s past and present. Nor is it the case that a more organic order holds within everyday life that gives cause for hope in the face of the artificiality of the state, the fragility of national connectivity and the pervasiveness of foreign influence. Rather, the same forces

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exist within the dimension of the everyday as they do within the national scene, suggesting how crisis is lived. Attention to the detail of everyday life yields a differentiated milieu, a complex range of human subjectivities and activities and the continual possibility of an unexpected turn of events leading to different outcomes. In other words, it yields an existence that cannot be entirely contained within the category of crisis and its standard evaluations. With Bard, Andrabi et al., Hull and Khan, I turn now to the four final essays for an elaboration of the everyday that, while not entirely resisting crisis, at least exceeds its evaluations. In ‘Look Who’s Talking Now: Voice and Authority in Pakistani Shi’i Women’s Gatherings’, Amy Bard continues Akbar Hyder’s exploration of Shia theology but as lived experience through her focus on a young Shia zakira (female preacher) in Pakistan. The preacher’s services are in great demand during the Islamic month of Muharram when Shias mourn their loss through commemorating the events of Karbala in various gatherings (majalis). Restricting herself to female-only majalis, Bard does a close study of the recitational form and narrative strategies of the preachers. In the process, the sectarian conflicts in Pakistan that are repeatedly mentioned in the essays by Rozehnal, Ahmed, Abbas and Hyder fade out of sight. Instead, we are brought close to the theological events that inspire devotion and the disciplining in rhetoric and gesture by which one learns to render these events so as to make one’s audience re-live them. The largely female audience must cry copiously for the preacher to consider her lecture a success. Through the close analysis of a particular sermon, Bard suggests the virtuosity of the preacher as of the women-audience, leading her to argue that Shia women have not only kept vibrant their tradition through their enthusiastic participation, but they have actually innovated styles of performance and audience response. While Bard acknowledges the difficulties introduced into Shia lives by the larger context of Pakistan, even these are turned to the advantage of devotion as references to contemporary political events are used in sermons to elicit deeper emotional responses. In the end a minority is shown to endure in Pakistan. While Bard speaks of the everydayness of a religious tradition, Tahir Andrabi et al. in ‘Madrasa Metrics: The Statistics and Rhetoric of Religious Enrolment in Pakistan’ focus on the education choices of Pakistani parents in rural settings to discount the inordinate

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attraction to religious education and the deep desire to become a (terrorist) such education is said to produce. In so doing they work to introduce the dimension of the everyday into poor Pakistani Muslim lives, which is slowly being rendered into stereotype with the rise of security studies and its alarmist pictures of the world of Muslims as docile subjects, vulnerable to external influence. In some ways this is an unusual piece in this volume in so far as it relies upon economic data while the rest of the pieces are more descriptive in nature. However, I felt its inclusion to be important not only because it undermined the above assumptions about Pakistan, but also because this work suggests how susceptible scholarship and journalism on Pakistan has been to such unfounded assumptions, which empirical work readily unsettles or else renders more complex. While it is almost commonsensically believed that poorer parents willingly send their children to madrasas (religious schools) to accrue religious merit for themselves, this group of economists study education choices to show that most parents send their children only reluctantly and avoid madrasas if other opportunities for schooling exist. Thus, one finds difference in educational opportunities to hold within a family as well as across families. This finding is most illuminating as it shows the extent to which people, rural and uneducated, are invested in Pakistan’s promise of modernity. It would further suggest that we could expect to find them similarly preoccupied with the problems of belongingness as in the case of the intelligentsia. In ‘Uncivil Politics and the Appropriation of Planning in Islamabad’, Matthew Hull continues the theme of the everyday, this time attending to the daily workings of the state through an examination of the Capital Development Authority entrusted with building and managing Islamabad, the modernist capital dreamt of by Ayub Khan and materialised by the Greek town planner Constantinos Doxiadis in the 1960s. While the city never served as a proper crucible for civil politics, Hull shows how the CDA inadvertently produced what he calls uncivil politics. In the details provided by Hull’s essay — the scramble over housing allotment lists, the unofficial insertion of names of benefactors, etc. — he is clearly describing an institution that smacks of graft. It would be the natural target of the many anti-corruption campaigns undertaken by well-meaning international agencies and desultorily put into effect by their local representatives. However, Hull suggests that what looks

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like outright corruption may not be so easily categorised. Many of the actions are, after all, undertaken to redress gross neglect, in some cases injustice, of the state, others to ensure that families and communities stay together in the face of the dispersal mechanisms at work within the bureaucracy, while still others are undertaken out of relations of friendship and kinship. Thus, Hull refuses to see this as a crisis of the state or of civil society. Instead he prefers to see this as the way in which something as unwieldy as a modernist city, built from scratch, has been made to work; how a bureaucracy has come to be inhabited by non-bureaucrats; and, how an authoritarian government has been pushed and pulled into expressing a politics of sorts. In the final essay in the series on the everyday, ‘What is it to build a Mosque? Or, the Violence of the Ordinary’, Naveeda Khan attempts to take stock of everyday life in urban Pakistan, in the city of Lahore, through a close examination of how people busy themselves with building mosques in their neighbourhoods. She explores mosques as she sees the building of mosques both as a time-old expression of piety as well as an expression of the Pakistani imagination of new beginnings within the context of the nation-state. It soon becomes clear through people’s narratives that mosques are built with various projects of self-formation in mind and community. Khan explores these projects through the stories of construction and the politics of usurpation that develop around individual mosques. In this way, she is able to show how central and lively experimentations on the self and the community are in Pakistani Sunni practice. However, it soon becomes clear that entropy is also part of this milieu. Entropy, in her case, results in the dispersal of the original momentum behind building mosques as people descend to fighting each other. While such entropy is to be expected, the essay draws on Henri Bergson (1998) to suggest that life requires the conservation of energy to take a milieu forward. There is a sense in which small acts of consideration towards others in the midst of conflicts shows this milieu to be banking energy for a different future. In the discussion of the essays in this collection thus far, I hope to have shown how crisis, devolved into its various evaluations as failed state/artificiality of the state, failed nationalism/difficulties of committing to a single vision, compromised sovereignty and security/foreignness within, is lived and prevailed over at various times and different settings within Pakistan. This is by way of suggesting how crisis and its beyond constitute a simultaneous experience for

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Pakistanis and how mulling this simultaneity provides the conditions of possibilities for attaching to Pakistan. Other themes have emerged from my discussion so far that are also important to put on the table. As with the earlier generation of Pakistani scholars, we see many of the authors in this collection preoccupied with the event of partition and its capillary effects into the present. Colonialism is a persistent influence upon the present whose lineaments we have yet to take full measure of. There is a sense in which India exists not only as a regional enemy but also as an intimate other. The question of Bangladesh or how to come to terms with what happened in 1971, which goes beyond pious hand wringing and cringing confessions, is a crucial issue that Pakistan continues to deal with. While the state is often shown to be weak and compromised or violent and repressive, it is never complacent and inactive. Instead, it is shown to be continually attempting to gauge the demands upon it and to adjudicate on contentious issues. The fact that other forms of social arrangements, aesthetic productions and political imaginaries exist but are either hidden from view or excised from public memory posits the necessity for perpetually recounting the history of Pakistan but from varied perspectives and through diverse sources. That the history of Pakistan is not simply a local history but a part of world history with experiences in Pakistan speaking to larger historical and theoretical issues is a consistent claim of the writings presented here. Finally, there is the issue of Islam’s place in Pakistan. Throughout I militated against organising the essays that dealt with Islam under a common rubric. This reluctance on my part comes from my sense that Pakistans relationship with Islam is all too often readily assumed, as in the Pakistani ruling elite instrumentalises Islam or that Pakistan turned to Islam with the failure of its nationalist project. Yet, if one looks at the essays in this collection, one can see how Pakistan’s relationship with Islam is as problematic as its relationship with the state form, nationalism or foreign influence. In other words, mulling over the problems of Islam in Pakistan, in its myriad ties to colonial bureaucracy and governance, the perception of official Islam as artificial, the multiple imaginings of Islam, the fears over the outer aggression towards Islam and its inner pollution, the endurance of the tradition along both its majoritarian and minoritarian forms, all speak to how integrally Islam is tied to the problem of belongingness

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and the means of attaching to Pakistan. Therefore, it alone cannot be considered as the panacea to Pakistan’s problems.

Conclusion If a state were in perpetual crisis, or rather, goes from one articulation of crisis to another, how do the fortunes of its citizen body and ancillary institutions fare? Does the army, as a privileged institution, derive its strength in inverse proportion to that of the civilian state? Do political parties simply perform their differences from one another without offering meaningful options to the state and citizenry? Must the legislature, judiciary and bureaucracy now work under the taint of corruption and compromise? Do the citizenry, under the rubric of ordinary people, doggedly continue on as before while dealing with new exigencies as they arise? What happens to all that which makes up a nation-state but goes under the threshold of the sensible, such as, shared memories, traditions, and histories; affiliations to peoples and places; and, senses of a future together, however contested these may be? Much is assumed by way of cause and effect and little demonstrated in the instance of a postcolonial state such as Pakistan. It is with these fighting words that we began this exercise some three years ago, to put together this volume of writings. Our effort was to introduce an empirical thickness to the history and present of Pakistan. While we were not able to answer all these questions we posed to ourselves, it is from this vantage position of detail that this collection works hard to interrogate the predominant narratives that locate Pakistan under the sign of crisis, by examining how crisis is framed, sensed, registered and refused in different ways by various constituencies. In so doing, we hope to have unsettled assumptions that intercalate state, civil society and citizenry in Pakistan and that go under the guise of common sense. Finally, it is our hope that these contributions will prompt not only a reconsideration of Pakistan, but will also serve as a meditation on the present condition, that of ‘human immigrancy’.

Notes 1. In this introduction I do not study any one instance of crisis in Pakistan. Rather, I am interested in the discursive evaluations of crisis that have developed over the course of Pakistan’s history. However, my approach is not deconstructing these discourses, to unmask some villainy at work internal

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3. 4.

5.

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to the disciplines that have produced them. Rather, I wish to engage these evaluations as serious statements on life in Pakistan, to see how they may be hinged to actual experiences and expressions as held up by the essays in this volume. While the outpourings of these disciplines on Pakistan are much too vast and varied for me to cover exhaustively, I do wish to draw attention to the fact that this writing is largely undertaken by scholars located in the United States (US), with the second largest bulk of writing by Pakistani scholars. This should not surprise given the extent of US involvement in the country. Notable among US scholars are Abbott (1968), Baxter (1974 and 1984), Binder (1961), Braibanti (1987), Bray (1997), Callard (1957), Cohen (1984 and 2006), Feldman (1972), Kennedy (1987), Oldenburg (1980 and 1985), Weiss (1986 and 2001), Wheeler (1970) and Ziring (1980). Among Pakistani scholars who show a preoccupation with crises of the state, nationalism and security see Khan (1973), Hussain (1985), Islam (1981) and Azam (1974). Others, those better known, will be introduced over the course of this introduction. Even a quick survey of this scholarship in both the US and Pakistan suggests the need for a sustained study of the influence of the US on educational institution building, scholarly networks, and genres of scholarship in Pakistan. See Saunders (2001). See Gilmartin in this volume for a refutation of this position. I try to the extent possible to use scholarly works produced by Pakistanis. Even though I limit my focus to English writings I would argue that the incorporation of non-English writings and even those by avowed non-secularists would not greatly change my argument. One of the reviewers of the book asked that I specify for whom in Pakistan belongingness is a problem. This is a provocative question; it resonates with the commonly held perception that the elite of Pakistan do not somehow belong to Pakistan as such either because of the cosmopolitanism they espouse or because of their privileged lifestyle which is at odds with that of the majority of Pakistanis. Yet, I would argue that this sense of not quite knowing how one fits into Pakistan plagues many, across class and ethnic divides. This is borne out by several of the papers whose subjects are not the elite at all but the lower middle class (Verkaaik) and the poor (Andrabi et al.). Memon’s 1983 article is quite an eye opener into how West Pakistani public intellectuals and presumably the larger public assimilated the events of 1971. Besides, the paucity of writing on 1971, which already suggests a cultivated ignorance and self-censorship on part of the public, the writings that do exist further suggest that by and large most blamed Bengali Hindus for inciting East Pakistan into rebellion, focused largely on the India–Pak aspect of the conflict, in particular the Pakistani prisoners of war subsequently held and released by India, and expressed the loss of East Pakistan in terms of nostalgia for a territory of great natural beauty that is oddly un-peopled. These perspectives are born out by the essay by Yasmin Saikia in this volume. Regardless of the apparent amnesia by the state and its subjects towards 1971, along with Iftikhar Dadi in this volume I would wager that the loss of such a large part

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of its territory and population could certainly not go unnoted. While Dadi shows how this loss manifests itself as a growing ambivalence towards the archetypical Urdu speaking national subject, an affect cinematically expressed, Kamran Ali in his essay shows how the aftermath of the war brought about a substantial shift in geopolitics and national policy leading to the undermining of a previously strong labor movement. In other words, 1971 exerted a capillary effect through all spheres of life in Pakistan. It is precisely this capillary effect that I note in post-1971 history writing and historiography in Pakistan, which seem to return obsessively to the problematic origins of Pakistan as if to attempt to anticipate and subsume the violence of 1971 within their accounts. The gesture I see is similar to the one Tahir Naqvi shows of the Pakistani state in its attempts to anticipate and subsume the violence of 1947 within itself. For the purposes of this introduction I have taken Rounaq Jahan’s writing as that of a Pakistani as it was written immediately before the formation of Bangladesh. She is now off Bangladesh. I am not at all suggesting that Pakistan shouldn’t do more in terms of 1971 but that 1971 is built into all post-1971 scholarship, even if only implicitly and inadequately, and that this mode of invocation is deserving of attention even if only as a way to understand how a people lives alongside a public secret. Such attention may also yield understanding of how a society, and not only a state, imposes silences and sacrifices upon its own. See Das (1995 and 2006). Hamza Alavi is famous for having coined the term ‘salariat’ for those Muslims in the colonial bureaucracy who spearheaded the Pakistan Movement. See Alavi (1989). Among Pakistani scholars, Jalal (1990) and Rizvi (2000) have made persuasive studies of how Pakistan inherited the bulwark of its defense economy from the colonial state among others. Western scholars, in particular historians such as Gilmartin (1988), Low (1991), Metcalf (2003), and Talbot (2005) have left a distinct mark on scholarship studying the colonial inheritance of Pakistan. In Das’s essay in the same volume, she shows how each rule emerges with the conditions of possibilities of its infringement. States derive their power as much from the making of rules as from the zones of their transgression. See Ahsan (1997) for an attempt to argue the prefiguring of Pakistan on grounds of civilisational difference rather than religious.

Part I Artificiality of the State

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1

Towards a Lyric History of India Aamir R. Mufti∗ The whole cannot be put together by adding the separated halves, but in both there appear, however distantly, the changes of the whole, which only moves in contradiction. —Theodor Adorno (1982)

Introduction At its best, the Urdu lyric verse of Faiz Ahmed Faiz (1911–84) can make available to the reader a disconcerting form of ecstasy, a sense of elation at the self being put in question, giving even the thoroughly secular reader the taste of an affective utopia not entirely distinguishable from religious feeling. It is, at the very least, a paradoxical structure of feeling, given the explicitly Marxist and anticlerical affiliations of his poetry, which displays a marked interest in the secularisation of culture and language. Faiz is widely regarded as the most significant Urdu poet of the postcolonial period. His poetry exemplifies some of the central dilemmas of Urdu writing in the aftermath of the partition of India, at the moment of independence from British rule. It represents a profound attempt to unhitch literary production from the cultural projects of either postcolonial state in order to make visible meanings that have still not been entirely reified and subsumed within the cultural logic of the nation-state system. Despite his stature as the uncrowned poet laureate of Pakistan during the first several decades of its existence, his is notoriously an oeuvre with vast audiences across what was once North India — the map of its reception seemingly erasing the national boundaries that are the territorial legacy of partition. Against much of Faiz criticism, I argue here that the foremost theme of Faiz’s poetry, its defining theme as a body of writing, is the meaning and legacy of partition. I have argued elsewhere that the problematic of minoritisation inscribes itself in Urdu narrative at the level of genre in a foregrounding of the short story as the primary genre of narrative fiction (Mufti 2000). In poetry, it translates into debates about the meaning and nature, that is, the

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very possibility of lyric verse in modernity. In the decades following the 1857 Rebellion, for instance, the classical tradition of lyric poetry, and in particular the ghazal form, became the site of fierce contention about the prospects of a distinct ‘Muslim’ experience in Indian modernity. The poetry of Faiz exemplifies the unique relationship of Urdu literary production to the crisis of Indian national culture that is marked by the figure of the Muslim. The lyric element in Faiz’s poetry — its intensely personal contemplation of love and of the sensuous — poses a notorious problem of interpretation: he is a self-avowedly political poet — laurelled in the Soviet Union, repeatedly persecuted by reactionary postcolonial regimes — whose most intense poetic accomplishments are examinations of subjective states. The orthodox solution — shared by critics of many different political persuasions — has been to argue that Faiz merely turns a ‘traditional’ poetic vocabulary to radical political ends, that we should read the figure of the distant beloved, for instance, as a figuring of the hoped-for revolution (Kiernan 1971: 40; Ali 1995: xiv). I suggest a somewhat different direction here, and argue that first, the political element in Faiz’s work cannot be read without the mediation of the social. Faiz’s exploration of the affects of separation and union with the beloved makes possible an examination of the subject, the ‘I’, of Urdu writing. It would be incorrect to assume that Faiz’s ‘Progressiveness’ — his association with the literary culture that carries the imprimatur of the All-India Progressive Writers Association (AIPWA) — implies a dismissing of the question of identity. The central drama of his poetry is the dialectic of a collective selfhood at the disjunctures of language, culture, nation and community. In his well-known argument about the relationship of lyric poetry to society, Theodor Adorno suggests that it is precisely lyric’s apparent distance from social determinations that constitutes its social meaning. He holds out the paradoxical possibility that its distance from the social in fact made of lyric poetry an exemplary site for the inscription of social meanings. The more the lyric reduces itself to the pure subjectivity of the ‘I’, Adorno argues, the more complete the precipitation of the social within its content will be; the more it immerses itself in what takes individual form, the more it is elevated to the level of universality, but a universality that is ‘social in nature’ (Adorno: 1991: 38, 42). In this essay, I shall elucidate the place of lyric in Faiz’s work and its relationship to the social horizon that is brought to crisis in partition. It is precisely in those poems that are

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closest to being ‘pure’ lyric, that is, ones in which the inward turn is most complete, rather than in such explicitly ‘partition’ poems as ‘Freedom’s Dawn’ (Subh-e azadi), that we may glimpse these social meanings in their fullest elaboration. I would like to explore the possibility that what Faiz’s love lyrics give expression to is a self in partition; that what they make visible is a dialectic of self and other in which the subject and object of desire not so much become one as simultaneously come near and become distant, exchange places, and are rendered uncertain. The desire for wisal, or union, takes the form of this dialectic itself. In the years following the partition of India, the problematic of national fragmentation comes to imbue the lyric world of Faiz’s verse in profound and explicit ways. But, the broader problematic of a partitioned self is already present in the poems of the pre-partition years, at least as potential, something that these poems point to and anticipate. The social truth embodied in Faiz’s lyric poetry is that the emergence of the (modern) self is also its self-division. The truth of the self is its contradictory, tense and antagonistic reality. Faiz makes it possible to think about identity in post-partition South Asia, in terms other than those normalised within the shared vocabulary of the postcolonial states. The purportedly autonomous national selves that emerged from partition are revealed to be what they are — moments within the dialectic of Indian modernity. And partition comes to acquire meanings very different from its usual significations, now referring not merely to the events of 1947 (or even of 1946–48), but to a history of social (‘communal’) identifications coextensive with the history of the Indian modern itself. The immense popularity of Faiz’s poetry in the Urdu–Hindi regions, its almost iconic status as a pan-South Asian oeuvre, is a vague but nevertheless conclusive measure of its success in making available an experience of self that is Indian in the encompassing sense, across the boundaries of the ‘communal’ and nation-state divides. But this is a staging of selfhood that takes division seriously, refusing to treat it as merely epiphenomenal, as in the unity-in-diversity formula of Indian nationalism. In fact, it suggests that division, the indefinitely extended separation from the beloved, constitutes the very ground from which union can be contemplated. Criticisms of Faiz’s works often invoke love of country or nation as an essential feature of his poetry (Hassan 1985: 119, 121). Faiz himself thematises this on several occasions — in the early poem ‘Two Loves’ (Do ishq): ‘In the same fashion I have loved my darling

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country,/In the same manner my heart has throbbed with devotion to her’.1 However, it is not accidental that neither the criticism nor the poetry itself is unequivocal about what the term country (watan) signifies. It might even be said that to speak of watan and qaum (nation/people) in the context of Faiz is to remain meaningfully silent about the objects toward which they point: does the hubb-ul-watani (love of country or nation, patriotism) of Faiz’s poetry attach itself to any one of the postcolonial states of South Asia? Does it represent a hope for dissolution of these states? What is its stance on partition, their moment of coming into being? Does it imply a ‘civilisational’ referent? If so, which civilisation — Indic, Indo-Persian or Islamic? Where exactly, in other words, is the poet’s home? The symbolic vocabulary of Faiz’s poetry draws on the stock of traditional Persio-Arabic images available to the classical Urdu ghazal — barbat o nai (lyre and flute), lauh o qalam (tablet and pen), tauq o salasil (neck-irons and chain), kakul o lab (lock of hair and lip), dasht o gulzar (wilderness and garden) — resisting the ‘plain’ language that had already become more common with some of his contemporaries and is more so with the generation of poets who have followed in his wake. In this sense, Faiz’s poetry is a living rebuke to the ideal of a neutral ‘Hindustani’ idiom from which both Arabo-Persian and Sanskritic influences have been excised, an ideal to which the secularist, ‘anticommunalist’ imagination in South Asia has been repeatedly drawn. Victor Kiernan, his translator and lifelong friend, notes that Faiz ‘was repelled by the prospect held up by Gandhi of a united “Hindostani” language, a nondescript neither Hindi nor Urdu’(Kiernan 1971: 38).2 The mythopoetic universe of his work is replete with references to Persian, Arabic and ‘Islamic’ sources, although, as Kiernan has noted, ‘a fondness for allusion to things Hindu, even religious, has not left him’, an important question to which I shall return (ibid). My contention here is that the question of collective selfhood — the meaning of ‘nation’, ‘people’, ‘culture’, ‘community’ — is at the heart of Faiz’s poetry, and not merely in the sense of his political devotion to ‘the people’ and contempt for their exploitation by neo-feudalism and colonial and postcolonial capital. Faiz problematises the very notion of nation or people, raising fundamental questions about identity and subjectivity and their historical determinations. To put it more precisely, in Faiz’s poetry, both the degradation of human life in colonial and postcolonial modernity — exploitation — and the withholding of a collective

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selfhood at peace with itself — what I am calling partition — find common expression in the suffering of the lyric subject.

Love and its Discontents: The Lyric Poet in the World In a small number of early poems, one or two of which have something like a programmatic status in his oeuvre, Faiz stages the aesthetic dilemmas of the modern poet. They are meta-poetic texts, for in them Faiz turns to exploring the nature and meaning of lyric poetry in modern life. In such poems from the late 1930s as ‘The Subject of Poetry’ (Mauzu-e-sukhan) and ‘My Fellow, My Friend’ (Mire hamdam, mire dost), but above all in ‘Love Do Not Ask for That Old Love Again’ (Mujh se pahli si mahabbat meri mahbub na mang), we find the poetic persona torn between the exquisite demands of unrequited love, on the one hand, and those of the larger world and its oppressions, on the other. Faiz himself has spoken of these poems as turning points in his aesthetic development, marking a growing sense of dissatisfaction with the dominant, ‘romantic’ literary ethos of the times (Faiz 1986: 308–11). Thus, in the latter poem, the dominant mood is set by the speaker’s asking the beloved not to ask for the kind of love formerly given — pahli si mahabbat — a singular love, alert to nothing but the beloved’s charms and cruelties. The speaker lists the efficacies of this love in which it had formerly believed and concludes the first section of the poem with the confession, ‘It was not true all this but only wishing’. After noting the cruelties of the outer world — its injustice, inequality and alienation — with which the beloved must compete for the speaker/lover’s attention, the poem ends on the note on which it began. In ‘The Subject of Poetry’, the same tension between the alternative demands on the speaker’s senses is maintained, but this tension is approached, as it were, from the other direction. Alternating between the mysteries of the beloved and those of the larger world, the poem ends by affirming that the poet cannot expect to overcome the former as his true theme: — These too are subjects; more there are; — but oh, Those limbs that curve so fatally ravishingly! Oh that sweet wretch, those lips parting so slow — Tell me where else such witchery could be! No other theme [lit., subject] will ever fit my rhyme; Nowhere but here is poetry’s native clime [lit., homeland].

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[Ye bhi hain aise kai aur bhi mazmun honge Lekin us shokh ke ahista se khulte hue hont Hae us jism ke kambakht dil-avez khutut Ap hi kahiye kahin aise bhi afsun honge? Apna mauzu-e sukhan inke siva aur nahin Tab-e shair ka watan inke siva aur nahin.] — Kiernan (1971: 90–95); Faiz (1986: 89–91)

These early poems have most often been read as signs of a young poet’s political awakening, a politicisation that does not lead to an abandonment of concern with the integrity of literary language. Faiz himself has contributed to the authority of this reading (Faiz 1986: 308–11). While I do not take this to be an incorrect interpretation, I read the apparent dualism of these poems — interiority and affect versus the external world, lyric poetry versus society — somewhat differently, as demonstrating an interest in the relationship between the lyric self of Urdu poetry and the ‘wider’ world of contradiction and conflict over the meaning of nation and community. I shall argue that these poems enact, in a literary-historical register, the dilemmas and complexities of a ‘Muslim’ selfhood in Indian modernity. The phrase pahli si mahabbat points to the problematic of love in the classical Urdu lyric, and the poem comments on the relationship of the modern poet, located in the national-cultural space that is (late colonial) India, to that classical tradition. In Pakistan, Faiz has long been spoken of as a ‘national’ poet, as the national poet during the first 40 years of the country’s life. It is my contention that this cannot mean what it is usually thought to mean, that, in part, the accomplishment, the grandeur and ambition, of his work is precisely that it raises serious doubts about whether the nation-state form can account for the complexities of culture and identity in modern South Asia. Born early in the second decade of this century in the now Pakistani city of Sialkot, Faiz received an education that was becoming increasingly typical for young men of his regional, religious and class background — the rudiments of Quranic instruction, Persian and Arabic with the local maulvi (religious teacher), modern schooling of the colonial (in his case, missionary) sort and degrees in (in his case, English and Arabic) literature.3 According to his own account, Faiz’s early reading consisted of a diet of Urdu poetry of the classical period, in particular Muhammad Taqi Mir (1723?–1810) and Asadullah Khan Ghalib (1795?–1869), and the major nineteenth century works of Urdu narrative. After finishing his studies at the Government and

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Oriental Colleges, Lahore — those bastions of modern higher learning for northwestern colonial India — Faiz took up a teaching position at Amritsar, where he was first exposed to Indian Marxism and to nationalist political culture in general. Faiz’s first collection of poetry appeared in 1941, and the last to be published in his lifetime, was in 1981.4 From time to time, he also published widely read volumes of critical essays, letters and memoirs. In Amritsar, Faiz was drawn into the literary circles that proved to be the core group in the establishment of the AIPWA in 1936, and he subsequently came to be identified as the leading ‘Progressive’ voice in Urdu poetry, while also maintaining his autonomy from that organisation and from the Communist Party, never becoming a spokesman for either in quite the same way as a number of his contemporaries, such as Sajjad Zaheer and Ali Sardar Jafry. Jafry even accused Faiz once of equivocating about the goals of Progressive poetry and of ‘drawing such curtains of metaphor [istiariyat]’ around one of his poems — ‘Freedom’s Dawn’ — that ‘one cannot tell who is sitting behind them’.5 He joined the colonial Indian Army after the collapse of the Hitler–Stalin Pact, at a time when the official policy of the Indian National Congress was non-cooperation with the war effort, rose to the rank of lieutenant colonel and returned to civilian life in 1946 decorated with a Member of the British Empire (MBE). A few years after independence, during which he rose to prominence in Pakistan as a newspaper editor and labour unionist, he was arrested in 1951 with a number of other radical writers, political activists and military officers — including Zaheer, who was the leading founder of the AIPWA and after partition became general secretary of the newly founded Communist Party of Pakistan — charged with conspiring against the state. The arrests, part of a general crackdown on the Pakistani Left, had a chilling effect on political and cultural life, and marked the beginnings of Pakistan’s realignment as a frontline US satellite in the Cold War and as a reliable regional client after the rise of Mossadegh in Iran, a role whose price the country continues to pay to this day. After a trial, during which the shadow of a death sentence hung over him, Faiz was sentenced to imprisonment and was finally released after spending over four years in various prisons in Pakistan. In the late 1950s, with the implementation of martial law in Pakistan, Faiz was again in jail, this time only for a few months. Already, by the late 1950s, Faiz had developed an increasingly international reputation, especially in socialist countries and many parts of the Third World. In 1962, he was awarded the Lenin Peace

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Prize and, at the end of his life — in exile from Zia’s Pakistan — served for several years as editor of Lotus, the journal of the Afro-Asian Writers’ Association, which he edited from Beirut, during the years of its devastation, including the months of the Israeli siege and bombardment. There, he composed a small body of what is the most exquisite exile poetry in modern Urdu literature, ‘an enactment of a homecoming expressed through defiance and loss’, in the words of Edward Said, who met him in Beirut during those exile years.6 It represents an attempt to introduce exile and homelessness into the vocabulary of Urdu verse as a constitutive experience. Read together with the early ‘meta-poetic’ poems, this later exile poetry makes clear that for Faiz, Urdu is, in a strong sense, a homeless literature and culture, that he sees its entire modern history as a series of uprootings and displacements. The appropriateness of using the term ‘lyric poetry’ in anything more than a loose and descriptive sense with respect to Urdu writing in general and Faiz in particular is not self-evident and requires some justification. While Urdu has a number of terms, such as the adjectives bazmiyya and ghinaiyya, that provide very partial equivalents of the English word, Urdu poetics makes no extensive theoretical use of such an umbrella concept and proceeds for the most part in generic terms — and in particular in terms of the mutual opposition of the ghazal and the nazm. It is certainly part of the specificity of Faiz’s work that, unlike some of his contemporaries, he does not turn his back on the ‘classical’ poetic genres, in particular the ghazal, with its rigid metre and rhyme schemes, and its set themes centred around the experience of separation from the beloved. He is, in fact, widely credited with having resuscitated this form after a half century of neglect and disdain. In the decades following the suppression of the uprisings of 1857–58, with the collapse of the tottering social structure that had been the basis of the Urdu literary culture of the ashraf, or ‘noble’ elites in northern India, ‘reform’ — religious, social, cultural, political and educational reform — became the slogan of what I would call reluctant embourgoisement among these social groupings. The Aligarh Movement of Sayyid Ahmed Khan is only the most famous and influential of these reform efforts directed at Muslims.7 In the critical writings of such Aligarh-related figures as Muhammad Husain Azad and Altaf Husain Hali, the ghazal came to be singled out as the genre par excellence of Muslim decline and decadence, as too decorative, subjective and impervious to nature,

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incapable of the sober intellectual effort and didactic purpose called for in the ‘new’ world.8 For nationalist writers beginning in the late nineteenth century, it became something like an icon of the vast distances separating the ashraf Muslim elites from the space of the genuinely popular. Such distrust of the ghazal has survived into our own century among both the literary movements committed to the social purposiveness of poetry, including the Marxists of the AIPWA who were Faiz’s contemporaries and comrades, as well as those whose commitment to the intellectual demands of modern poetry is in the name of art for art’s sake (Narang 1994: 9). The Urdu ghazal and the constellation that surrounds it — metrical structures, histories of composition and reception, Persianate vocabulary and thematic conventions, and the image associated with it of an imperial culture in decline — retain a distinct place in the postcolonial Indian cultural imaginary, from popular ‘Hindi’ cinema to such a work of Indo-English fiction as Anita Desai’s In Custody, despite the massive effort in recent decades to denaturalise and alienate Urdu to contemporary Indian culture and society. Perhaps like no other poetic form in northern India, the history of this lyric genre is inextricably tied up with the emergence and development of national culture, and in no other form, not even the Hindi git, or ‘song’ that is sometimes said to be the national-popular poetic genre par excellence, are the contradictions of the social so deeply inscribed. Even in his practice of the diffuse nazm form — whose only possible definition appears to be that it is a non-narrative poem that is not a ghazal — Faiz bridges the divide between these varieties of poetic writing and imbues the lyric world of the latter with its characteristic, non-national forms of affectivity. In this essay, I shall look most closely at a number of poems that are not ghazals, strictly speaking, but apply the concept of lyric to Faiz’s oeuvre as a whole, irrespective of genre in the narrow sense. In treating Faiz as a modern lyric poet, however, I am not suggesting that we engage in a search for qualities in modern Urdu verse that are characteristic of the lyric in modern Western poetry. On the contrary, the purpose of my analysis of a number of Faiz’s poems is precisely to make it possible to explore the specificities of modern lyric in a colonial and postcolonial society. Above all, what the concept of lyric makes possible is the translation, the passage, of Faiz’s poetry from a literary history that is specifically Urdu into a critical space for the discussion of Indian literary modernity as a whole. The extent that Faiz’s poetry

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itself pushes in the direction of ending the inwardness of the Urdu poetic tradition is implied and required by his work itself.

Remembering Oneself: Lyric Subject and Memory in Faiz I shall now turn to the theme of separation and union in Faiz’s love poetry by working through its elaboration in one of his best-known lyric poems, ‘Yad’ (Memory). The poem appears in the collection Dast-e saba (1952) and has been made hugely popular by the singer Iqbal Bano as ‘Dasht-e tanhai’: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

In the desert of solitude, my love, quiver the shadows of your voice, your lips’ mirage. In the desert of solitude, under the dust of distance, the flowers of your presence bloom. From somewhere nearby rises the flame of your breathing, burning slowly in its own perfume. Afar, beyond the horizon, glistening, drop by drop, falls the dew from your heart-consoling eyes. So lovingly, O my love, has placed Your memory its hand this moment on my heart. It seems, though this distance is young, The day of separation is ended, the night of union has arrived.

[1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

Dasht-e tanhai men, ai jan-e jahan larzan hain Teri avaz ke sae, tere honton ke sarab Dasht-e tanhai men, duri ke khas o khak tale Khil rahe hain, tere pahlu ke saman aur gulab Uth rahi hai kahin qurbat se teri sans ki anch Apni khushbu men sulagti hui, maddham maddham Dur — ufaq par chamakti hui, qatra qatra Gir rahi hai teri dildar nazar ki shabnam Is qadar pyar se, ai jan-e jahan, rakkha hai Dil ke rukhsar pe is waqt teri yad ne hath Yun guman hota hai, garche hai abhi subh-e firaq Dhal gaya hijr ka din, a bhi gai wasl ki rat.]9

Dominant in the first stanza is the image of solitude as an expanse of desert or wilderness, expressed in the string ‘Dasht-e tanhai’ (the desert/wilderness of solitude/loneliness), which opens lines 1 and 3. The metaphor also governs the second stanza, as the spatial language of line 5 — ‘From somewhere nearby rises the flame of your

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breathing’ — acquires a geographical register in line 7: ‘Afar, beyond the horizon. . . .’ The dominance of this desert metaphor is sustained in the treatment of the beloved, at least in the first stanza. There, the solitary subject is confronted with the ‘mirage’-like presence of the object of its desire — ‘the shadows of your voice, your lips’ mirage’. For the subject, the shadows and mirage are both signs of the beloved. But while a mirage points to an absent, illusory object, the shadow of an object, though it is itself immaterial, is a sign of the object’s physical presence. By being placed in combination with each other, however, ‘shadows’ and ‘mirage’ infuse each other with new meanings. The latter becomes something more than illusion, a mere projection outward of a desire intensely felt, like a vision of water in a parched land; and the former becomes something less than the sign of a physical presence. The geographical metaphor is fused here with a visual one, and together they come to signify the manner of the beloved’s becoming present. What exactly this manner is becomes more clear in the next two lines (3–4), for here ‘the flowers [lit., jasmine and rose] of your presence’ are said to bloom ‘under the dust [lit., the withered bushes and dust] of distance’. In other words, the nearness or presence of the beloved does not cancel out its distance. And the reverse is also true: the distance of the beloved is also the mode of its coming near. This theme is developed in the second stanza. In lines 5–6, the ‘flame’ (anch) of the beloved’s breathing is said to be rising from somewhere near the speaking subject — ‘kahin qurbat se’ — and yet, simultaneously, the ‘consoling eyes’ of the beloved are placed by the speaker ‘Afar, beyond the horizon’. In the third and final stanza, the geographical metaphor is abandoned, and we are within an internal, purely subjective space. This intimate space is here signified by ‘heart’ (dil), or, more precisely, by its ‘cheek’ (rukhsar), which is traditionally a sign of the beloved’s beauty and of (the lover’s) intimacy with it, but here comes to express the tenderness of the lover’s own heart (line 10). The inexpressible beauty of this image — a beating heart gently caressed by a human hand, as a lover’s cheek is touched by the beloved — is an expression of the desire for an end to suffering, for union, for reconciliation of subject and object. It expresses a desire for the form of reconciliation that Adorno has called ‘peace’: ‘Peace is the state of distinctness without domination, with the distinct participating in each other’ (Adorno 1988: 500). The presence of the beloved continues in this stanza to also be its distance. For the beloved enters this interior

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realm only as image or yad (memory). In the last two lines (11–12), the poem turns to the intensity of this caress of memory, to its effect on the subject: the guman (appearance/feeling/illusion) that ‘The day of separation is ended, the night of union has arrived’. Like the first two stanzas, therefore, the third stanza also enacts the dialectic of separation and union, in which separation is indefinitely extended, and union, intensely desired and felt, does not cancel out the distance between the subject and object of desire. It renders uncertain the distinction between them but not in order to appropriate the life of the object in the interest of the former. The object is also revealed to be a subject and the (desiring) subject an object of (the other’s) desire. The beloved is at the same time distant, and hence other, and intimately present to the self as itself. In other words, the self that emerges in the course of ‘Yad’ is a divided one, not at home with itself, desiring reconciliation and wholeness and yet cognisant that its own distance from itself is the very source of its movement and life. It is an uncanny interplay of nearness and distance precisely summed up in a four-line poem titled ‘Marsia’ (Elegy), which appears in Sar-e wadi-e Sina (1971): Having gone afar you are near to me, when were you so close to me? You will not return now, nor leave, meeting and parting [hijran] are now same to me. [Dur ja kar qarib ho jitne Ham se kab tum qarib the itne Ab na aoge tum na jaoge Wasl o hijran baham hue kitne.]10

We may begin to outline the social meanings of this lyric self by noting the resonances of the word hijr (separation) in the final stanza of ‘Yad’ (and of its derivative hijran in ‘Marsia’). A transformation of the Arabic hajr, the word is the most frequently used term in classical Urdu poetry for ‘separation’, or parting from the beloved. As is well known, the meanings of this word and those of its paired opposite, wisal (union), constitute one of the central and most familiar problems in Urdu poetics. These meanings vary not only from poet to poet or era to era, but also from one poetic genre to another, in the works of the same poet, and often within the same poem itself. Thus, depending on the poemic context, the words may signify the dynamics of romantic or

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erotic love, or of religious devotion. In the Sufi traditions of Urdu (and Persian) poetry in particular, wisal is a sign for mystic union with the divine, for the desire of the self to become extinct (fana) in a realisation of its ishq-e haqiqi or ‘true’ love of God, compared to which the love of man for man is only ishq-e majazi, inauthentic or ‘metaphorical’ love. Most typically, a verse may be interpreted at several different levels, in several different registers, simultaneously.11 The problematic of ‘love’ is thus constituted around an oscillation or productive tension between otherworldly and this-worldly significations. In latter times, this poetic language is very far indeed from any concrete practice of Sufism. In Faiz, paradoxically, this religious substratum is brought close to the surface again, in order to be secularised anew. The secularisation of hijr in Faiz’s poetry is part of the general secularisation of poetic language and purpose undertaken by him and his contemporaries. One aspect of this secularisation has been that the Sufistic eroticism of the vocabulary of the traditional poetic genres, and the ghazal in particular, has acquired political meanings, most explicitly in militant poets such as Habib Jalib, who is associated with the world of radical student politics, but also in more serious poets such as Faiz himself. Thus, for instance, wafa (loyalty or devotion) and junun (madness or intoxication) come to mean political steadfastness and selfless abandon, the rational and irrational components, respectively, of commitment. Faiz’s most programmatic announcement of the secularising impulse of his poetry comes perhaps in ‘Dua’ (Prayer), a poem written in the mid-1960s: Come, let us too lift our hands We for whom prayer is a custom forgotten, We who except for love’s flame Remember neither idol nor god — [Aiye hath uthaen ham bhi Ham jinhen rasm-e dua yad nahin Ham jinhen soz-e mahabbat ke siva Koi but ko khuda yad nahin.]12

Prayer may be a ‘forgotten’ custom for the lyric subject, but its very knowledge of this fact belies a memory of a living connection to it. The secular subject contains within itself traces of the lifeworld signified here by ‘idol’ and ‘god’. As in so much of Faiz’s poetry, secularisation is not a mere rejection of religious experience but rather a wrestling

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with it. This is not an expression of a positivistic atheism that wants simply to abolish the religious impulse in a rationalised culture of struggle and action — ‘love’ in the sense of political commitment. What is performed in the poetry of Faiz, instead, is the recognition of the immense power of religious thought and experience for the modern subject. More specifically, the unorthodox and transgressive energies that are always at least implicit in the mystical Sufi tradition are turned in Faiz’s verse against religious orthodoxy and its alliance with oppressive worldly authority. A Marxist and internationalist poet, Faiz is nevertheless immersed in the religious language of mystical Indian Islam, both in its high cultural elaboration in the Urdu poetic tradition and as a kind of cultural lingua franca in northern India. Faiz’s poetry reveals a deep respect and love for this culture and a recognition of the poet’s very complex relationship to it. It represents an agonistic embracing of a particular religious tradition — the IndoMuslim and Urdu poetic elaborations of Sufi expression — in order to produce out of it the resources for modernity; at the same time, therefore, it also points to the worldly basis of religious experience itself. At no point, however, is this merely a nostalgic embracing of a supposedly syncretistic religious life, and (poetic) modernity appears as a kind of dialectic of the religious and the secular or worldly. The problematic of hijr in the work of Faiz therefore cannot fail to evoke another narrative–mythological constellation, designated by the related word hijrat. Originally referring to the emigration of Muhammad from Mecca to Medina in AD 622, hijrat was appropriated in Urdu at partition for the dislocations and emigrations that accompanied that event, in particular from the Hindi–Urdu heartland to the territory of Pakistan. It lends to the latter experience an epic quality and seeks to contain partition itself within a narrative of leave-taking. Faiz explores (and exploits) this historical density of hijr as a signifier of relation to place, community, uprooting, and the paradoxes of restoration and return. While he was not himself a muhajir, or partition migrant, strictly speaking — having been born and raised within the territorial limits later claimed for Pakistan — hijr-hijrat becomes in his poetry a metonym for the displacements of partition as a whole, the massive fissures it requires of people, language, culture and memory coming to be figured as the experience of prolonged separation from the beloved. The political impulse in Faiz’s poetry can therefore be understood only through the mediation of the social. For the desire for justice, the steadfastness in the face of suffering and oppression, and the belief in a new dawn are complicated by the ‘partitioned’ nature of

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the collective subject. In other words, for me the significance of Faiz’s repeated use of hijr and of its derivatives is that it imbues the lyric experience of separation from the beloved with a concrete historical meaning — the parting of ways or leave-taking that is partition. If, in Sufi traditions, to speak simultaneously of the pain and joy of hijr is to point to the consummation of love in death or self-extinction, then in Faiz this prolongation of separation from the beloved is made the modality of collective selfhood, its very mode of being in history and the world (Schimmel 1979: 134–35). It is significant in this connection that within Pakistan, critics have sometimes complained about the seeming masochism of such prolongation of hijr in Faiz’s poetry, in marked contrast to the work of his contemporary Miraji, for instance, where the attempt to project an authentic selfhood not only takes the form of an actualisation of union but often is literalised in sexual release. This complaint is significant, for from within a framework that affirms the terms of partition, this refusal to grant to the (collective) self autonomy (from the whims of the beloved) can indeed only appear masochistic. The lyric subject in Faiz’s poetry is located at those borderlands of self and world where autonomy and heteronomy lose their distinctness, where the self is confronted with the uncanny presence of an other that is also self. For Faiz, the end of hijr is not a literal union. The sadness of hijr echoes the finality of hijrat, of leaving one’s home forever, but it also inverts the implied religious sanction for partition by reinscribing the self’s leave-taking of the (antagonistic) other as a separation from the beloved. When Faiz speaks of lost companions and almost-forgotten friendships, as he does in a number of poems from the 1950s onward, he is echoing an experience that is common in the entire northern belt that was affected by partition. Take, for instance, the opening lines of ‘Paun se lahu ko dho dalo’ (Wash the Blood Off Your Feet): What could I [lit., we] have done, gone where? My feet were bare and every road was covered with thorns — of ruined friendships, of loves left behind, of eras of loyalty that finished, one by one. [Ham kya karte kis rah chalte Har rah men kante bikhre the Un rishton ke jo chhut gae Un sadyon ke yaranon ke Jo ik ik kar ke tut gae.]13

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I suggest that we read ‘eras’ (lit., centuries) here as a sign of historical time, and ‘friendships’ (lit., relations or connections) and ‘loves’ (lit. friendships companionships, or loves) as pointing toward the fabric, the text, of culture, difference and identity in history. The modes and forms in which memories of the pre-partition past are popularly kept alive pose questions of immense importance and interest for scholarship and have only begun to be explored. In Pakistani cities such as Lahore, Karachi, Hyderabad and Rawalpindi, which were cleared of their large Hindu and Sikh populations within months of August 1947, the signs of these erstwhile residents are ubiquitously present — in the sight of sealed-off temples, in street and neighbourhood names that continue to be used, despite municipal attempts to erase them, in the signs of the ‘other’s’ tongue above doorways in the old quarter of any city. The memories and stories of older eyewitnesses, the tales travellers tell of revisiting long-abandoned homes, the enormous font of verbal genres — folk songs, nursery rhymes, proverbs and popular tales about characters such as Birbal and Mullah Dopiaza — are among the many everyday means of unsettling the finality of partition, of disconcerting the self with its own uncertainty. The paradox at the heart of Faiz’s reception is that while he writes poetry that is ‘difficult’ in some obvious ways and true to the subjective demands of lyric, it is this enormous font of popular memory that it seeks to mobilise. We can say of him, as Adorno does of Brecht, that in his poetry, ‘linguistic integrity’ does not result in poetic elitism or ‘esotericism’ (Adorno 1991: 46). The suffering of the subject in Faiz’s poetry, or rather its pleasure and suffering at being separated from the beloved, echoes in lyric terms what is already present everywhere in popular experience, even if in ways that are muted, less than conscious, and fragmentary. If hijr and its derivatives point us in the direction of dislocations and separations that are collective, such a historical reading of Faiz’s lyric poems is made possible in other ways as well. Since Dast-e saba (1952), an increasing number of poems in successive collections appear dated by month and year or by exact date, and many are also marked by place of composition, which, in the case of the poems included in Dast-e saba and Zindannama (1956), is most often a Pakistani prison. This dating and ‘placing’ of the poems is almost always significant. I suggest that we read the date (and/or the place-name, where it exists) as an extrapoemic, historical text requiring interpretation

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in interaction with which the poem reveals its meaning. The date functions with respect to the text of the poem in the manner of what Gérard Genette has called paratexts. ‘Elegy’, for instance, is dated August 1968, and ‘Prayer’ is underlined with Independence Day, 14 August 1967. The month of August, during which Pakistan and India celebrate their independence from colonial rule and Pakistan, its separation from India, in fact, appears frequently over the years as the date of composition of numerous poems. The extrapoemic, ‘historical’ reference here is to the complex text of national independence– partition, lending to these poems a quality of national stocktaking. The pronouns ham (we) and tum (you, singular/familiar) acquire in this context a collective resonance, even as the lyric quality of the poems, their uncompromising subjectivity, produces a sense of deep intimacy, of meetings and partings at the very core of the self, which defines its very existence. Let us take, for instance, ‘Blaik-Aut’ (Black-Out), which appears in Sar-e wadi-e Sina and is dated September 1965. The historical reference in the date is to the Indo-Pakistani war of that month, the first full-scale war between the two postcolonial nation-states, which is a watershed in their histories. As C. M. Naim has argued, for Urdu literary culture, in particular, the war proved a turning point, for with the ensuing suspension of communications between the countries, Urdu literary production and reception began to take place within national spheres, less and less in contact with each other.14 The availability of books and journals from the other side of the border, visits of writers and critics, and simultaneous publication of works in both countries, all common in the period leading up to the war, fell sharply in the following years, to the point of being almost extinct today. The year marks the entrenchment of ideological polarisation between ‘Indian’ and ‘Pakistani’ writers, with increasing self-consciousness about hitching literary production to the cultural fortunes of either the one state or the other. In the wider cultural milieu as well, the war led to a suspension of contact between the two societies, which had been extensive and routine earlier, ranging from frequent family visits within divided families to the public availability of cultural commodities, such as magazines and films, from across the border. The title of Faiz’s poem makes reference to the introduction of a new vocabulary of war into Urdu — a vocabulary of war, like its technology, of foreign and Western origin. The poem itself remains

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faithful to the subjective demands of lyric poetry, with the collective and historical reference made explicit through the title and date of composition: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

[1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

Since the lamps have been without light, I am seeking, moving about, in the dust: I do not know where Both my eyes have been lost; You who are familiar with me, give me some sign of myself. It is as if into every vein has descended, Wave on wave, the murderous river of some poison, Carrying longing for you, memory of you, O my love [lit., life]; How to know where, in what wave, my heart is swallowed? Wait one moment, till from some world beyond Lightning comes towards me with bright hand. And the lost pearls of my eyes, As luminous pearls of new eyes drunk with the cup of darkness, Restores. Wait one moment till somewhere the breadth of the river is found, And, renewed, my heart, Having been washed in poison and annihilated, finds some landing-place Then let me come bringing, by way of offering, new sight and heart, Let me make the praise of beauty, let me write of the theme of love. Jab se benur hui hain shamen Khak men dhundta phirta hun, na jane kis ja Kho gai hain meri donon ankhen Tum jo waqif ho batao koi pahchan meri Is tarah hai ke har ik rag men utar aya hai Mauj dar mauj kisi zahr ka qatil darya Tera arman, teri yad liye jan meri Jane kis mauj men ghaltan hai kahan dil mera Ek pal thairo ke us par kisi dunya se Barq ae meri janib, yad-e baiza le kar Aur meri ankhon ke gum-gashta guhar Jam-e zulmat se siyahmast nai ankhon ke shabtab guhar, Lauta de Ek pal thairo ke darya ka kahin pat lage Aur naya dil mera Zahr me dhul ke, fana ho ke kisi ghat lage

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17. Phir pa-e nazr nae dida o dil le ke chalun 18. Husn ki madh karun, shauq ka mazmun likhun.]15

The poem opens in darkness, in a state of lightlessness that is external — ‘Since the lamps have been without light’. But this absence of light is, as it were, reflected internally, and the speaker finds himself lost, in search of himself. The first three lines of the poem are an elaboration of this metaphor of darkness — darkness as metaphor for forgetting, for losing oneself. In line 4, the speaker addresses an other being, asking to be recognised and hence restored to his own (lost) identity. But this other is also an intimate, familiar (waqif) with the latter’s identity (pahchan). In lines 5–8, there is a shift of metaphors, and the crisis of the self is likened to the infusion of an unknown poison — ‘the murderous river of some poison’ (line 6) — into the veins, a deluge into which the self — ‘my life’ (line 7) and ‘my heart’ (line 8) — struggling to keep from drowning, carries its memories of, and longing for, the beloved (lines 7–8). In the elaboration of this second metaphor, as well, we get a shift of emphasis from externality and the physical to interiority. In lines 9–13, the poem returns to the metaphor of light, or rather, returns to the darkness metaphor of lines 1–4 by reversing it into the image of light as deliverance from the darkness of the self. This section of the poem opens with the gentle injunction to wait, to be patient — ‘Ek pal tahro’ (Wait one moment) which is repeated at the beginning of the next section, lines 14–16. Clearly, lines 9–10 contain a primary allusion — ‘from some world beyond’ and the ‘bright hand’ of lightning — to the (here Quranic) story of Moses on Mount Sinai, an allusion made explicit in the title poem in this collection, ‘Sar-e wadi-e Sina’, written on the occasion of the Arab-Israeli war of 1967. But I wish to stress again the manner in which this image is secularised here: ‘us par’, unlike ‘beyond’ in English, suggests more a horizontal gesture, directed toward the horizon, than a vertical one, toward the heavens, which the strictly religious image would require. The light that restores comes, in other words, from beyond the horizon — an orientation that we have already seen in ‘Memory’. The feeling produced by the phrase ‘from some world beyond’ is of a neighbouring world that should be unknown, yet is half familiar and vaguely remembered. The spatial register in which these images, and indeed the use of space in ‘Memory’, become meaningful is the very opposite of state

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territoriality or of a geography whose scale is superhuman. There is something small-scale and intimate about it. It suggests distances that are traversable by human beings. It is a register to which Faiz repeatedly turns in order to convey a sense of a place both not far away and not so close as to be indistinguishable from here. I suggest we read this complex spatial imagery as a means of exploring, within the terms of lyric poetry, the connections between culture and geography, or, more precisely, the process through which the nationstate converts its territory into a national geography. What Faiz is able to render here is a human geography that traverses the boundaries, and escapes the territorial logic, of the nation-state. In a number of essays and lectures from the 1960s, Faiz raises the basic geographical conundrum faced by Urdu writing in Pakistan: the historical ‘home’ of Urdu — Delhi, Uttar Pradesh, Hyderabad — lies beyond the territorial confines of the country. In his lyric poems, this question is echoed by the predicament of a dislocated, displaced lover, often depicted as imagining union with a beloved left behind in a world — nearly but not completely forgotten — somewhere beyond the horizon. In lines 14–16 of ‘Black-Out’, the metaphors shift again, and the dominant image is once more that of a river, a broad and mighty river, and the struggle of the self to keep from drowning. However, this river, which could consume the self, is also the means to its restoration, to the healing of its wounds. In fact, in order to be restored to itself, in order to find a riverbank (ghat), the self must be bathed in this poison and become extinct (fana). Having come to know annihilation, it is born anew. The fact that Faiz uses reaching a ghat as an image of restoration and healing is not insignificant. It is an Indic (rather than Persio-Arabic) word and image, with a clear reference both to the Hindu sacralisation of bathing in river waters as a means to purification and to the ritual cremation of the dead. Furthermore, fana points to the Sufi goal of extinguishing the self in the (divine) object of the self’s desire. But in its secularisation here it has a utopian impulse, signifying an end to the self’s suffering. This combination of these images — the one clearly of ‘Muslim’ origin, the other, ‘Hindu’ — is an attempt, in this poem occasioned by the war of 1965, to keep open possibilities of collective selfhood that that event was closing off. Nothing is more natural to a nation-state than going to war, and it may be argued that this particular war was a key moment in the realization of the nation-state form in postcolonial South Asia. That is certainly how it was perceived in contemporary Urdu writing, and aside from

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Faiz’s own poems of that moment, Ahmad Faraz’s ‘Main kyun udas nahin’ is among the more famous literary responses to the dilemmas it posed. But even in Faraz’s poem, there is a slipping into the terms provided by the structure of national citizenship, as the speaker singles out and names the Pakistani cities of Sialkot and Lahore, both on the border with India and both threatened with occupation, and bemoans their suffering.16 In Faiz’s work, on the contrary, the insight about the war as interpellative event is held on to steadfastly, and, above all, suffering never becomes an alibi for a reification of the self. The functioning of lyric in Faiz’s writing as a whole is as an abrupt flash of memory — not a fully formed recollection but rather an instantaneous sensation, of the self in motion, in dialogue with an other that is, uncannily, also self. The final two lines of ‘Black-Out’ offer a glimpse of reconciliation and restoration. Having been washed in poison and made anew, armed with ‘new sight and heart’, the self becomes capable once again of ‘praise of beauty’ and of writing of ‘the subject of love’. This resolution is highly significant, for it comments on the seemingly dualist movement of programmatic poems like ‘Love Do Not Ask for My Old Love Again’ and ‘The Subject of Poetry’, which I discussed earlier, and opens it up to the influence of a third term.17 If those early, pre-partition poems suggest a tension or poemic indecision between the aesthetic autonomy of love and lyric, on the one hand, and the material predications of the (lyric) subject, on the other, these closing lines suggest that that earlier duality was not simply the opposition of lyric self and society but rather that the identity of the social was all along at stake in each of its terms. Thus, it is not simply the material environment of the lyric self that poses the problem of the social; the interior world of affect itself raises questions about collective identity. The closure of that lyric world is a figure for the illusion of autonomy of Urdu literary culture and identity as a whole. And the coherence of that world is disturbed by the uncanny appearance of the other. To suggest that the lyric self in modern Urdu can no longer be contained within the world defined by love’s intoxications is to insist, in historical retrospect, that the claim to autonomy of that world is itself socially determined, that it is a moment within the contradictory movement of a larger whole. Thus, in neither of the two early poems is the lyric sensibility simply cancelled and overcome by a higher sensibility. The two are held in an indefinite, dialectical tension, with the result that while the first term is forced to open itself

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up to the second, larger term, it does not simply submerge its identity within it. The poems announce an end to the isolation of the lyric subject, or, rather, an end to the illusion of its isolation. But they do not cancel out the distance between the interior world of subjectivity and the outer world of objectification. To the extent that these early poems are programmatic works, therefore, this is not simply in the sense that they announce an aesthetic of commitment. They are essays in literary and cultural history. They explore the relationship of the lyric in Urdu to the larger history of social and ‘communal’ contradictions — that is the history of the Indian modern itself — raising questions about the ‘subject’ of Urdu writing in the double sense of the word, a double sense that the word mauzu shares with its English equivalent. What these poems make visible is the social life of the lyric subject — the subject as it appears in classical Urdu lyric — its isolation now appearing as its mode of being in the (Indian) world.18 In the closing lines of ‘Black-Out’, the impossibility of sustaining the purely lyric sensibility is finally explicitly linked to the vicissitudes of collective and national selfhood. What forces the lyric self to look beyond itself, to other pleasures and sufferings than those of love, is therefore a recognition of its own fragmentedness. The lyric as an aesthetic mode will become possible once again only when the wounds of the self are healed and it is whole again. In other words, the lyric, and the ‘purely’ aesthetic in general, is held up as a utopian possibility tied to an end to the antagonisms, and hence suffering, of the collective subject. In ‘Sipahi ka marsia’ (Soldier’s Elegy), another poem from this period and dated October 1965 — that is, marking the end of the war — this refusal to reify self and other is given a novel turn. The poem, in the voice of a parent (perhaps mother) addressing its dead son, abandons ‘high’ Urdu vocabulary altogether and turns to an idiom whose resonances are ‘Hindavi’, in a generalisation of the function that ghat performs in ‘Black-Out’: Utho ab mati se utho Jago mere lal, Ab jago mere lal Tumri sej sajavan karan Dekho ai rain andhyaran . . . [Stand, get up from the dust Wake up, my son

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You wake up now, my son Look, to make your bed Dark night has arrived . . .]19

The effect of the Hindavi idiom here is untranslatable into English (a very partial parallel would be a poem about World War II written in Middle English). It is as if in this moment of crisis for collective selfhood, modern Urdu becomes inadequate as a vehicle for grief. What the Hindavi makes possible here is an exploration of the communal and nation-state conflict in terms of the dissonances of language and language history. The poetic language associated most famously with the Sufi saint and poet Amir Khusro (1258–1325) is a fraught issue in the history of the Hindi–Urdu conflict over the last century and a half. It has often been excised from official histories of Urdu as too vernacular, that is, not Persianised enough, to be considered an antecedent for the mualla or ‘exalted’ Urdu that emerged in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, but is embraced within Hindi literary culture as the medieval font from which modern, shudh (or pure) Hindi has evolved.20 The larger effect of Faiz’s abandonment in this poem of the Persianised Urdu, that is the language of his entire oeuvre, and its substitution with a Hindavi idiom, is therefore to undermine, within a linguistic register, the claims for an autonomous Muslim (and hence Pakistani) selfhood. Faiz places the language that is conspicuously absent from the poem, namely, modern ‘high’ Urdu, in a line of descent from the lingua franca of fourteenth century northern India. Or rather, the surface of modern language is peeled off to reveal submerged sounds and meanings. To turn to Hindavi in order to articulate the grieving voice of the modern self is to reveal affinities beneath the surface of modern Urdu that are disavowed in its official history. If this poem can belong to the canon of Urdu, and of Pakistani, literature, then the linguistic and cultural configurations of self and other are not what the postcolonial nation-states, in this moment of self-definition through war, require them to be. The use of Hindavi idiom makes it impossible for the poem to be canonised as an elegy for a Pakistani soldier alone. It does this, not through disavowals of difference — ‘we are all the same’ — but rather precisely through a careful elaboration of the text of linguistic, cultural, and historical discontinuities. Faiz returns to the themes and motifs of ‘Soldier’s Elegy’ in a poem that is dated September 1975 — pointing to the tenth anniversary

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of the war of 1965. The poem ‘Mori araj suno’ (Hear My Plaint), is accompanied by a dedication to Amir Khusro and opens with a series of citations from the Hindavi poems attributed to the latter, each in a plaintive mode, asking for recognition, for the attention of the other, for deliverance and restoration. Unlike in the former poem, here modern Urdu provides the dominant discourse, with the Hindavi in the subordinate position of citation, a mode appropriate to remembering the war and the crisis of self it had precipitated. The language of the rest of the poem, following the lines from Khusro, is the ‘normal’ language of Faiz’s poetry, with words and phrases from the citations inserted. The overall effect of the poem is therefore again to resist a reification of self and other, to disconcert the self with a recognition of the sameness of the other, without collapsing the distinction between them. The poemic present, signified by ab (now), points to the moment of the modern, specified by the self’s apperception of itself in the other. As in so many of Faiz’s poems, modernity is the putting into motion of self and other.

Towards a Lyric History of India As we have already seen, the poetic program that Faiz announced early in his career envisioned orienting the lyric subject toward the larger world. I have argued that some of his most ambitious and effective poems are a series of exercises precisely in ending the isolation of the lyric subject, or rather in ending its illusion of isolation. They take the form of imbuing it with the recognition that what it takes as object, as the larger world of things, is itself subject and in dialogue with it. This dialectic of inner and outer worlds, I have further argued, carries collective, historical resonances; it is an enactment of the relationship of ‘Muslim’ culture and identity to the emergence of a wider ‘Indian’ modernity. The self-absorption of the lyric subject in classical Urdu poetry, so widely and repeatedly condemned since the nineteenth century, becomes for Faiz a social fact. And if that lyric subject — and its locus classicus is the ghazal — appeared to be, as Azad and Hali had argued, addicted to fantasy and impervious to reality and nature, that judgment could itself be explained in terms of the emergence of the horizon of ‘nature’ and ‘reality’ that we call the nation.21 Therein lies the modernity of Azad and Hali’s critique of classical lyric: it seeks to reorient writing within an emerging national experience, with the fatally necessary corollary that it enter the field of contest and conflict over the meaning of community and

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nation. In this sense, Faiz is a descendant of the nineteenth century reformers — and we should recall that his early formation took place in a milieu where the writings of nai raushni (the New Light) had long acquired canonical status — with the important difference that for him this project is to be carried out not through didactic poetry, as it is for Hali, but in terms of the lyric itself.22 Faiz himself makes the argument that much of what Hali is credited with having originated in poetry. What is the nature of the modern (Indian) self? — that is the question that underlies the reorientation of the Urdu lyric subject in Faiz’s poetry. The enormous paradox of partition, for Faiz, is that it requires a rewriting of the self in the name of whose preservation it had been demanded. It is a paradox that he sometimes figures as the collision of different, inner and outer languages of self, as in this couplet from a ghazal that is dated 1953: The heart as such had settled its every doubt when I [lit., we] set out to see her But on seeing her the lips spoke love’s unrehearsed words and everything changed everything changed [dil se to har muamla kar ke chale the saf ham Kahne men un ke samne bat badal badal gai]23

I suggest that we read the pathos of this couplet, this sense of the impossibility of saying what you mean, as a response to ‘public’ languages of selfhood and identity. What Faiz points to here is the excess that cannot be contained within the categorical structure of the nation-state, within which ‘Muslim’ is placed at the cusp of a fatal dilemma: it can signify either ‘a separate nation’ or ‘an Indian minority’. Faiz’s entire lyric oeuvre is a refusal to accept the terms of this fixing of identity and an attempt to put the self in motion. The narrative element in the above couplet — the self setting out with confessional intent to encounter an other but finding its own words becoming alien, producing meanings other than those intended — must be read in a collective and historical register as an interpretation of the history of conflict over the meaning of nation and communal identity, and, in particular, as an interpretation of the history of Muslim cultural separatism. Faiz is indeed a descendant of the writers and intellectuals of the New Light, who, a century earlier, postulated

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for the first time the distinctness of a ‘Muslim’ experience in Indian modernity. But, with historical retrospection, he bathes that assertion itself in the subdued light of pathos, pointing to the twists and turns, the reroutings and misfirings that mark the passage from that moment to our own. This ghazal, composed in 1953, is a comment on India’s partition from this side of the cataclysmic event, full of infinite sadness at what Indian Muslim ‘nationhood’ has finally been revealed — in the cold light of statehood and ‘sovereignty’ — to mean. Faiz distills that historical pathos into the subjective language of the ghazal, giving it the form of the lover’s sadness at the impossibility of saying, when face-to-face with the beloved, what exactly one means. The recurring image in Faiz’s poetry of an ever elusive totality that is no less real for its elusiveness shares something of the melancholy of Adorno’s concept of a contradictory whole whose ‘movements’ are visible only in the ‘changes’ of the fragments.24 This concept of the dialectic is an attempt to comprehend totality in late modernity, once ‘the attempt to change the world’, as Adorno put it, has been missed (Adorno 1973; Fredric 1990; Said 1995: 264–81). The ‘lateness’ of the contemporary world for Adorno thus resides in the fact that it is the aftermath of a disappointment, a kind of dénouement once the utopian hopes generated by modern European history have suffered a catastrophic defeat. Hence the series of questions that Adorno directs at contemporary culture: Is it possible to write poetry after Auschwitz? Is philosophy possible once the chance to realise it in a transformation of human existence has been missed? Is it possible, or even desirable, to defend the subject in an age when it is besieged on all sides by the forces of mass culture and mass destruction? Postcolonial culture is itself constituted by an aftermath and marked by the ‘late’ acquisition of the cultural artifacts of the European nineteenth century: national sovereignty, the popular will, the demand for democracy. In postcolonial South Asia, this moment is also that which follows the partitioning of northern Indian society. Frantz Fanon argued a long time ago that in order to be transplanted to the colonial setting, ‘Marxist analysis should always be slightly stretched’ (Fanon 1963: 40). The ‘lateness’ of postcolonial culture itself requires a stretching of the concept of late modernity, its uncoupling from the narrative of economic overdevelopment and overconsumption, and its opening up instead to a comprehension of the aftermath of decolonisation. Faiz is certainly not an ‘Adornian’ poet in the sense in which Celan, Beckett or even Mann might be spoken of as

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Adornian writers.25 But, it has been my purpose here to rethink and expand what it means to write in and of the vistas of ‘lateness’ that Said and others have identified in the constellations of Adorno’s thought (Jameson 1990; Said 1995: 264–81). Faiz is the poet of a late postcolonial modernity, a poet who directs the energies of negative thinking at the congealed cultural and social forms that constitute the postcolonial present. For Adorno, the concept of lyric poetry has a referent that is ‘completely modern,’ and ‘the manifestations in earlier periods of the specifically lyric spirit familiar to us are only isolated flashes (Adorno 1991: 40)’. Faiz, however, turns to the traditional Urdu lyric itself and extracts from it a vocabulary for the elaboration of the relation of the self to the world, individual to totality. He elaborates an experience of modern Indian selfhood that seeks to escape the cultural logic of the nation-state system inaugurated at partition, that paradoxical moment of realisation through reinscription, of success through failure. He does this, furthermore, by immersion in the IndoIslamic poetic tradition, with its deep relationship to Sufi thought and practice, and its long involvement in the crisis of culture and identity on the subcontinent. This is the larger meaning of Faiz as an Urdu poet with an immense audience across the political and cultural boundaries implemented by partition. His is not an appropriation of the fragment from the position of totality, but neither is it an attempt to reconceive the fragment itself as a totality. His is the oeuvre of an aftermath once the chance to achieve India, to ‘change the world’, as it were, has been missed. He confronts the fragment itself with its fragmentary nature, making perceptible to it its own objective situation as an element in a contradictory whole. To put it differently and more explicitly in historical terms, we might say that Faiz is another name for the perception — shadowy and subterranean for the most part, but abruptly and momentarily bursting through the surface of language and experience from time to time — that the disavowal of Indianness is an irreducible feature of Indianness itself. The powerful tradition of lyric poetry in Urdu, long accused of its indifference to properly Indian realities, is revived and given a new lease of life in Faiz and his contemporaries, not because they infuse old words with new meanings, as the intentionalist cliché in Faiz criticism would have it, but because in their practice it becomes a site for the elaboration of a selfhood at odds with the geometry of selves put into place by partition. In his lyric poetry, Faiz pushes the terms of identity and selfhood to their limits, to the point where they

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turn upon themselves and reveal the partial nature of postcolonial ‘national’ experience.

Notes ∗ For Professor C. M. Naim, ihtiraman. 1. Kiernan (1971: 166–67). In matters of translation, I have set the following principles for myself: wherever it is possible, I cite Kiernan’s translation, the ‘literal’ one if I am engaging in a line-by-line analysis, as this is closest to the original in terms of line content, and the ‘non literal’, where the object is to convey a sense of the whole. Where a poem or fragment is not available in a Kiernan translation, I either provide my own ‘literal’ translation or turn to the more freely translated versions of Agha Shahid Ali (1995) or Naomi Lazard (1988), depending, again, on the specific purpose at hand. 2. For a contemporary selection of Gandhi’s views on the language question, see Gandhi (1942). 3. This biographical summary is based on the following sources: Kiernan (1971); Faiz (1983: 5–20; 1985: 112–21; 1986: 307–14, 489–97); and Khaleeq Anjum (1985: 14–37). 4. Naqsh-e faryadi (Remonstrance) was published in 1941, to be followed by Daste saba (Fingers of the Wind [1952]), Zindan-nama (Prison Thoughts [1956]), Dast-e tah-e sang (Duress [1965]), Sar-e wadi-e Sina (Mount Sinai [1971]), Sham-e shahryaran (Twilight of Kings [1978]), and Mire dil mire musafir (My Heart, My Traveling Heart [1981]) during his lifetime. His late and previously uncollected poems have since been collected as Ghubare ayyam (Dust of Days [1984]) as part of an edition of his complete works. The first four translations here are Kiernan’s, the rest are mine. 5. Quoted in Azmi (1972: 109). 6. Edward W. Said, ‘Reflections on Exile’ (1984: 160). Faiz makes a brief appearance in Mahmoud Darwish’s memoir of the Israeli siege. See Darwish (1995). 7. See, for instance, the brilliant cultural history of the early years of the Aligarh movement by David Lelyveld (1978), Barbara Daly Metcalf (1982) and an intriguing study of culture and space by Faisal Fatehali Devji, ‘Gender and the Politics of Space: The Movement for Women’s Reform, 1857–1900’, in Hasan (1994: 22–37). 8. For a full-length account of these debates see Pritchett (1994). 9. Faiz (1986: 184–85). It is regrettable that Kiernan did not include this very beautiful poem among his excellent translations. It is also ignored by Agha Shahid Ali and Naomi Lazard. This translation is my own. I have tried to keep it as literal as possible — with almost no attention to meter or rhyme scheme — and to retain the content integrity of the lines, even at the cost of syntactical awkwardness, as in lines 9–10. I shall stay in my analysis close to the original, with the translation meant as merely a rough guide for readers not familiar with the Urdu.

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10. See Faiz (1986: 438). The translation is mine, with the literal meaning as the immediate goal, with some attention to rhyme scheme. 11. On the classical ghazal and its symbolic and thematic universe, see Russell (1992), Schimmel (1992); on the erotics of ghazal imagery, see Schimmel, ‘Eros — Heavenly and Not So Heavenly — in Sufi Literature and Life’, in Afaf Lutfi al-Sayyid-Marsot (1979: 119–41). 12. See Kiernan (1971: 276–7), for Kiernan’s rendition, which I have altered slightly; and Faiz (1986: 429). 13. This evocative, but largely free, translation is Agha Shahid Ali’s (1995: 85) and Faiz (1986: 524–25). As has often been noted, Faiz’s poetry shows a marked preference for the first-person plural, a sort of royal ‘we’, over the first person singular. 14. See C. M. Naim, ‘The Consequences of Indo-Pakistani War for Urdu Language and Literature’, (1969): 269–83. Also see Aijaz Ahmad, ‘Some Reflections on Urdu’ (1989: 29). 15. This is a slight modification of Kiernan’s translation. See (1971: 268–71). Also, in Faiz (1986), the lineation is slightly different and Kiernan’s line 12 is broken into two after ‘siyahmast’ and line 16 after ‘ho ke’ (see 409–10). 16. Ahmad Faraz, ‘Main kyun udas nahin’, in Faraz (1989: 29–30). The title itself is ambiguous and could be translated as either ‘Why Do I Not Grieve?’ or ‘Why I Do Not Grieve’. I am not interested here with the explicitly jingoistic verse that was produced in response to the war. For a discussion of some of this work and its context, see Naim (1969). 17. Kiernan translates the title ‘Mauzu-e sukhan’ as ‘Poetry’s Theme’. This leaves out the grammatical and philosophical senses that mauzu shares with subject. 18. For a rather different reading of ‘Mujh se pahli si muhabbat’ by an orientalist ‘lover’ of the classical ghazal tradition, see Russell (1992: 230–31, 243–44). In line with his literal readings of Urdu poetry in general, Russell notes sarcastically that he is not impressed with the discovery ‘that there are other things in life besides love of women’ (243). His entire chapter on Faiz would be laughable — he considers Faiz a second-rate poet — if it did not border on the scurrilous, accusing Faiz of self-promotion and political insincerity and cowardice. 19. Faiz (1986: 412–14). The translation is mine. 20. For a clearly executed survey of the far from clear debates about the origins of modern Hindi and Urdu, see Rai (1984: 1–36). 21. See Qureishi (1993: 116–17, 153–54, 158, 178–85). Hali makes it very clear what he has in mind when he recommends ‘naichral shairi’ (natural poetry): ‘By ‘natural poetry’ is meant that poetry which, in terms of both words and meanings, is in accord with nature and habit . . . [in accord with] the everyday form of the language, because this everyday speech carries for the inhabitants of the country where it is spoken, the weight of nature [nechar] or second nature [saikind nechar]’ (158). 22. Faiz himself makes the argument that much of what Hali is credited with having originated in poetry — the turn to ‘nature’, the rejection of ‘artificial’

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affect, the rejection of abstraction and esotericism — can in fact be traced to Nazir Akbarabadi, who wrote almost a century earlier. Hali’s uniqueness lies in the national (qaumi) nature of his poetry and poetics. See his important essay, ‘Nazir aur Hali’, in Faiz (1956: 169–70, 179–83). 23. The English here is a modification of Agha Shahid Ali’s very free but lovely translation. See (1995: 30). 24. See, for instance, Adorno, ‘The Fetish Character in Music and the Regression of Listening’: ‘The whole can not be put together by adding the separated halves, but in both there appear, however distantly, the changes of the whole, which only moves in contradiction’ (1982: 275). 25. I am grateful to Stathis Gourgouris and Eduardo Cadava for making clear the need for this clarification.

2

The Politics of Commensuration: The Violence of Partition and the Making of the Pakistani State Tahir Hasnain Naqvi∗ As long as the state of exception and the normal situation are kept in separate space and time, as is usually the case, both remain opaque, though they secretly institute each other. But as soon as they show their complicity, as happens more often today, they illuminate each other, so to speak, from the inside. —Georgio Agamben (2002)

Introduction The partition of India occurred at the cusp of the great inter-war refugee movements in Europe. It initiated the era of decolonisation but mired the independence of India and Pakistan in the ether of communal genocide and mass displacement. In the months preceding independence, political elites and party workers from the All India Muslim League and the Indian National Congress prepared their constituencies for the eventual division of the provinces of Punjab and Bengal. However, as the scale of communal violence took on genocidal proportions these very same nationalist leaders in both countries assumed the tenuous position of neutral official arbiter by insisting that the persecution of communal minorities was out of step with the ideological and moral purpose of nationalism. Judging from official reports and statements, it appears that the leadership of the All India Muslim League and the Indian National Congress did not anticipate1 the scale of partition’s genocidal chain of violence (Brass 2003). One may argue that despite their history of antagonism, as agents of the ‘post-partition national order’ (Zamindar 2003), the League and Congress shared the perception that national emancipation was jeopardised by those who had been mobilised in its name.2 By referring to the ‘unthinkability’ (See Bourdieu 1977; Trouillot 1995) of partition’s violence, my aim is to suggest the motivated

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significance of ‘not knowing’, as a symptomatic reflection of the wider hegemonic predicament of anti-colonial nationalism in the late colonial period. Rather than the willful or unwitting failure to foresee violent consequences, ‘unthinkability’ conveys the more systematic disconnect in the final years of colonial rule between elite and popular constructions of territory, nationalism and nationality. Practices of genocidal purification incited the dissolution of a ‘politics of place’3 at the village and district level, amounting to an alternate reckoning of nationality as an individual experience of loss and becoming. While such acts diverged from the nationalist elite’s concept of mobilisation,4 the elite nevertheless sought commensuration between the acts and with the abstract contests and objectives originating in the highpolitical arena. What would it mean to approach the freighted nationalist narrative and logic of commensuration from a perspective inverse of the state’s? Drawing on official and journalistic accounts of the period between 1940 and 1951, this article attempts to write a history of the violence of partition against the grain of its unthinkability within elite nationalist discourse. And while it does not perform the necessary labour of recovering the voice and agency of partition’s popular actors, it addresses how partition’s chain of violence and displacement engendered the post-independence state as an entity capable of wielding the sovereign power to decide on life and death. Crucial to the development of this prerogative were practices of knowledge and power that produced the refugee ambivalently, as a figure of right and an object of governmentality. Focusing on Pakistan’s official response to the ‘refugee problem’, I wish to suggest that the movement of populations both relied upon and informed implicit efforts at official commensuration with the violence of the mass. A caveat is necessary before proceeding. In focusing on the case of Pakistan, I wish to build a more discursively informed account of the official politics of partition in which emphasis is usually given to specific rationalities and practices of official intervention. On the one hand, had the governments of India and Pakistan not maintained the semblance of uniformity in the evacuation and rehabilitation process, the communal violence of partition could arguably have escalated into an outright war over the refugee crisis.5 On the other hand, the crucial significance of uniformity and reciprocity as values of bilateralism does not take away from the fact that each government

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applied differential significance and weight to the political and material dimensions of the crisis. For instance, when examining the Pakistani archive, it becomes clear that: (i) as a proportion of the national population, the number of refugees who settled in Pakistan was greater than India; (ii) the party at the forefront of the Pakistani Movement and post-partition ‘nationalist’ government, the All India Muslim League, faced much greater internal resistance to postindependence hegemony; and (iii) while both governments used emergency powers to handle the refugee crisis, over the course of 61 years, extra-constitutional statecraft has become a normal feature of contemporary political life in Pakistan. To draw regional and narrative distinctions does not diminish the moral and historical primacy of partition as an event of subcontinental proportions. In fact a focus on specific formations and responses complements the more geographically comprehensive approach which characterises the political historiography of partition by providing the basis for a more plural and critical understanding of partition’s bearing on the postcolonial present. Three interrelated narratives are presented in this article. The first deals with so-called ‘agreed-area’ refugees, or, refugees who were involuntarily evacuated through the co-ordinated efforts of the governments of India and Pakistan. I then address the predicament of ‘nonagreed’ Muslim refugees, who by contrast, were not designated as subjects hailing from ‘disturbed areas’ warranting official evacuation. That the state of Pakistan engaged in such dividing practices was not unique. For instance, India’s government also sought to discourage non-Muslim exodus from east to west Bengal in 1948 (Tan and Kudaisya 2000: 144). The salience of the Pakistani narrative, however, rests in the primacy that the All India Muslim League had assigned itself to the redress of Muslim minoritisation since its inception in the early twentieth century. Finally, I examine the heated conflict between the federal government and the provincial government of Sindh over who had the jurisdiction to control the intake and management of recently arrived agreed-area refugees awaiting resettlement in transit camps throughout the province of (eastern) Punjab. That Pakistan’s outlying provinces were compelled under emergency powers invoked by the Governor-General in August 1948 to increase its quota of refugees, points to the agreed-area refugees’ liminal political status as a ‘problem’ to be resolved and a national subject of rights.

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As I show, the official inclusion of Muslim refugees within Pakistan’s national order entailed the exclusion of others, such as the Muslims residing in India’s ‘minority-Muslim provinces’, whose communal future was seriously left in question as a consequence of Pakistan’s independence. Any discussion of the role of the state as a force of intervention and commensuration, therefore, must attend to the primacy of violence and displacement in producing specific and immediate subjects of territorial belonging and exclusion. Before addressing the specific historical cases outlined above, I wish to provide more historical and conceptual depth to the analytic metaphor of a ‘chain’ of violence, the aim of which is to include the drama of human movement within the experiential and political ambit of partition’s genocide.

Partition’s Chain of Violence: Displacement and Belonging It is estimated that 10 to 12 million6 people undertook migration during partition, making it the largest cross-border migration in modern history (Brass 2003: 75). Between March 1947 and August 1948 approximately 7 million Muslim refugees crossed into Pakistan’s eastern and western territories (Ashraf 1948: 24). Widespread patterns of violence and displacement began to unfold in the months preceding independence — most of it centred in the province of Punjab — whose territory, along with Bengal, was slated for division along (roughly) communal lines. Muslim refugees subsequently transformed both wings of Pakistan — separated by northern India — into a post-riot sanctuary.7 The tension between affective (sanctuary) and ideological (homeland) constructions of Pakistan’s territory is apparent in the life histories of men and women who experienced the violence, displacement and loss engendered by partition in ways that continue to inform their social and inner experience (see Das 2006). Now a retired teacher, Shamim Raza came to Lahore from District Patiala in September 1947, at the age of 17, with her family mercifully intact. She situates the tension between belonging and sanctuary in the disorder and uncertainty inherent in the experience of forced exodus: Only after we began our journey towards the border did it dawn on us that Pakistan would be our home from that point on. The devastation we came upon along the way . . . all the signs were clear. We were never

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going to return. When one talks of the refugees (panahguzeen) kissing this Pak-sar-zameen (the pure land of Pakistan) upon their arrival it is no doubt true they were grateful to finally have a homeland for Muslims (Musulmanon ka qaum). In this homeland they could live according to Islam. But this ground also marked the end of our horrible journey. We kissed it out of sheer gratitude for our lives.8

The great majority of India’s Muslim refugees were evacuated through a co-ordinated military effort from East Punjab (India) to West Punjab in what was initially conceived as a reciprocal, temporary but complete exchange of their respective minority populations. Sensing repatriation would take longer than originally planned, the India and Pakistan ‘Inter-Dominion Conference’ of 1948 categorised the divided province as an ‘agreed-area’ — a retroactive, but crucial distinction which qualified its inhabitants to official rehabilitation entitlements such as the right to till on evacuee (non-Muslim) property (Government of India, Ministry of Rehabilitation, 1950). This benefit was not available to all partition era migrants. Agreed-area refugees were categorised under the Inter-Dominion covenant as involuntary migrants; that is, they fulfilled what could be described as the necessary condition of a partition refugee by hailing from areas where the level of ‘communal disturbance’ was seen to merit official evacuation (Ali 1967: 270). According to this logic, ‘non-agreed’ areas, such as northern and central India, as well as the divided province of Bengal, did not meet this criterion. By contrast, non-agreed refugees were considered to possess sufficient grounds to remain in Pakistan. Seen as less vulnerable to communal attack than their counterparts in the agreed-areas, nonagreed inhabitants were actually discouraged from migrating by their potential ‘host’ states. And yet, they were not turned away nor denied citizenship if they managed to succeed in making the passage. As I argue in the section dealing with conflicts between India and Pakistan in 1948 over the potential for non-agreed area migration to Pakistan, ‘sufficiency’ works in this context as less a humanitarian concept than as a problematic outgrowth of the All India Muslim League’s attempt to reconcile Pakistan’s territorial sovereignty with its pre-independence political role as a religious nationalist movement committed to the rights of all Indian Muslims (see Jalal 1985). What is striking about these formations is the critical role that extreme violence comes to play in the state’s imagination of normal and lawful politics.

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The Refugee as a Figure of Right and Object of Government Refugees settled in Pakistan and India faced relatively fewer legal obstacles to formal political inclusion than their historical or contemporary counterparts in Europe and the postcolonial world. This anomaly is not lost on scholars of the subcontinent. The American political scientist Theodore Wright (1974) observes how, in contrast to Europe, ‘the 15 million involved in the mammoth Hindu–Moslem exchange of population . . . though they have suffered greatly . . . [had] from their very beginning . . . the security of citizenship, protection and encouragement of their respective co-national state in which they had found a haven . . . a new life, not on sufferance [by the state], but as of right’ (1974: 45, my emphasis). Wright is not unjustified in calling attention to the moral salience of the citizenship of partition refugees. In a famous critique of human rights in the era of nation-states, Hannah Arendt (1979) brings Europe’s contrasting history of the inter-war refugee phenomenon to the centre of her examination of the modern paradox of national sovereignty. It is the European refugee’s statelessness, argues Arendt, which compels him to ‘fall back’ on his status as ‘mere life’ (ibid.: 290). The condition of mere life does not signal the ‘loss of specific rights’, but a more encompassing and consequential ‘loss of a community’ willing to guarantee national citizenship: as the sole mechanism of rights in the national age, ‘[o]nly the loss of polity expels him [the refugee] from humanity’ (ibid.: 292).9 If the refugee’s mere life (or ‘human rights’) evokes the original universality and sovereignty of the citizen-subject, the exclusion and despair of their statelessness points to the modern nation-state’s failure to conceive of universal rights beyond the particular framework of territory, nativity and naturalisation (see Agamben 1998). Theoretical and anthropological treatments of the refugee in contemporary legal, humanitarian and media discourse build on the Arendtian category of mere life. Here the refugee is often cast as someone whose loss of locality and culture confirms — often, by critically interrogating — the connection between statelessness and the loss of subjectivity. In this view, the exclusion of the modern refugee within the national order constitutes their ‘liminality’ within, and displacement of, the nation-state’s ‘sedentary metaphysics’ (Malkki 1995).

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Yet, in order to fully grasp the challenge that the case of postpartition Pakistan presents to the dominant contemporary image of the stateless refugee, I believe one must also resist the alluring fiction that its refugees were — to invert Arendt — merely citizens. In an ethnographic study of Cambodian refugee ‘naturalisation’ in California, Aihwa Ong (2003) takes issue with the Arendtian stress on the refugee’s exclusion from the ‘national order of things’ (Malkki 1995). In Ong’s view, juridical citizenship is just one (albeit significant) lens through which it is possible to address the subordination and exclusion of modern refugees within the nation-state. Any meaningful distinction between refugee and citizen therefore must address cultural values and social asymmetries built into technologies of governmentality, such as naturalisation, whose objective is to remake refugees into competent cultural citizens of the nation-state (Ong 2003: 79). Analyses focused on statelessness and naturalisation are inevitably bound to the historical and political contexts they seek to address.10 Thus, in contrast to both Ong’s study and the Arendtian school of refugee studies, the cultural and political membership of Pakistan’s refugees within the League’s pre and post-independence concept of the Muslim nation was not called into question by the Pakistani state after independence — this, despite the seemingly paradoxical consensus at this level against opening Pakistan’s borders to all of India’s Muslims (see later). Moreover, the antimony between statelessness and citizenship is called into question in Pakistan’s rehabilitation context by the state’s interpellation of the refugee as a specific and partial subject of citizenship rights. Thus, on the one hand, their right to rehabilitation diverged from conventional discourses of humanitarianism, while on the other, the nationalisation of the rehabilitation process actually preceded the codification of formal citizenship rights for the Pakistani polity at large. However, when conceived in Foucauldian terms as a ‘population’ — that is, in terms of their efficient movement, their potential to carry and spread contagion, and their potential role in developing the agricultural and industrial sector of the nascent Pakistani economy — the refugee’s ‘national’ right to rehabilitation becomes equivalent with the achievement of a finite and non-juridical set of objectives. In the following section, I pursue how the emerging state of Pakistan blurred the distinction between the construction of the refugee as a possible citizen, whose rehabilitation provided the post-independence

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state with a new and vital nationalist ‘cause’, and the refugee as a technical problem of how best to achieve an end to partition’s chain of violence and displacement.

Instituting the Time of Partition: The Transfer of Population in the Punjab Two weeks before independence, amid escalating levels of violence and displacement, the Partition Council11 passed an agreement ‘to arrest further exodus and encourage the return of people to their homes’ (Rai 1965: 75). At this point, the two governments adhered to a policy of local containment which assumed conditions of communal normalcy would be re-established. Consensus soon arose, however, on the necessity of a complete but temporary communal transfer of population in divided Punjab, primarily because special law enforcement mechanisms which had been put in place in the final weeks of colonial rule in anticipation of a communal backlash had been overwhelmed or communally compromised in certain regions.12 With the acceleration in the number of attacks, the ethical distinction between perpetrators and the victims grew increasingly blurred and often became irrelevant. That certain provincial politicians from East and West Punjab characterised the pogroms waged by their respective communal constituencies as necessary acts of selfdefence, did not deter them from valorising such acts — often in the same public speech — as the pinnacle of religious virtue (see Pandey 2001). Discursive and non-discursive tactics within this more historically entrenched provincial political arena went far to make, in the words of partition historian Satya Rai, the ‘physical annihilation of the minority . . . more or less a matter of policy with the majority communities’ (Rai 1965: 76). Prior to independence, the leadership of the Indian National Congress as well as certain dissenting voices within the League had argued that a complete transfer of population in the Punjab would only increase the political and psychical vulnerability of minorities residing in other provinces (Rai 1965: 73). In contrast, Mohammad Ali Jinnah, the leader of the movement for partition and later the premier of Pakistan, proposed a transfer of population accord as early as November 1946 in response to the forced exodus of non-Muslims in Bengal in the wake of the Muslim League’s ‘Day of Direct Action’.13 A more ideologically inspired rationale for a complete transfer was

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put forth by Muslim League stalwart Raja Ghazanfar Ali Khan, who saw it as a natural step towards the realisation of a ‘Muslim state’ (Rai 1965: 92). The emerging federal government of Pakistan negotiated its ex-nihilo appearance in uneasy and partial contrast with popular and provincial communal sentiments on the ground. While the participation of League cadre and lower-level operatives in the 1946 Bengal riots has been acknowledged (Das 1991: Chapter 6 and passim), the League-asnationalist-government maintained a formal posture of communal neutrality and bilateral cooperation throughout much of the early post-independence refugee crisis. Despite the ambiguity surrounding the Muslim League leadership’s role in fomenting violence and displacement,14 the decision in 1947 to commence an official transfer is framed within Indian and Pakistani official accounts as a necessary response to the mutual breakdown of law enforcement mechanisms on both sides of Punjab (see Aiyar 1995). The aim of this section, however, is not to conclude whether the transfer of population was an example of ‘false’ necessity.15 Instead, I follow how the logic of necessity was shaped by, and gave shape to, a regime of postcolonial governmentality that codified the conditions of violence and displacement produced by partition into an ambivalent ‘end’ for the postcolonial state. What kind of real and imagined end did the transfer of population represent for the state of Pakistan? Official statements and practices surrounding the planning, execution and outfall of the official transfer point to the discreet and formative relay between popular violence, impending citizenship and the imagination of the post-partition state.

Passions, Normality and the Post-partition Citizen In the Emergence of Pakistan (1967), Chaudhry Mohammad Ali, Pakistan’s first Secretary General, notes that initially, the official exchange of population was ‘looked upon as a temporary phenomenon’: It was believed that when the passions excited by civil war subsided and conditions returned to normal, evacuees would return to claim their properties. In the meantime, the governments of both Dominions (India and Pakistan) were to take charge of the properties and look after them on behalf of their evacuee owners (Ali 1967: 298, my emphasis).

In what way could the state of Pakistan and India equate, or even reconcile, the violence born of territorial partition and the founding of

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nation-states with the colonial construction of communal violence as a spontaneous and reversible phenomenon? Colonial representations of native violence often resorted to the trope of passion or spontaneity, which sought to limit the agential and political scope of native rebellion by casting it as an un-orchestrated, sporadic and irrational outbreak.16 I maintain that for Ali, the idea of the passionate subject’s departure from reason and civility had to contend with the latter’s overdetermined location within the postcolonial order as communal victim, perpetrator and liberated citizen. Ali’s construction of passion relies on three assumptions about the course of nation-building in the aftermath of mass violence and displacement: (i) ‘native’ violence no longer indicates an intrinsic ‘lack’ of reason but its temporary suspension; (ii) after this lapse, the lawful game of citizenship can begin as if it has resumed; and (iii) the violence of partition was a consequence of, but bears little ideological relation to, the political agency of nationalism. In keeping with colonial discourse, neither of these assumptions about the participants in partition’s arena of ‘civil war’ approximate the liberal understanding of legitimate popular violence as an expression of ‘natural liberty’ (see Guha 1988). Not only did the communal contours of partition’s chain of violence and displacement foreclose this reading, the role of the states of India and Pakistan as neutral forces capable of ending violence was inextricably tied to a shared set of decolonising anxieties about inclusion in the liberal comity of ‘civilised’ nation-states. This perhaps provides some explanation for the state’s re-habitation of the depoliticising trope of ‘passion’. Beyond the realm of civilising anxieties, however, Pakistani as well as Indian’s execution of the transfer of population sought to institute the subject of passion into postcolonial material for the dialectical formation of citizen and state.17 In this view, the assumption of a return to normalcy was simultaneously a vestige of colonial political rationality and a necessary corrective to its coercive and racial logics of domination. Thus, if the state’s belief in the possibility of normalisation and return18 relied upon an ‘older’, colonial frame of thinking on communal violence as an unreasoned and temporary outbreak on the part of the native, its assumptions about the violence of citizens was complicated by an emerging set of anxieties concerning its legitimacy, distinction and control vis-à-vis the social. The building of assumptions about the subject and temporality of partition’s

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violence therefore represented a movement of the unthinkable into the realm of knowledge, power and state reason. To elaborate on this point, I turn to the official Pakistani discourse of evacuation, whose techniques of calculating and measuring human movement problematised the distinction between the violence of the social and the violence of the state.

The Ambiguous Location of Evacuation in the Chain of Violence At the level of implementation, the transfer reinvented the apparatus of colonial governmentality which, for more than a century, had fixed India’s Hindus and Muslims as singular and antagonistic communities. Colonial technologies of enumeration, such as the census, were therefore essential to the process by which a complete communal transfer of population could be conceived and executed. The West Punjab provincial government managed the evacuation of nonMuslims in tandem with the central government. Both governments, in turn, employed pre-partition census data to frame the technical requirements of evacuation. For instance, in a ‘Progress Note’ submitted to the West Punjab Ministry (Pakistan) on 9 November 1947, Mian Iktikhar-ud-Din, West Punjab’s Minister for Refugees and Rehabilitation, calculated that ‘the approximate number of Muslims to be evacuated from the East Punjab and the East Punjab States [was] 25 lakh’.19 In addition, the remaining number of non-Muslims ‘awaiting evacuation from West to East Punjab cannot be more than nine lakh’ (Iftikhar-ud-din 1947). The ministry posited its forecasts of communal outflows and inflows according to the baseline population figures provided in the 1941 census, which, in keeping with colonial tradition, were organised to reflect religious and caste affiliation as well as distinctions between the rural and urban and the propertied and non-propertied. Such information enabled provincial and central authorities to identify ‘pockets’ and ‘concentrations’ of remaining Muslim minority populations in East Punjab (Iftikhar-ud-Din 1947). Food, fodder and medical care could thus be provided at precise locations by projecting through the census data the size and location of any given evacuee ‘column’ in relation to the impending border. The measure of the transfer’s success was the number of remaining Muslim ‘pockets’ in East Punjab, a figure arrived at by subtracting the number of incoming

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Muslim refugees registered in ‘transit camps’ from the district level returns of the 1946 East (India) Punjab census. The fashioning of new demographic categories from the colonial census concretised a rationality and practice of bilateral co-ordination. Indeed, the semblance of official neutrality relied not only upon the transparency of demographic information exchanged, but on the mirroring of methods of collection, interpretation and execution. Moreover, by situating a given village or district within a geographically wider and abstract calculus of Muslim and non-Muslim population flows, Iftikhar-ud-Din could establish November 1948 as the goal for completion of the transfer (Iftikhar-ud-Din 1947). It is possible to assert from this account of the transfer that the Pakistan and Indian states’ use of the 1941 census provided them with a statistical lens to measure and imagine the end of the violence of partition.20 However, the use of colonial census data to regulate the spatial and temporal dimensions of mass movement prompts one to probe further into the status of these technologies of official intervention whose task was not only to end violence, but also to symbolically differentiate the terms of something like a ‘transfer’, ‘exchange’ or ‘evacuation’ from the purificatory violence engulfing the districts and villages of divided Punjab. Interviews and writings from this period suggest that territorial expulsion was an objective of communal violence. Its effects on the minority ‘enemy’, therefore, worked in practical tandem with, and sought the same effect as, more corporeal idioms of communal purification. As I note in the introduction to this article, such violations were considered by India and Pakistan’s nationalist leadership as an unmitigated departure from the normative and political objectives of the nationalist struggle. In the case of the Pakistan Movement, an equally decisive gap existed among the subcontinent’s Muslim political elite, particularly in the Punjab, whose leadership steadfastly resisted the Muslim League’s attempts to incorporate the second largest ‘Muslim majority’ province in India under its electoral–political banner. Mired in intra-elite contests, the territorial contours of Pakistan were therefore ‘deliberately vague’ until early 1947 (Jalal 1985).21 Practices of communal genocide read the sudden certainty of the partitioned landscape through gendered idioms and rituals of purification. Such logics of commensuration22 not only manifest in the expulsion, murder and abduction of communal enemies, but in the putting to

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death of young female family members in a similar effort to preserve purity (Menon and Bhasin 1998). Was the state facilitating the purification of territory or bringing about peace? If sovereign power is understood as the right to ‘take life or let live’ (Foucault 1978: 137), the phenomenon of migration or expulsion marked its dispersal. This brings us to a crucial juncture in Pakistan’s history, where the state sought to incorporate the violence of the social body into its ‘legitimate’ body through the anxious process of rationalising one link in partition’s chain of violence and displacement. I would suggest that technologies of measurement and forecasting were crucial in enabling the state to frame the limits of this process of commensuration. The logic at work here resembles what the jurisprudence of the state of emergency refers to as the ‘doctrine of historical necessity’. The legal historian Nasser Hussain suggests that ‘The category of necessity is itself a temporal condition’ (Hussain 2003: 109), pointing to the unstable moral and political location of violence and coercion within the liberal constitutional order. For the state to legitimately wield sovereign violence (in this case the right to banish, which I am arguing is symbolically equivalent to the right to kill), the situation authorising the use of state violence ‘must be represented as an interruption in the otherwise smooth functioning of lawful politics. Only its minute-by-minute narrative, its always closely anticipated ending, can make legitimate the exercise of violence’ (ibid.: 12). What motivates the state’s construction of the emergency as a temporary phenomenon, Hussain goes on to suggest, is the imperative to inscribe an ‘external signature of legality’ onto its practices of violence. For ultimately there is little ‘integral difference’ between the violence of the state and the violence of the social world (ibid.: 107; see Benjamin 1978; Derrida 1990: 6). The official evacuation narrative thus reveals the manner in which the sovereign violence of partition was symbolically converted into an object of state reason. In seeking commensuration with popular (passionate, spontaneous, purificatory) expressions of communal violence, the state sought to initiate its ‘monopoly’ over the ‘legitimate’ use of physical force (see Weber 1978: 54).23 This process of commensuration fixed an arbitrary end to the event and subject of partition, such that its enduring effects upon public culture and domestic life — as well as its bearing upon the Pakistani Army’s use of genocide 20 years later against the nationalist uprising in East Pakistan (1970–71) — remains unexplored.

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Anticipatory Violence: Non-agreed Refugees and the Model of Communal Counterbalance In his address to the Partition Plan Council in June 1947, Mohammad Ali Jinnah compared the ‘exemplary sacrifices’ made by Muslims residing in the ‘Hindu majority states’ for the ‘cause’ of Pakistan to the ‘state of slumber’ he perceived in the Muslim majority provinces. Paradoxically it was the latter, along with the non-Muslim minority of Pakistan, who were recognised as undisputed citizens of Pakistan under the terrotorial principle of nativity. The effective significance of Jinnah’s comparison therefore reverts this back to the Muslims from the Muslim minority provinces, who are warned in the same address to ‘stick to their respective homeland[s]’, live as Indian citizens, and avoid the ‘temptation’ to migrate to any part of Pakistan (Muslim League 1947). Keeping in mind the political, economic and physical threats to existence faced by many Muslims citizens of India today (Devji 1992; Pandey 2006), I wish to address the making and unmaking of the political rationality that made it possible for Jinnah to assert without a sense of contradiction that he had ‘created’ Pakistan for the very Muslims he expected to ‘stick’ to India. After partition, the scenario of a complete movement of India’s Muslim population into Pakistan gave way to apocryphal visions, such as the one drawn by the Muslim League leader Hussain Surhawardy in 1948, If the [Muslim] minorities of the Indian Union were forced to migrate to Pakistan, Pakistan will be swept away in the flood of disgruntled and distressed humanity. If the Hindus of Pakistan, particularly of East Bengal, migrated to the Indian Union, there will be such disorders and misery within the Indian Union that it will be destroyed.24

Despite the radical changes in the communal landscape that occurred in the short period between Jinnah and Surhawardy’s comments, neither saw the potential influx of Muslims from the minority provinces solely as an impending crisis of bodies and space. For what stood to be jeopardised by such an influx went beyond the material domain to implicate a vision of post-independence communal ‘counterbalance’, which had been a feature of Muslim League nationalist strategy since at least 1940. As the name suggests, counterbalance was a proposed mechanism of reciprocal minority safeguards between the Muslim majority ‘states’, which eventually comprised Pakistan, and the rest

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of the Indian union. In order to be effective, the model expected all of the subcontinent’s minorities (i.e. Muslims and non-Muslims) to stay put after independence — affirming the point made earlier regarding the primacy of communal violence, rather than cultural or ideological affinity, in propelling the official designation of the Punjab as an ‘agreed area’. Formally introduced within the 1940 Lahore Resolution, ‘counterbalance’ epitomised the Muslim League’s oppositional construction of India and the Congress party as crucibles of ‘Hindu majority’ domination. The Resolution is known for its initial outline of a territorial picture of Muslim sovereignty, carved from the subcontinent’s ‘contiguous’ Muslim majority states. Ayesha Jalal has shown how, more than the consecration of the territorial Pakistani nation-state, the Resolution sought to reconcile the ‘uneasy equation between (colonised) Muslim identity and territorial sovereignty’ (Jalal 2000: 123). Specifically, what constitutional and political safeguards would the consolidation of the Muslim majority provinces (without whose electoral support the League lacked the legal and political authority to speak on behalf of the colonised Muslims of India) provide to India’s remaining 40 million Muslims after the departure of the British? Seen from this perspective, the League’s counterbalance model provides one of the best — and most short-lived — examples of its original nationalist strategy: to wager the rights of the minority province Muslims on the autonomy and influence that the majority Muslim provinces would potentially be able to wield within a larger Indian Union (Jalal 1985). The high-political machinations leading to the development of the counterbalance framework suggest its principle motivations lay less in curtailing movement than in governing the communal conduct of majorities, minorities and states. Some evidence of this can be found as late as August 1947, in Jinnah’s first address to the citizens of Pakistan. Although significant debate still exists in Pakistan about whether the address constituted a ‘founder’s statement’ on Pakistan’s true identity as a secular, multi-religious polity, far less attention is given to the fact that it also insists upon — and thus questions — the loyalty of Pakistan’s non-Muslim minority citizens.25 The pull of official norms, however, went both ways to include the majority Muslim citizenry. This provides clearer shape to the historical significance of the model of counterbalance as a certain type of transnational communal governmentality. Muslim toleration within Pakistan was conceived pragmatically, somewhat against the grain

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of liberalism’s ahistorical and pre-social construction of tolerance. Thus, although the League’s elite assumed that counterbalance would be effective in generating political quietism among the non-Muslim minority, they placed even greater emphasis on the conduct of Pakistan’s Muslims: a Pakistani Muslim would therefore accommodate the beliefs, rights and aspirations of the non-Muslim minority as a stance of necessity, knowing that any collective or (depending on the outfall) individual aggression on their part could incite reciprocal violence against India’s remaining Muslim minority. Jinnah’s ultimate decision to accept the Cabinet Mission plan which called for the division of the Punjab and Bengal on communal lines, dealt an obvious blow to the original conception of counterbalance (since both provinces had sizable non-Muslim populations). Yet, as late as June 1947, Congress leader Vallabhai Patel (soon to be at the forefront of India’s official response to the genocide of partition) seemed agreeable to reworking counterbalance to fit the reality of two sovereign nation-states. Accepting the communal underpinnings of the model, Patel suggested that ‘Pakistan may find the presence of Hindus and Sikhs indispensable’ and ‘may find that it is in their interest to ensure protection and justice to (the non-Muslim) minorities. If that comes about, (Muslim) minorities (in India) may not have anything to fear. We may also be able to afford some protection on the basis of reciprocity in regard to the treatment of minorities’ (Patel in Zakaria 1996: 46, my emphasis). In the brief interim between the announcement of territorial partition and the onset of communal genocide, it appeared as if counterbalance might function as a bilateral logic of communal détente. The League’s anticipatory strategy dissolved within weeks of independence when it became apparent amidst mounting conditions of genocide that a much larger proportion of Pakistan’s non-Muslim minority would migrate to India. By contrast, most of India’s ‘nonagreed’ area Muslims had managed to remain in place. Accusing the state of Pakistan of failing to protect ‘its’ minorities, Patel floated a revised evacuation plan for India that included the western part of India’s United Province in the ongoing mandatory transfer of population scheme. Patel’s proposal appeared around the time that a more militant demand for Muslim evacuation was put forth by the Sikh Akali Dal leader Master Tara Singh.26 Singh encouraged the Congress to evacuate Muslims from the United Provinces to accommodate beleaguered Sikhs refugees arriving from West Punjab.

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This consequently fuelled panic among Muslims in the province due to rumours that Sikh marauders loyal to Singh had recently conducted pogroms against Muslim refugee caravans in the Punjab. The circulation of rumours of an impending Sikh attack and involuntary evacuation by the Indian state throughout the province prompted thousands to flee to Delhi and onwards to Pakistan. Pakistan’s Prime Minister Liaquat Ali Khan responded to the situation in the United Provinces by recapitulating the government’s refugee policy. He argued that while Pakistan would not refuse shelter to any Muslim settler, it must refuse in any way to facilitate abandonment by Muslims of their homes and properties in India outside East Punjab. I emphasised that it was for the Government of India to implement their reiterated promises to give full protection to all their Muslim nationals and that if they did so honestly and truly the question of evacuation of Muslims from Delhi and U.P. (United Provinces) would not arise. The division of India into Pakistan and India Dominions was based on the principle that minorities will stay where they were and the two States will afford all protection to them to live as citizens of the respective states (Khan 1967: 126).

The intensification of anti-Hindu violence pushed Indian and Pakistani nationalism to the verge of ideological contradiction. The narrative culminates with Patel’s proposal that India would reconsider retaining U.P. Muslims, who had since been re-categorised as ‘intending evacuees’ by the Indian rehabilitation machinery (1948, Government of India, Ministry of Communication), if the Pakistan government publicly announced its inability to accommodate them. Keeping the League’s aforementioned position on Muslim migration and the Congress’s secular discourse of citizenship in mind, Liaquat Ali Khan’s reply was equally — if not deliberately — untenable: the League, he asserted, would concede to Patel’s terms if the Congress similarly disclosed its inability to guarantee the security of India’s Muslim citizens.27 I would argue that the scene of brinkmanship I have just described conveys more than the role of unforeseen and countervailing factors, such as the massive Hindu outpouring from Pakistan’s non-agreed regions, in dismantling the viability of communal counterbalance. In its pre- and post-independence iteration, counterbalance was implicitly predicated upon the prerogative of the state to permit reciprocal violence against ‘its’ minority population. As one important

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commentator at the time put it, it was an autocratic ‘hostage theory’ of post-independence citizenship that would have the effect of stultifying the political voice of religious minorities throughout the subcontinent (Ambedkar 1946). The possibility of counterbalance as an engine of perpetual communal peace, then, relied upon the capacity of each state to subsume the potential for majoritarian collective violence into its own body of ‘finite’ ends (see Foucault 1995).

Rehabilitation in Sindh: Building the Emergency In Pakistan, rehabilitation involved the ‘organisation of camps, the utilisation of land and factories and the employment of our whole administrative machinery’ (Ashraf 1948: 34), including the important custodial function of redistributing evacuee property on a temporary basis to incoming refugee agriculturalists. Initially, Pakistan’s central government managed the work of ‘evacuation’ while ‘rehabilitation’ was assigned to the provincial units (ibid.: 34). Within months of independence, however, rehabilitation activities increasingly fell under the authority of the federal government. The process of centralisation began with the formation of the Pakistan-Punjab Rehabilitation Commission in November of 1947. As I mentioned previously, Punjab was the undisputed epicentre of Pakistan’s ‘refugee problem’, and with ‘lakhs of agriculturalists still pouring into this province, no clear policy seem[ed] to have been laid down regarding restarting present factories or setting up new industries’28 (ibid.: 34). One bureaucratic observer described the Joint Rehabilitation Commission as a ‘useful co-ordinating body’ for ‘dealing with the problem of evacuating refugees from East Punjab and rehabilitating [refugees] in this province’ that reflected ‘the importance attached to the refugees’ problems by the leaders of our [federal] State’ (Ashraf 1948: 32).29 Being a quasi-federal institution, the energies of the Commission would be spent smoothing over interprovincial obstacles to the timely rehabilitation of the Punjab’s transfer-refugees. The participation of the Punjab in the forefront of the Commission was a demographically determined matter of expediency. This was not the case for Sindh30 and the North West Frontier Province whose provincial evacuation returns revealed a net loss of population, prompting members of the Pak-Punjab council to cite the ‘axiom that each unit of West Pakistan should receive refugees up to the number of evacuees and to rehabilitate them out of property left by evacuees as a matter of course’.31

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An assumption prevailed in the ‘smaller’ provinces that the introduction of centre-province commissions would erode their autonomy. Which tier of government had jurisdiction to regulate the intake and care of Muslim refugees, especially in light of the fact that the official financial burden for rehabilitation rest principally with the provincial units? Muhammad Khuro, Sindh’s Chief Minister, resisted the creation of a Pakistan-Sindh Joint Refugee Council and asserted that none of its decisions would be executed without the consent of the provincial government.32 Anticipating the central government would request the administration of Sindh to increase its quota of west Punjab’s transfer-refugees, Khuro announced the provincial capital of Karachi was effectively ‘full’ (Dawn, 28 January 1947).

A New Ratio In the weeks and months after partition, members of the Sindh Provincial League undertook a range of initiatives to discourage the exodus of Hindus and Sikhs from Karachi. Through frequent statements made in the local press, Sindhi Muslim politicians pleaded that ‘migration is to the mutual disadvantage of the majority and minority community’.33 More forceful tactics were deployed as well, such as when the Sindh administration sought to ban the entry of ships from Bombay into the port of Karachi.34 Neighbourhood ‘Peace Committees’ were established with the aid of the Sindh government to protect nonMuslims in urban Sindh from violent reprisal at the hands of incoming Muslim refugees. Attacks by refugees against non-Muslims, including the seizure of evacuee property, was roundly condemned by the Sindh Muslim elite while, by contrast, the League’s federal leadership appeared sympathetic to the plight of refugees who were arrested by the provincial government for ‘lock breaking’ (Jang 4 August 1948). In response to federal quiescence, and to the fact that unlike West Punjab, Karachi’s refugee population had settled in large, freely organised concentrations throughout the city, the Chief Minister of Sindh posed an ultimatum to the refugees and the centre: The refugees ought to learn that by such behaviour on their part, they become a drag on society and place an inestimable burden on the state . . . In case able-bodied refugees don’t avail themselves of opportunities of employment and shirk work assigned to them, we shall be compelled in spite of all our sympathy for them, to take steps for their externment from the province in order to avoid undeserved burden on our resources (Khuro quoted in Dawn, 29 September 1947).

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Khuro’s provocations exposed the thin line in place since the institution of the Pakistan-Sindh Joint Commission, between provincial coordination and subordination. He permitted the entry of 100,000 refugees from the West Punjab camps into Sindh, a figure exactly half of the central government expectations.35 He called for ‘speed’ in their transport to Sindh so they could ‘settle on land in time for kharif (harvest) season’.36 Indeed, Khuro rarely shied from predicating the inclusion of the refugees in Sindh on their ability to produce economic utility without lessening opportunities for the native Sindhi-speaking population.37 According this view, the industrial–commercial centre of Karachi would only accommodate ‘government servants and industrialists prepared to invest substantial capital in the commerce and industry’ of the city (Dawn, 13 December 1947).

‘Capacity’ and the Line between Ongoing and Forced Migration Sindh’s jurisdictional conflicts with the central government were propelled by the Punjab bureaucracy’s control in framing the statisticalpolitical contours of the refugee problem. Relying on the 1941 census, Francis Mudie, a senior colonial administrator who had been asked by Jinnah to act as governor of Punjab, estimated that approximately ‘6.14 lakh Hindu and Sikh agriculturalists’ remained in Sindh in December 1948. He proceeded in the same report to make the following extrapolation: if ‘all Hindus and Sikhs were to leave Sind and [the government of] Sind were to agree to fill their places by refugees now in the West Punjab, our problem would be solved’.38 The relevance of this statement lies in its obvious resemblance to the kind of demographic forecasting I addressed in my analysis of the transfer of population in the Punjab. ‘If all the Hindus and Sikhs were to leave Sind . . .’: it is unclear whether Mudie was simply attempting to predict an impending outcome or whether, in fact, he foresaw a more active role for the state of Pakistan in ‘facilitating’ such an outcome. I would suggest that neither the drive to displace non-Muslims from Pakistan nor the ‘right’ of Muslim refugee-citizens to occupy Pakistan’s land motivated Mudie’s reasoning. While such motivations were certainly intelligible to the wider communal polity, Mudie’s prognosis, I contend, was tied to a decidedly non-normative and empirical construction of the Muslim refugee as a problem of territorial capacity. Communal difference

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therefore manifested as a problem of land scarcity, which was seen in terms of the disequilibrium in the ratio of departing to incoming refugees. As I discuss later, calculations of this scale and level of probability assumed the character of an emergency only when situated in narrative relation to the biological and economic conditions prevailing in Punjab’s refugee camps.

The Narrative Structure of the Camp A number of transit camps in Pakistan, mostly located in East Punjab, were constructed soon after the decision to undertake the transfer of population. A camp management scheme was introduced, outlining ‘detailed instructions for the treatment of refugees at each stage of their sojourn in the camps from the time of entry to that of departure, providing especially for Reception, Rations, and Clothing Issues, [and] Census Information’ (Dawn, 5 April 1948). District-administered ‘Illness and Death’ statistics were compiled on a weekly basis, and figured into the calculation of the maximum number of inhabitants a given camp could sustain before its ‘liquidation’ — i.e. resettlement in surrounding areas (Pakistan National Documentation Centre 1993: 112). Due to incidents of cholera and other contagious diseases, interns were confined to the camp and risked losing any future resettlement and welfare entitlements if they failed to comply (Leghari 1948). Despite the use of holocaust metaphors and policing techniques, the East Punjab transit camp system is a departure from Agamben’s (1998) characterisation of the concentration camp as a ‘political– juridical structure’ of the state of exception. A more adequate description would take into consideration the changing function of the camps in Punjab from their unfulfilled original role as temporary sanctuaries (to be followed by repatriation to India) to temporary waystations on the path to long-term resettlement and, eventually, citizenship within Pakistan. Admonishing the federal government against equating rehabilitation exclusively with the provision of property, Mudie considered an ominously durable, yet enabling, role for the camps: We have at present a large number of people, who unless something is done at once, appear likely to remain for indefinite period in refugee camps with serious consequences not only to the economic position of the State but also to their own moral and earning power . . . Apart

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from the rehabilitation of existing industries we must start new ones, both large-scale industries and cottage industries . . . In the meantime, while these schemes materialise, we have to maintain the morale of the refugees at present in camps. Everyone agrees that is absolutely essential for this purpose that every one should be employed in some way or another. No one should be unemployed because, for instance, of lack of tools or the necessary capital to start up a small shop (Mudie 1948).

The operative yet unstated political signifier in this passage is the statistical probability known as the ‘permanent transit camp’. In a lengthy report to the Pakistan-Punjab Rehabilitation Council, Refugee Commissioner A. K. Leghari identified November 1947 as a turning point when ‘the number of Muslim refugees entering West Punjab began to rise above the number of evacuees leaving West Punjab’ (Leghari 1948). Indeed, the Punjab and federal government viewed this numerical shift as an event of crucial magnitude. The eventual ‘saturation’ of agricultural land in the Punjab would create a population of ‘surplus refugees’ whose future access to the ballot spurred official anxieties that the squalor of camp life might provide the grist for ambitious politicians and communist activists. The spectre of unabated camp life crystallised the bureaucracy’s statistical projection of communal flows and territorial capacities into a biopolitical argument for the centralisation of state power.

‘Resolving’ the Refugee Problem: The 1948 Emergency The federal and Punjab administration frustration with Sindh’s political elite was exacerbated by the latter’s refusal to accommodate the federally mandated share of refugees (200,000). From possessing almost complete jurisdiction over the rehabilitation process, by the end of 1947, the government of Sindh was being vilified by the federal– Punjab combine as an ‘un-Islamic’ and ‘provincialist’ body (Dawn 18 November, 1948). Calls were made upon the central government to ‘override opposition from interested parties’ and resolve the refugee problem.39 The centre began the process of securing legislative backing from the First Constituent Assembly to suspend Pakistan’s provincial assemblies, leading an amendment to be passed in May 1948 by the Dominion Legislature to the existing powers of emergency (inscribed in Sections 102 and 126 of the Government of India Act, 1935). The amendment empowered the Governor-General to declare a state of

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emergency if he believed the ‘economic life’ of the country was in danger (Ashraf 1948: 35). Declared on 30 August 1948, the emergency immediately dissolved all of Pakistan’s provincial ministries. As the first of numerous extra-constitutional foreclosures upon provincial autonomy in Pakistan’s political history, this emergency did fulfill its immediate objective: by the end of the year Punjab’s transit camps had been dissolved. Pakistan’s ‘refugee problem’ can therefore be interpreted historically as a material and discursive site for the mediation of the ambiguity between the principles of provincial autonomy and state sovereignty. This ambiguity both guided and limited the League’s attempt to secure the participation of the ‘Muslim-majority’ provinces that ultimately constituted the national territory of Pakistan. Paradoxically, the high level of political and bureaucratic coordination between the federal government and the Punjab during the evacuation and rehabilitation stage was underscored by the fact that until 1946, it was Punjab’s Muslim elite who insisted upon provincial autonomy and thus posed the most formidable challenge to the All India Muslim League’s hegemonic quest to act as the ‘sole representative party’ of the Muslims of India (Jalal 1985; Talbot 2000). The close coordination between the League and the Punjabi political and bureaucratic establishment in the context of the refugee crisis thus anticipated the Punjab’s eventual capture of the central state apparatus and the devolution of the politics of provincial autonomy to ‘smaller’ provinces, such as Sindh and the North West Frontier Province. As a link in partition’s chain of violence, the refugee problem brought the question of life and the territorial and economic conditions needed to sustain it to bear on the decision to declare a state of emergency. Although the provincial limits to League hegemony may have preceded the ‘refugee problem’, they did not determine the politics of rehabilitation in a unidirectional manner. An effective political historiography of this moment entails doing more than verifying if centre–province tensions functioned as the real or cynical rationale behind the 1948 emergency. Such tensions were undeniably remade by the material crisis of mass migration. Rather than adjudicate on the validity of the 1948 emergency, the goal of this analysis has been to investigate the role of political techniques in delimiting the crisis of partition into a state of emergency.

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Conclusion If the popular violence resulting from the partition of India was unthinkable for the nationalist elite, the postcolonial state engaged this violence as an ambivalent site of intervention and commensuration. Within Pakistan, this unfolded through a set of procedures whereby the unthinkable was fashioned into an event, one whose representation and resolution fashioned the state into an autonomous apparatus of government and a legitimate vessel of sovereign violence. To follow a narrative such as this, in which the state develops autonomy by channelling unprecedented patterns of violence and displacement into its instrumental body of ‘ends’, confirms the distinction made by Walter Benjamin (1978) between expressions of ‘divine violence’ that seek to annihilate the law and the ‘mythical violence’ of institutions such as the postcolonial state, that work to conserve it. As the example of the Pakistan state’s intervention in the genocide accompanying partition suggests, this distinction was not absolute nor did it foreclose a certain process of commensuration. When examining the Pakistani nationalist narrative, ‘official’ attempts to include the potential for mass violence into formal political rationality appear to precede the communal devastation of partition. The League’s proposal of a model of communal counterbalance was a response to its mounting inability to secure its founding political commitments to the minority-province (non-agreed) Muslims. In light of this impasse, whose signs were evident by 1940, how would the game of citizenship proceed in ‘a’ Pakistan whose sovereignty would only marginalise India’s Muslims further? Counterbalance was an attempt to secure the rights of this remainder by creating a transnational regime of communal governmentality that simultaneously sought to curb and harness the potential for majoritarian violence. Against the ‘ineffective’ model of postcolonial citizenship embodied in the notion of counterbalance, we may juxtapose the subalternity of Pakistan’s ‘agreed-area’ refugees — this, in a manner that acknowledges, but also questions, the narrative of their inclusion as citizens of Pakistan. I have shown how Pakistan’s official discourse of evacuation and rehabilitation positioned the agreed-area refugee in a ‘zone of indistinction’ (Agamben 1998) between their status as a problem to be resolved and a citizen bearing the specific right to rehabilitation. A fundamental equivalence therefore existed within official rehabilitation discourse between emptying unhealthy transit

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camps, absorbing its inhabitants into the national economy and delimiting the end of partition’s chain of violence. This equivalence does not begin with the question of rights, nor even the question of population, but with the priority of violence in framing the inclusion of some and the exclusion of others.

Notes ∗ The author wishes to thank Veena Das, Naveeda Khan, Markus Daechsel and two anonymous reviewers for the Journal of Historical Sociology for their comments on earlier versions of this paper. This paper draws on archival research conducted in London, Karachi and Islamabad between 2000 and 2003, which was generously supported by the Wenner–Gren Foundation and the American Institute of Pakistan Studies. 1. This amounted to a ‘Himalayan miscalculation’ in the words the Indian historian Rafique Zakaria (1996). 2. Take, for instance, the following public statement to the Indian public by Vallabhai Patel, leader of the pro-Hindu Mahasabha faction of the Indian National Congress and India’s first Home Minister: ‘Butchery of innocent and defenseless men, women and children does not behoove brave men; it is the war of the jungle and the hall-mark of inhumanity and barbarity. There will be occasions and opportunities for all of you to show your zest for fight; one must seek for it on one’s ground and in suitable time. It is no time to be foolhardy or desperate but time to reflect calmly on your course of action. We have won our freedom to make our country great and prosperous, not to destroy what little has been vouchsafed by alien rulers’ (Zakaria 1996: 51–52). 3. More productive histories of the popular experience of partition’s chain of violence describe a dissolution of a ‘politics of place’ (Gilmartin 1998), or what, in a similar vein, Gyan Pandey (2001) calls the ‘death of face-to-face relationships’. Pandey and Gilmartin do not represent the pre-partition ‘local’ as a politically isolated universe of communal harmony. Rather, the loss of a politics of place more subtly links elite political contests, hierarchies of mobilisation and popular meaning to partition’s outcome of territorial sovereignty and communal genocide. 4. Ranajit Guha (1997) defines mobilisation in the context of anti-colonial Indian nationalism as an elite logic, ‘another name for popular consent, for hegemony’ (102). He goes on to analyze the spectral location of coercion within Congress nationalist strategy. See his discussion of ‘Swadeshi sanctions’ as an example of the ‘very real tension between force and consent from which Indian nationalism acquired its form and substance’ (1997: 103, 110–114). Shahid Amin’s (1995) analysis of the violence at Chauri Chaura provides, to my mind, the best historical account of how the violence of the mobilized resulted in their exclusion from the elite narrative of nationalism. See also Pandey (1990).

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5. India and Pakistan did go war in 1947 over the disputed territory of Kashmir. This makes the arrival at ‘Inter-Dominion’ covenants concerning the transfer of refugees especially significant. 6. Tan and Kudaisya’s (2000) study provides an unofficial estimate of 18 million. 7. For a penetrating theoretical analysis of the political and spiritual topography of the riot ‘sanctuary’ see Feldman (1991), who draws from Franco (1985). 8. Interview with author, Lahore, 1999. 9. See Birmingham (2006) for a discussion of Arendt’s attempt to transform the alienation of the inter-war refugee from nationality and nativity into a humanist philosophical position. 10. Of course, it would be problematic to oppose the discourse of naturalisation to the juridical discourse of citizenship that engenders the stateless refugees. Both have their point of reference in territorial nationalism’s discourse of nativity (see Agamben 1998). For Ong, naturalisation is important in so far is supplements the juridical logic of citizenship rights through practices of governmentality that extend the state-society divide. State welfare institutions and domestic abuse NGOs catering to the Cambodian refugee community in Northern California therefore work according to a shared set of normative/nativist assumptions about what constitutes competent American cultural citizenship. 11. The Partition Council included British administrators and the leadership of the Indian National Congress and All India Muslim League. 12. The Partition Council established the Punjab Boundary Force in July 1947. Led by a joint (British, Pakistani and Indian) command, this force of was created to ‘ensure protection to the minorities . . . so that they may stay back in their respective areas’ (Rai 1965: 74–75). According to Rai, the Boundary Force ‘utterly failed to protect the minorities from the exodus of the people from one country to the other . . .’ (ibid.: 75). The breakdown in the official machinery served to accelerate the rate of exodus on both sides of the border’ (Aiyar 1995). 13. Conceived as a protest against the Cabinet Mission’s territorial and constitutional outline for Pakistan, the All India Muslim League’s ‘Day of Direction Action’ fomented Muslim violence and forced thousands of non-Muslims to flee to Hindu-majority areas in the Bengal. League activists and members of the League government in Bengal were accused of complicity in the riots (see Das 1991, Brass 2003, Batabyal 2005). 14. On the anti-Hindu violence resulting from the League’s Day of Direct Action Sunjan Das (1991) writes, ‘elite mobilization and (popular) self-mobilization were not autonomous from each other. They were interrelated and mutually dependent . . . The rioting (Muslim) crowd appears to have been broadly aware of the objective of violence in which it was participating (p. 171)’. 15. ‘Historical necessity’ is not the state of emergency but the trope through which it achieves articulation with the structure of law. This process, argues Agamben (2005), anthropomorphosises the state as a discreet subject of rights and instantiates its unique condition of autonomy from the social:

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16. 17.

18. 19. 20.

21.

22. 23.

24.

25.

26. 27. 28.

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necessity inscribes causality and difference between the peoples’ ‘right’ to security, which is supreme, and the security of the state (see Agamben 2005: ch. 1, see below). Guha (1988). For a contemporary discussion of popular passion as a trope of postcolonial state power in India see Cohen (2004) Corrigan and Sayer (1985) employ this analytic to describe the role of governmental technologies of moral regulation in fashioning the autonomy of the nineteenth century British state. I deliberately avoid using the term ‘repatriation’ to describe this scenario. 1 lakh equals 100,000 Timothy Mitchell (1991) discusses how practices of governmentality and knowledge production generate the symbolic and material illusion of a division between society and state. The League’s discourse of Muslim nationalism relied upon an abstract, ethnic, and secular representation of India’s Muslim ‘community’ which was in tension with more fluid, local, and orthodox constructions of religious authority and affiliation (Gilmartin 1988, Ansari 1995, Jalal 2000). For a more detailed discussion of political violence as a practice of commensuration, see Feldman (1991). For Hegel ‘violence is convertible (‘the real is rational’), provided it is preventively processed . . . by a state which is, itself a Reichstaat — that is to say, a state which constitutes itself with the intention of liberating individuals’ (Balibar 2003: 30–31). Suhrawardy quoted in British High Commission Karachi Fortnightly Report. 1948. (OPDOM 27: April 1–7, 1948: 106). It was estimated that in October 1948 approximately 30–40 million Muslims resided in India. By this time migration from the non-agreed regions of India had begun to exceed the rate of Muslim influx from East Punjab. ‘Muslims of India have shown to the world that they are a united nation and their cause is just and righteous, which cannot be denied . . . let us impress the minorities by our word, deed, and thought that as long as they fulfill their duties and obligations as loyal citizens of Pakistan they have nothing to fear’ (Muhammad Ali Jinnah, quoted in Dawn, 17 August 1947). British Foreign Office Report. DO 142/418 ‘Communal Situation in India and Pakistan Since Transfer of Power’, No. PHC/15/47: 10/12/47. ‘Communal Situation in India and Pakistan Since Transfer of Power’. British Foreign Office Document, 12 October 1947, DO 142/418. ‘Role of Government in Solution of the Refugees’ Problems with Particular Reference to Formation of the Pakistan Punjab Council’, Pakistan Times, 4 November 1947. By December 1947, Sindh had resettled 244,000 persons against Punjab’s 4 million (Talbot 2000: 199). A. K. Leghari. ‘Plan Dated 5 July 1948 for the Rehabilitation of Refugees and for the Speedy Liquidation of Refugees Camps’, Central Record Office, Punjab Archives, Civil Secretariat, Lahore. C File no. 25, vol. III, Pol., Gen., 1948.

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31. British High Commission Karachi Fortnightly Report — OPDOM No. 69, 8 September 1948, para. 8. 32. Hussein Hidayatullah, prominent Sindhi-Muslim politician (Dawn, 10 October 1947). 33. In November 1947 Sindh’s Chief Minister banned the entry of all ships from Bombay holding Muslims passengers to the port of Karachi (Dawn, 18 November 2001). The strategy was meant to curtail non- Muslims from using these same ships to depart for India. According to the British High Commission in Karachi, Sindh’s Chief Minister attempted to slow the rate of out-migration by giving a ‘confidential order to District Authorities in upper Sindh, including, it is believed, the Districts of Hyderabad, Larkana and Nawab Shah, that no Hindu be permitted to leave the district without a special permit from the District Magistrate’ (British High Commission Karachi Fortnightly Report — OPDOM No. 8, 28 January 1948). 34. Khuro quoted in British High Commission Karachi Fortnightly Report — OPDOM No. 7, 22–28 January 1948). 35. Ibid. 36. Khuro responded to the federal government’s decision to relax existing domicile and age restrictions on government employment by asserting ‘the government [of Sindh] makes it quite clear that although they wish to help the refugees, they do not wish to injure the interests of permanent residents in Sindh. It is the government’s policy that all things being equal, a Sindhi should be given preference over others’ in the provincial sector (Khuro quoted in Dawn, 28 November 1947). 37. Francis Mudie, ‘A Report Dated 31 Jan. 1948 on Refugee Camps’. Minutes of the 8th to 14th Meeting of Pakistan Punjab Joint Refugees Council. File no. 25, vol. I Pol. Gen., 1948. 38. British High Commission Karachi Fortnightly Report — OPDOM No. 7, 22–28 January 1948.

3

A Real Terrorist∗ Oskar Verkaaik The word ‘terrorist’ had become a nickname among the youth of Karachi. It was a fashionable label to give one another. And ‘Muslim terrorist’ was even better. If somebody hit a great shot in cricket, for example, you could admiringly shout: ‘Yo! What a terrorist!’ When a foreigner joined in, playing badly, it was a perfect opportunity to provokingly shout, ‘Hey whitey! You can’t beat us Muslim terrorists!’ A terrorist was a strongman. A terrorist was a hero. Other words used to say the same thing. Then, you would compare somebody to the legendary wrestler Pahlvan. When James Bond movies were popular, Raja Moore — a bastardisation of Roger Moore — became the rage. Rocky was also popular for a while and Jacky of course, after Jackie Chan the martial arts hero. Boxer, Commando, or simply, Fighter were some of the other popular nicknames. You could also use jiyala. But that sounded very outdated. Jiyala had been popular with the previous generation — the old folks now too listless and lazy to play cricket. Jiyala dated from the 1960s. Then, a political group called the Pakistan People’s Party had suddenly risen almost out of nothing. Its followers called themselves socialists and talked of social equality and revolution. The legendary Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto, their leader and later Prime Minister of the country, raged against the mullas and their pious talk. Once, after the Prime Minister had returned from a visit to Turkey, a journalist at a press conference insinuated that he had drunk a glass of whisky during his visit. ‘Slander’, Bhutto shouted, ‘I drank much more than one’. This appealed to a lot of youngsters — a man with the courage to make his own choices. They joined the party and called themselves jiyala, those who would remain loyal to the party through thick and thin, and would not stop at anyone or anything. They were hotheads — the passionate. They instilled fear and respect. At times they also called themselves fakirs to show that they thought of things other than life’s comforts — just as the fakirs had turned their backs on earthly matters, dedicating their lives to God.

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After jiyala, ‘goonda’ and ‘dacoit’ became popular. Those two words meant more or less the same: rogues, bandits and highwaymen. In the 1980s and 1990s there were a lot of those. In the country, groups of armed dacoits lived in the swamps along the banks of the Indus River. They kidnapped the rich. Sometimes they would also kidnap foreigners — Japanese or Chinese. They would be paid a ransom and rumour had it that this money was given to the poor. But that was all it was — a rumour. Nevertheless, they were fine words to put someone in their place. Telling your rival, ‘Take care, I’m a dacoit’, made it sound convincing, and he knew he had to watch out. Kaliya, the Black, was also a name to be proud of. It expressed the power of darkness and destruction. But terrorist was better, more terrifying still, especially in Karachi where everybody talked about terrorists. Javed could still vaguely remember when the word became fashionable. It was sometime at the beginning of the 1990s. He was still very young, not even 20, terribly reckless and already a great cricketer. In those days, the city endured fighting on a daily basis. Several political factions were active, all with their own armies, battling each other as well as the police. Things were rough. Rounds were fired from automatic rifles imported from Afghanistan — where they had been used to fight the Russians. Once the firing was over, the government sent the army to the city and launched a propaganda campaign against the terrorists to justify sending in the army. All kinds of politicians gave speeches in which they talked about terrorists. The press and other media joined in. Daily, the news programmes would mention how many terrorists the army had beaten. You couldn’t open a newspaper without reading about terrorists. People also started using the word in everyday conversation. If you disliked someone, you used to say, ‘You’re a bastard’. Now you said, ‘You’re a terrorist’. Eventually people began to acknowledge this. They’d answer back, ‘Yes, I am a terrorist and if I were you I’d watch what I was saying’. Of course, you had to make it sound believable. If you said, ‘I am a terrorist’, while shaking like a leaf, you’d only make yourself ridiculous. But if people thought it could actually be true, you had it made. Javed knew this from experience. He looked like most people’s idea of a terrorist: not very big but broad shouldered and muscled with a face that showed no fear. This was very useful. If he parked his motorbike somewhere and said to a boy, ‘Are you also a terrorist? Look after my bike, will you’, he could trust the boy to do so. In a

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city where everything that was not bolted down was stolen, he had no need for locks. But now, Javed feared that the good times would soon become a thing of the past. I’d known him for about three months when I first saw him subdued and thoughtful. Nevertheless, he’d come to the park with the boys for our game of cricket. He wasn’t the kind of man to let his personal problems ruin his pleasure. As usual, he had the loudest voice but you could tell that his mind wasn’t on the game. Even I, who had learned the game from him, and never stood a chance while playing against him before that evening, managed a few runs while he was bowling. ‘Hey, terrorist’, I said at the end of the game, ‘is something the matter?’ ‘Yes’, he grumbled with irritation. ‘I’m getting married’. His days as a terrorist would soon be over. Three hours drive from Karachi was Hyderabad, a city of a million and a half inhabitants, situated on the right bank of the Indus River. When the bus wearily crossed the old colonial bridge, I’d usually see a herd of buffalo in the river. The water was the light brown colour of Pakistani tea and along the bank the lead-grey backs of the beasts rose out of the water like an island kingdom. Their shepherd, a mercurial boy, about 12 years old, swam amongst the animals. Pulling himself up by a buffalo horn he’d hop from the back of one beast to another before diving into the water again. Beyond the bridge lay the city, the city that was home to Mazhar Sahib. Mazhar Sahib, or Mister Mazhar, was 70 years old. He had lightcoloured eyes that sometimes burned with an inner fire and sometimes showed great sadness. He had a white moustache like a tusk and tufts of white hair curled upwards from under a felt hat. He said, ‘I am both man and woman’. That he was a man was clear from the way he walked with his legs wide apart. This was, he explained, because God had hung him so heavy that he couldn’t walk in any other way. ‘That’s a fact’. But in public he also often wore a dupatta, a thin headscarf normally only worn by women. He wore the dupatta around his shoulders. The cloth was almond-coloured: something in between yellow, orange and brown. ‘Almond is the colour of love’, he said. ‘Love presents a great problem’. That too, he said, was a fact. He used that expression a lot. I had met Javed because I wanted to learn how to play cricket, and I had made the acquaintance of Mazhar Sahib because I was

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on the lookout for a job. I had come to Pakistan for anthropological research. Interested as I was in the place Islam took in politics, I was also interested in the meaning Islam held in daily life, as politics begins with the personal. I had a special interest in the muhajirs, the migrants who had left India after it became independent, fleeing to Pakistan as they preferred to live in a Muslim country. There were an estimated 10 million muhajirs, the majority of whom lived in Karachi and Hyderabad. After a short while in Pakistan, travelling back and forth between the two big cities, I found that anthropological fieldwork can be quite a frustrating experience as, in essence, you don’t do much more than talk to people and drink tea. While all around you people are hard at work, you give the impression of lazing around, having nothing but spare time on your hands. I felt the need for an occupation people would see as both useful and significant. In Karachi it had been cricket, everybody saw how meaningful that was. In Hyderabad I had gone to Mazhar Sahib. Mazhar Sahib used to be a conductor on a Hyderabad city bus. Wearing a colonial uniform, he had sold tickets to the passengers. Around his neck he had carried a leather case on a belt, which contained large roll of tickets and money. As a conductor, you had to be able to stand your ground, as there were always people trying to travel for free. But he had always managed to avoid that. Now he was a pensioner and looked after by his sons. He had four sons. His daughters had all been decently married off. After he had retired, he’d wander around the small neighbourhood park each day. Local children played here and the men came for a chat. People were buried here too, as the park also functioned as a graveyard. Next to the park was the Mosque of the Date Palm, sandwiched between a shoe repair shop on one side and a smithy on the other. This was where Mazhar Sahib found his new calling. He watered the grass and plants and rinsed the dust off the graves, clearing away the mess that others had left behind. When I asked him if he could use an assistant, he promptly said, ‘You can start looking for diamonds’. He meant, collect the garbage. I was glad to have the job, he was happy to have someone to talk to. He started by telling me that he was a man of graves. He had been born close to a grave that he considered to be the most important in all India and Pakistan. It was the shrine of Pir Moinuddin Chishti, one of India’s greatest Muslim saints, and was situated in Ajmer, Rajasthan. The holy man was known as a mystic with a great love of

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music who had come to India centuries ago to bring people the gift of Islam. Now every year many Muslims returned the favour, making pilgrimages to his grave. This was the holy place where Mazhar Sahib had been born. His family, he said, was related to the great Pir Chishti. ‘In that case’, I said, ‘your family must be quite wealthy’. Mazhar Sahib answered, ‘In the spiritual sense, yes, but not where money is concerned’. These things don’t always go hand in hand. Because of his heritage, Mazhar Sahib now also considered himself to be a pir — the title the holy man passed on to his descendents. And the holy man not only passes on his title, Mazhar Sahib said, he also hands down the holy power carried in his breast that made him a gateway to God for his disciples. So Mazhar Sahib also carried this power, making it his duty to look after people, both living and dead. This was why he now tended the small graveyard. He helped not only the people who lay buried but also those who came there in their spare time. ‘There are two ways to become a pir’, said Mazhar Sahib. ‘One way is by birth and the other is by living a good life’. As far as he was concerned living a good life was fine but being born a pir was better. ‘At least that way you have it in the family’. A self-made pir just had to wait and see what his son made of things. His own family had borne pirs for many generations now. When he was young he’d never thought he’d leave Ajmer. He’d always thought he would continue to live close to the grave of Pir Moinuddin Chishti. His father always said, ‘There are two ways to learn from the world. One is to travel and go out into the world. That is tiring. The other is to stay in Ajmer and wait underneath a tree for the world to come to you’. Mazhar Sahib had always thought he would do the latter. Then, in the year 1947, on the 26th day of the Ramadan month of fasting, Pakistan gained its independence. That night was also the night when, many centuries before, the last of the Koran had been revealed to the Prophet. Close to the station in Ajmer, there was a mosque across the road from a Hindu temple. There had been trouble there before. The Hindus had the annoying habit of tolling the bell in the middle of the Muslim prayers. The Muslims had protested. An Englishman came to the temple and asked, ‘What is this?’ The Hindu said, ‘Well, this is a temple’. ‘What do you do here?’ ‘We pray of course’. ‘And this can be done at any time of the day?’ ‘Yes, no problem’. Then the

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Englishman went to the mosque and asked, ‘What is this?’ The peshimam said, ‘This is a mosque’. ‘And what is you do here?’ ‘We pray, what else?’ ‘Can this be done any time of the day?’ ‘No. We pray five times a day, at set times’. ‘Good’, said the Englishman. ‘From now on, when you pray, light a lamp so the Hindus know not to toll the bell’. For a while all was well. But then independence came and the Hindus said, ‘Now India is ours we can pray as often as we like’. So they tolled the bell while the Muslims were praying and the Muslims became angry. After all, it was the night on which the completion of the Koran was commemorated, making this nothing less than pure provocation by the Hindus. ‘It was then that we razed that temple to the ground. I was there too. That’s a fact’. After the fight, Mazhar Sahib fled to Pakistan. A train travelled across the desert to Hyderabad on the other side — former residence of the kings of Sindh, the land that lay downstream from the Indus River. The kings had built a citadel there. When the British conquered Sindh, they turned the citadel into an army base and after independence a refugee camp was established there to house the Indian Muslims. Here Mazhar Sahib found shelter. Later the refugees built houses there, turning it into an illegal ghetto, a slum. At times the city council tried to demolish the citadel but the inhabitants refused to leave. ‘Pakistan is also our land’, they said, ‘and we can live where we want’. They added extra floors to their houses. Shoemakers, tailors and blacksmiths opened their shops there and, with donations from the neighbourhood, the Mosque of the Date Palm was built and the park was laid. Mazhar Sahib, too, never moved from there. He built a house right on top of the citadel walls, with a view over the whole city. He said, ‘I came here as a refugee and now I live like a king in a citadel’. A few days after I started work, while we were sitting on the grass at dusk, he asked me what I had come to do. ‘To study Islam’. He nodded in approval. He thought Islam was an important subject that the people in my country knew little about. A silence ensued in which he slapped at a mosquito on his neck. Then he stood up stiffly, legs apart, his mouth full of pan and said, ‘I will tell you about love’. Because love, he said, was the single most important thing in Islam and, above all, a great problem about which there was much to say. I was looking for continuity in the kind of things you read about in the daily newspapers. I was curious about the ideas that had been

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handed down from generation to generation. Not that I thought you could simply explain people’s behaviour by their traditions alone — as an anthropologist I would be the last person to believe in such cultural determinism — but I found it important to know how these traditions had changed over time under the influence of developments in society. Mazhar Sahib and Javed were both muhajirs, migrants, but of different generations. Mazhar Sahib was of the generation that had known India and had chosen to come to Pakistan. He still had relatives in India with whom he had communicated solely through letters for many years now. Javed was born when the borders between the two countries had long been closed. To him, India was not a home left behind. To him, India was the enemy and possibly the subject of some tales his father told him. Yet, Javed still considered himself a migrant just as much as Mazhar Sahib. If push came to shove, he would be even prouder to call himself a muhajir than Mazhar Sahib. If he had to describe himself in one word, then muhajir, alongside terrorist and a damned good cricketer, would probably be his choice. Then again, muhajirs weren’t like the normal type of migrants you would find the world over. Muhajirs saw themselves as people who had left their country because of their faith. They had chosen to become Pakistani. They hadn’t become Pakistani simply by birth. They were proud of their choice. This was especially true of the younger generation, who may not have chosen it themselves but had to deal with the most suspicion and discrimination, particularly because the local population doubted the loyalty of migrants. So there were very different opinions of migrant loyalty. They themselves said, ‘We are the champions of Pakistan’. The others said, ‘They are fake Pakistani’. Young muhajirs had formed their own political party, the MQM, or the Muhajir National Movement. It was a huge success. During elections, the party had won almost all the seats in Karachi and Hyderabad, traditionally places where the muhajir were the majority. All of a sudden young and inexperienced muhajir began to govern those cities. Then they fell out with other parties and different minorities, and the members of the Muhajir National Movement were soon branded terrorists. Nevertheless, the party had built up a massive following. You didn’t often come across boys like Javed who had never worked for the party. But there was a difference between the boys who just supported the party and those who were willing to take the biggest risks for it.

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What was this difference? Why was one willing to sacrifice his life while the other wasn’t? What compelled one human being to choose martyrdom and what stopped another from doing the same? You had the celestial and the terrestrial — din and dunya — and a marriage, explained Javed, usually didn’t present any problems as long as it was an earthly matter. A marriage should be something sober, a duty to fulfill, a matter of dunya. If you turned it into a love story, a beautiful thing in truth, it usually ended badly. This was because love came from heaven and what came from heaven was life threatening. The earth’s powers were great and dangerous, but the powers that came from heaven were countless times greater and more dangerous still. If you did your duty you could flatten a hill. But if you were driven by love you could move mountains. In serving God, you rose above the worldly powers, making the risk of things going wrong so much greater. Javed’s marriage wouldn’t be a marriage of love. He was at peace with that. ‘Love makes you blind’, he said. ‘Isn’t that what people say? How can you tell if the person you fall in love with is the one who’s right for you? One day you’ll wake up, regain your sight and find that you’ve made a mistake. Then it’s too late. It is better that the family finds you a wife. The family is experienced in these matters’. It was true, he said, that women these days were more impatient. They watched all kinds of romantic series on television and wanted to live lives like those. His bride-to-be, for instance, had already said that they wouldn’t move in with his family but get their own place. On television people always lived with their own little family. A nuisance, Javed thought, particularly if there were children. Who would mind the children if his wife wanted to go out on her own? These kinds of issues were never addressed on television. But she had stood her ground and, no matter how problematic, that stubborn streak in her appealed to him. When he had discovered this trait in her, or rather, when he and his family had run into it during the wedding negotiations, he had begun to feel something for her. It was then that he thought: apart from being a duty, a marriage is also a challenge. The house in which he and his wife were to live in stood in an area of the city called Lalukhet. Actually, the neighbourhood was officially called Liaquatabad. It was a district that had been built for Indian refugees shortly after the country’s independence. At the time Liaquat Ali Khan was Prime Minister of Pakistan and the district was named

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after him. Liaquatabad: Liaquat’s city. But the ground on which the houses were built belonged to a Hindu called Lalu. This was his land: his khet. It was Lalu’s khet. And although the Hindu had migrated to India, everyone referred to the area as Lalukhet. Lalukhet had a reputation of being one of the most rebellious and violent districts in the city. It had always been that way. When Karachi rose against the military regime in the 1960s, the rebellion started in Lalukhet. Later when there were riots between the different ethnic groups in the city, they often involved people from Lalukhet. When the military went on the hunt for terrorists, they started their search in Lalukhet. ‘And now my wife wants a house and she finds it in Lalukhet’. But that was just a joke; it was logical for them to live in Lalukhet. Javed and his bride had both lived there all their lives. It was a good neighbourhood, Javed thought, he liked living there and didn’t want to leave. A lot of young people lived there; people whom he divided into four categories. The smallest group, about 10 per cent, were the religious. They read books about Islam and went to religious meetings. The odd one even visited Koran school. Then there were the students, 20 per cent, who also read books but about computers, history and politics. They were mostly poor because they didn’t work. Next, there were the illiterates, about 20 per cent, who learned a trade from their father, like carpentry or butchery. They did have money but were very frugal, saving everything. The other youths, about 50 per cent, were the dacoits, the pahlvans (strongmen), the commandos, and the terrorists. They usually worked and spent their money on cigarettes, card games, illegal alcohol, motorbikes, bodybuilding and porn films. A real terrorist also visited the whores. Javed thought of himself as the latter, but his marriage would put a stop to that. He was now 26 and had worked for 10 years. He jokingly referred to his first profession as ‘sugar engineer’. He had made candy from buffalo milk and heaps of sugar. The sugar and the creamy milk was mixed with fruit extracts or nuts and heated over a fire in a large wok. It was crucial to stir the mixture well. Slowly the milk would thicken until a rich and sweet cake remained that was cut into straight pieces and sold by milkmen. Stirring the thickening mass was the hard work that had developed Javed’s arm muscles. After a few years he became a rickshaw driver, as the job seemed less strenuous and he liked the speed on the roads. By then he had also become a member of MQM, the Muhajir National Movement.

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Transport was important for the party — more important than candy made from buffalo milk. He carried all sorts of things for the party, materials for propaganda, flags and weapons: mainly automatic rifles. He knew the alleyways the police would rather avoid. He wasn’t paid for these trips but he could ask the party for money whenever he needed it. He had more money than ever before. He lost the rickshaw one night when he got careless and left the safety of the back streets to take a shortcut along a main road. It was late at night, almost morning, and he thought it was safe. When he saw the patrol car he quickly ducked into a side street but he didn’t know the area and soon became lost in the maze of narrow alleyways. He heard the soldiers jump from the car and follow him. Leaving the rickshaw behind, he leapt over a few walls until he was safe. But he had lost the rickshaw. He then went back to his first profession — making candy. He spoke of his work for the party as a temporary whim. It was exciting and you could make a good living. You gained a lot of respect in the neighbourhood. But when he became aware of the dangers, he quit. ‘Terrorism’, he said, ‘is just like marriage. You’re either in it for din or for dunya. I did it for dunya. I did it for money, the excitement and the respect. Then, things usually end well. But if you do it for love, trouble is bound to come your way. Your powers will become too strong. You will lose control’. He had witnessed this himself. With his own eyes he had seen how somebody had become so enthralled with this love that he had virtually forsaken the world. This person was Adil, a former friend. Adil had been a real terrorist. Compared to Adil, Javed thought of himself as a novice and an amateur. Compared to Adil, Javed had just been play-acting. Mazhar Sahib was a pir, there were people who came to him when they needed divine power in their lives, but he also had a pir. And that pir was his beloved. ‘I am his wife’, he said and to underline his words he threw the almond-coloured dupatta over his head. ‘I obey him. Only him. I belong to him’. The dupatta slid onto his shoulders and he started to twist the ends of his moustache. I asked who that pir was. Mazhar Sahib spit the pan from his mouth, gave me a penetrating look and solemnly said, ‘Pir Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti’. The man that lay buried in Ajmer, in Mazhar Sahib’s place of birth.

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‘But he has been dead for centuries’, I said surprised. ‘No!’ He spat out the word, like his pan. This was something he felt very deeply about. ‘In my Islam we say: he who once was born will never die. You change worlds, like a child that is born enters another world, from the belly into this world. But that belly is also in the world. When we die we enter into a new world, one much larger than this world. And this world is part of it’. He paused for a moment to think. Then he said, ‘But you can no longer return. We can also not return to the belly. But inside the belly you sometimes hear the voices from the larger world’. I asked, ‘Do you sometimes hear the voice of your pir?’ ‘Sometimes’, he answered. ‘In dreams’. He also heard the voices of other departed in his sleep. His father had visited him recently. He wasn’t at peace as his grave wasn’t clean. The next day Mazhar Sahib had visited his father’s grave and saw that there was dust and mud on the stone. He had cleaned the grave. He had fed the fakirs that lived by the cemetery. Two nights later, he saw his father again. He said that he was now free. ‘That is a fact’. As usual, we were sitting in the park. A little further along, pilgrims lay sleeping. There were several different places of pilgrimage around the citadel, attracting visitors from far and wide. Some people said, ‘Hyderabad has so many holy places because kings used to live here. Saints and kings need each other’. Most saints indeed lay buried right outside the city walls. One of them had loved pigeons and now his shrine swarmed with the birds. Another had a grave 30-feet long because, through his devotion and God’s power, he had grown to become a giant during his lifetime. A third held a stone on which Hazrat Ali, son-in-law to the Prophet, had knelt and prayed. Through the force of his prayers the stone had turned soft and when Hazrat Ali rose up and the stone became hard again, impressions of his knees, hands and forehead were left behind. These places, which were colourful and where there was always something to do, were crowded. When they grew tired, the pilgrims came to the citadel park to smoke hashish and sleep. Sometimes we had to wake them when we were about to sprinkle the grass. ‘The Prophet also isn’t dead’, Mazhar Sahib said. ‘The Taliban over there’, he said pointing with his thumb over his shoulder towards the minaret of a mosque situated outside of the citadel and rising above the walls, ‘the Taliban over there say the Prophet is dead, but they are wrong’.

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The mosque he was referring to was not a Taliban mosque. There were no Taliban in Hyderabad. But the mosque did have a bad name. In contrast to most mosques it hadn’t been built with money raised by the neighbourhood. Gifts had come from abroad to build the mosque. Everyone suspected these gifts had come from Saudi Arabia. It had become a large mosque, the largest in the neighbourhood, incorporating marble, sandstone and rare woods. Above the entrance the 99 virtues of God were chiselled in stone. Inside, the mosque looked bare, without the lights and carpets that typified the local mosques. An air of missionary zeal and meddling surrounded the mosque. The muezzin always began his calls to prayer a fraction before the surrounding mosques. Every Friday the imam preached about what was and was not allowed. Even though everyone agreed that every mosque was a house of God and that a Muslim could pray everywhere, there were few local residents who visited the new mosque. It was just a little bit too fanatical, everyone agreed, just like the Taliban in Afghanistan. They also understood little about Islam. ‘The big difference’, Mazhar Sahib said, ‘is this. They say the Prophet is dead, the pirs are dead; all dead are dead. Death is a different world. That is God’s world and our world is not a part of it. When we die we are born into a world that is already there but which we cannot see. We continue our lives there and every once in a while we stroke the belly. My prophet is still there as is my pir and they too caress our belly every once in a while’. It occurred to me that Mazhar Sahib had made his beliefs his own. He always spoke about my Prophet, my pir, my Islam. Not that he begrudged other people anything. It was more that he actually experienced everything as if it really was his and belonged to him. The Taliban say there is only the Koran. We say there are the Koran and the Prophet and the pirs. Because God gave His word to my Prophet, peace be upon him. And the Prophet had the word written down. That is the Koran. But he also passed the word from heart to heart. And whoever could listen would hear the word in his heart. And in turn they too passed the word from heart to heart. Those are the pirs. The pirs carry the word in their heart. Others read the word in the Koran.

The word transcended everything. He gave an example of the power of the word. If you were ill and recited a line from the Koran throughout the night, you would receive the strength to become

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well again. The word, he said, had the power to give you five different things: success in life, protection against your enemies, a painless death, a place in heaven, and honesty. But, of course, you needed to know exactly which words from the Koran to recite. For that reason, among others, people came to him. As a pir he knew these things. This was the role he had to fulfill. At that moment the call to evening prayer sounded from the Taliban mosque, followed a moment later by a similar call from other mosques. I said that I thought the Taliban voice was the most beautiful. Mazhar Sahib thought so too. The Taliban muezzin also had the best pronunciation, he said. It almost sounded like real Arabic. He disappeared inside the Mosque of the Date Palm and came back after about 15 minutes. He had evidently given our conversation further thought as he returned to it. ‘In my Islam there are three groups’, he explained. ‘There are the fakirs’. He nodded towards the pilgrims sleeping in the grass. ‘They have forgotten about the world. They don’t wash, they wear old clothes and they don’t cut their hair. That is not good. Then there are the Taliban and other foreigners. The Wahabis and the Deobandis’. He alluded to the two reformist movements from Saudi Arabia and India. ‘They read the Koran with the head. That is not our Islam. The third group believes with the heart. That is my Islam. The heart is more important than the head. But the heart is also a major problem’. When I asked him what he meant, he made a dismissive gesture as if to say: don’t even mention it. Then he reconsidered and, to my surprise, answered with a poem. It was by a great Indian poet, he said, but he had forgotten which one. Translated, it boiled down to, ‘He who has once experienced the oneness of love and remembered it, has never again found peace of mind’. This brought him to his most favourite topic of all: love. And his second favourite topic: death. Most of our conversations would eventually end up about one of these two topics, or both. He removed the dupatta from his shoulders and held it in his hands like an offering. ‘This is the colour of love which scorches all’, he said, referring to the colour of almonds. Once there was a man so in love with Pir Moinuddin Chishti that his white shirt was scorched where it covered his heart. ‘Ever since then’, Mazhar Sahib said ‘almond has been the colour of his pir’.

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Love, so he explained, makes you incredibly strong and terribly weak. It makes you weak because you obey every command your beloved makes. ‘If you don’t feel like eating and he says: eat, then you eat’. That is why love puts you in the most extraordinary and difficult situations. ‘Imagine, he said, if your beloved tells to you to stay here until he returns. Then he goes to the bazaar, meets someone and forgets to return. And all that time you are sitting here in the park. After two days he comes back and asks: what are you doing here? You would feel like a weakling’. Some pirs abused the love of their followers. They asked for money or said don’t ever wash again; if you obeyed his command, everybody would dislike you because you smelled. Nonetheless, you couldn’t go to a different pir. ‘Your pir is your pir’, Mazhar Sahib said, with the same conviction that he’d say the sun rises every day. ‘You can’t choose a different father either’. When your heart burned, you lost your head. You were happy with the stupidest things. There was a well-known poet whose name was Amir. His heart burned with love for his pir. One day an old man came to the pir asking for money so he could let his daughter marry. But the pir said, ‘All I have is a pair of old shoes’. The man thought, ‘They are of no use to me’. But he took them out of respect. The man went home. He lived close to the soldiers’ encampment where Amir, the poet, lived. Amir was also a soldier and had been off fighting, returning home with a considerable fortune. He was tired and wanted to sleep, but when he reached the encampment he smelled the scent of his beloved. He followed his nose and reached the old man’s hut. The daughter opened the door and Amir asked whether his beloved was there. No, said the daughter, but we do have his shoes. Oh, begged Amir, give me his shoes and I will give you my fortune. The daughter said yes. She received the fortune and was happy, for she could now get married. But Amir was even happier. He danced around with the shoes on his head. He had completely forgotten his tiredness. So, love makes a man strong, because you never feel tired. But the power of love was even stronger than that. It filled you with a super power. Mazhar Sahib used the English term. It was an incomprehensible power that took possession of you and forced you to commit the most terrible deeds, not because you wanted to, but because you couldn’t help it. The power was too strong to resist. There was once a disciple of Pir Moinuddin Chishti, whose mother had wanted him to marry. He didn’t want to get married, all he could

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think about was his pir, but his mother insisted. He gave in. But when he first laid eyes on his bride, she dropped dead, purely through the destructive power emanating from his eyes. With a mixture of rage, anguish and panic he said to his mother, ‘You see. This is what comes of it’. I began to laugh, but Mazhar Sahib looked at me in surprise. He hadn’t meant the story as a joke. According to him, the groom hadn’t tried to blame his mother for his crime. There was no crime. There was ‘super power’, the power that came from the other, larger world, and in comparison a man’s strength was nothing. That was no reason for irony or Weltschmerz. That was a fact and it was wise to be aware of it. But the groom’s mother hadn’t known this. You had to anchor yourself in this world if you weren’t to be consumed by love. ‘Let’s say there are two boys. They are both in love with the same girl. The first one says, as any boy would, I have to marry you; if you don’t marry me I’ll die. Then she marries someone else. The boy is sad, but he has his family, his work, his duties and slowly he forgets her. He carries on. The same thing happens to the second boy. He also says if you don’t marry me, I’ll die. And the girl marries someone else. The boy leaves home and starts to wander, he loses his way, falls ill and dies. End of story’. By now it was dark. We were sitting in the sparse light of a single lamp hanging by the entrance to the little mosque. A group of women passed, their long shadows thrown across the grass. A blue moon rose above the citadel. The pilgrims awoke and readied themselves to go to the shrine of their choice. The evening and night were the best times for this. As a man you had to have the strength not to be overcome by your emotions. You had your role to play in this world. ‘But to those who carry inside the strength to surrender’, Mazhar Sahib said, ‘death will be like a wedding. The most important moment of the wedding is when the bridegroom lifts the bride’s veil. The bride is ready, the groom is ready, and they look at one another. That’s that’. That was how he envisioned death to be. His pir would come to him and lift the veil from his face. ‘In death I am the bride’, he said and rearranged his dupatta. Adil was restless and moody. He had always been like that even when he was little. When they were 15–16 years old — Adil, Javed, Najeeb, Siddiq, Na’im and all the other gang members — Adil’s moods had been legendary. Sometimes, it was as if he flew, he was so cheerful,

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so energetic; he would constantly hold your hand or put his arms around your shoulders. It was as if he wanted to be with you always and stop time so that everything would stay exactly the same as at that delicious moment. But a week later the fire would be out. He would complain of tiredness and headaches, and become irritated and sulky at the slightest provocation. Then he would keep to himself and make sarcastic comments. Malicious behaviour would then be his only source of pleasure. He was never the leader of their gang. Taking on the role of leader was usually a contest between Na’im with his sense of humour, Najeeb because he was an even better cricketer than Javed, and Javed because of his muscles. However, Adil could have competed on the basis of his intelligence and courage. He was the most daring and understood things more quickly than the others. He was also the one the girls looked at when they passed by in the bus. That was because of the black shirts he wore. The girls liked black. But he was too unstable. If things became too much for him he would stay away for days. He remained an outsider, even though his good moods were infectious and, for that reason, everyone thought he was one of their best friends. When he was 18 he really did disappear. It was typical of Adil not to tell anyone in the group. He left on an impulse. Javed and the others had to hear from Adil’s brother that he had left Lalukhet. He had joined the Muhajir National Movement. He had become a full-time member. He had joined the underground. The party felt cornered when the army came to Karachi and started branding its followers terrorists. It wasn’t like the old days anymore when a 100,000 people would come to a public rally of the party and Javed and his gang decorated their motorbikes with party flags tearing through the city, honking loudly and yelling, ‘Long live the muhajirs!’ and ‘Karachi is ours’. These days if you waved a party flag a little too provocatively you ran the risk of being arrested, and there were endless stories of torture and disgrace from the police-cells and prisons. The gang had discussed what to do about this. They all agreed that an injustice was being committed and when faced with injustice you should show courage. But it was no longer so easy to show courage. Earlier you could have gone into the street yelling ‘Long live the muhajirs’. Now you had to first get in contact with the underground movement. But it wasn’t easy to find. On a particular occasion the army had arrested party members, one after the other they had said, ‘That’s enough. Now I’m joining.

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What do I care about my life?’ But no one had been expected to follow through. And now Adil had gone and done it. They were astounded when they heard. They admired him too. Adil had always been the most daring one, they said to each other. When Adil returned, he couldn’t stop talking about the party leader. He had met him, he said. ‘Really?’ the boys asked. Yes, he said, he had met him. In a crowd in front of his house. They had looked at each other for an instant and the leader had said something to him. But he hadn’t heard the words, he had been too enraptured. It had suddenly become so quiet in the middle of that busy street, as if the noise had disappeared from a movie soundtrack. The leader had smiled. And waved. And made a fist. ‘We call him pir’, Adil said, ‘Pir Sahib. And sometimes we call him Brother. He always calls us Brother’. He was in a good mood, as if the world lay at his feet, and he couldn’t stop talking. ‘At the end of time there will be a universal government of Islam’, he said. ‘All injustice will disappear. Justice will be done. But first there will be a period of tyrants. They are strong, merciless and will seem unconquerable. But with God’s help the people will fight them. Many people will die. But no power is greater than the power of God. He is bigger than India, bigger than Israel, bigger even than America. The power will come from God, but how it will come, we do not know yet. We must be prepared to risk our lives’. That sounded ominous and mysterious. Javed asked what he meant by that. Adil answered with a story. A man, walking across a street, saw a dead child lying on the ground. He walked over to the child and said, in the name of God I command you to rise. He said that three times. But the child stayed dead. Then he said, I command you to rise in my own name. The child stood up and walked away. A mulla saw this miracle and called to the man, you are a heathen, you act as if you’re better than God. To which the man answered, the child had died at God’s command, how could He change His own command? That is why I changed it. The mulla got even angrier and went to the king to register a complaint. The king agreed with the mulla and said to the man, you are an apostate; I demand your hide. No problem, said the man. He pulled off his skin from the top of his scalp and gave it to the king. Initially Javed didn’t understand the story, but Adil explained it to him. You had to believe that the power of God was within you and

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you could perform miracles. Even if threatened by the mulla and the king, you still had to believe in yourself. You had to be prepared to lay down your life for that belief. Only then would you be completely invincible and immune to any injustice. Adil told of the oath of loyalty and devotion he had taken. He spoke about it as if it had been a wedding. It had all been very solemn, beautiful and serene. Afterwards he had felt more calm and determined than ever, as if a new life had started for him that was many times more serious, responsible and purposeful than the life he had lived as a boy. ‘Javed’, he said, his voice touched by emotion, ‘now I know what I have to do. Now I finally know what to do. I always had the feeling of being born in the wrong place. Now I know where I am needed’. Javed understood that he was talking about the party. Javed was happy to be persuaded to take the oath too. He was curious. To take the oath he first had to become a member of the party. Adil arranged the contacts. Javed filled out the forms and then had to wait for the ceremony to be held. In the meantime he had to go to meetings where he and other new recruits were taught the party ideology. ‘It was just like going to school’, Javed said, still disappointed after all those years. A man resembling a teacher told them about the hierarchy within the party and to whom they, as new members, should be obedient. He told them that only strict discipline could bring the goal of liberation closer. At the end he told them what the punishments would be for those who were ill-disciplined. The ceremony was like a group meeting. In the street in front of the leader’s house, carpets were spread out on which the new recruits sat in straight rows. The solemnity made Javed nervous. He was careful not to sit at the front. He wore black clothes and a band around his upper arm in the party colours. It wasn’t the leader himself that took their oaths. Javed didn’t get to see the leader at all that day. That, too, was a disappointment. Maybe, Javed thought, the leader wasn’t at home because he had to attend important meetings. Seated on the carpets, the members-to-be waited silently and solemnly for what was to come. After a long time a man came out. He motioned for everyone to stand. Javed tried to stand up as straight as possible, chin in the air. He struggled to feel the determination and sense of purpose Adil had spoken of. Then the man started to read out pieces of text that the group had to repeat. He said, ‘In the knowledge that God is present and watching me, I swear on His holy book and on the honour of my mother that I will always be loyal to

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the party and the leader for the rest of my life. I swear never to take part in any conspiracy against the party and the leader. If I ever hear of such a conspiracy I will immediately inform my superiors, even if the conspirator is my blood brother, my blood sister, my father, my mother or any other blood relative. Should I ever take part in a conspiracy against the party and the leader, it would be a crime as terrible as the dishonouring of my mother and I ask God to damn me for it. I will obey all my superiors’ commands precisely, regardless of my personal circumstances, thoughts or emotions. I will guard each secret like a treasure greater than the treasure that is my life. I will not consort with members of any other organisation, unless ordered to do so by my superiors. I swear that I have and will continue to have complete confidence in the party and the leader. May God strengthen me in my resolve and my loyalty’. Javed repeated the words and waited for the sensation of transformation that Adil had promised him. But he was distracted. He looked at the neck of the boy in front of him and watched a fly slowly crawl into the open collar. Javed’s neck started to itch in exactly the same spot, just to the left of the spine. He had to force himself not to raise his arm and scratch himself. But the boy in front of him didn’t move a muscle. He no longer felt such irritations. ‘Looking back’, Javed said, ‘it was really an idiotic, unbelievable display; a scene from a bad movie’. But at the time he didn’t see it that way. At the end of the ceremony, he was ashamed to feel exactly the same as before, with the difference that his nervousness and excitement had turned into sleepiness and disappointment. He avoided Adil for a few days. He didn’t know what to say to him. When they finally ran into each other, Adil immediately asked, ‘And? Did you see Pir Sahib?’ He was talking about the leader. Javed still doesn’t know why, but instead of telling the truth he answered with faked enthusiasm that ‘Pir Sahib’ had come outside and addressed the entire group and that all of them had cheered and applauded. He told it so realistically that Adil became jealous. At full moon in the month of Shaban, Shab-i-Barat was celebrated, the night during which, according to Mazhar Sahib, accounts were drawn up for the coming year. On that night God decided what fate would await everybody that year: who would die and who live? Your future was decided on that night. It was also when people visited graveyards to tend to the graves of their dead and light candles in remembrance. This was done because

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although the dead resided in the larger world, it was better for their peace of mind if they knew they were connected to the living. A neglected grave would sadden them. ‘God only knows who takes care of the graves in Ajmer’, Mazhar Sahib said at the beginning of the night when I found him in his little house on top of the citadel walls. ‘It’s not good if the graves are left alone’. A Muslim could live everywhere, he said, because the earth was God’s creation, but graves bound you to a spot. His sons’ wives had made halva, a sweet dish, which was handed out to the neighbours on plates. People ate in the street. The children lit firecrackers. The boys were dressed in their best clothes and the girls wore lipstick and eye shadow in lollypop colours. Fireworks could also be heard outside the citadel. The chickens and goats, which were kept in the streets, had become restless, just like the people. It was a cold December night. The wind had turned. Instead of coming from the south, carrying the warm air from the Arabic Sea, it now came from the west, from the direction of Quetta and Afghanistan, where the snows had started. During the day the sky was so dry, clear, fresh and blue that I imagined I was on a Central Asian high plain instead of the Indus delta. Several inhabitants of the citadel had dressed their goats in a coat or sweater to prevent the animals from becoming sick with the cold. The full moon was big and white. ‘I come from over there’, Mazhar Sahib said, pointing in the direction the wind was coming from. ‘My second name is Gardezi, he who comes from Gardez’. Gardez, he said, was a city in Afghanistan. Mazhar Sahib was like most Pakistani. They insisted that their families originally came from Afghanistan, Central Asia, Persia or Arabia to indicate that they, being Muslims, had always been strangers in India. Before his ancestors settled in Ajmer about five or six centuries ago, Mazhar Sahib said, they had lived in Afghanistan. ‘And now I live in between’, he said, ‘halfway between Ajmer and Gardez’. He valued his migrant status, his life in diaspora, and the omnipresent feeling of homesickness that accompanied this, as if he meant to say: I will be restless until I die, that is my destiny. Although he had already performed the day’s last prayer, he went to the mosque. There he recited the same verse from the Koran 300 times. It said, ‘And if We please, We should certainly take away that which We have revealed to you, then you would not find yourself any protector against Us…’. He recited this verse to remind himself

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that all power and mercy lay with God and not with the people. It was the most fitting verse to take into this night. We left the citadel through the large gate. The city was decorated with garlands of light and banners, and the streets were filled with people. Only the Taliban Mosque wasn’t decorated or lit up. The Taliban and the other fundamentalists, Mazhar Sahib said, didn’t believe in Shab-i-Barat. They said it was a Hindu custom, not really Islamic at all. It was too similar to the Hindu fest Diwali, they said. The children lit firecrackers to make noise just like the Hindus at Diwali. And Mazhar Sahib admitted, ‘That in itself is true. Those firecrackers, they aren’t really suitable. But the children like it and they would start to pester us if they were banned’. Shab-i-Barat was also a happy night, he said. All good things that happened over the past year were remembered. ‘We are happy to be alive’. That happiness was celebrated on this night. Outside the citadel gate, the stream of gravegoers swept us up in the way people are swept up every summer by the Indus River, at high tide when the water coming down from the Himalayas had an unstoppable force. The human river flowed churning towards its target, like the water flows to the sea and that lowest point was the graveyard. Out of the side streets new streams flowed into the main stream. The road travelled downwards in a bend from the hill upon which the citadel was built. Along the side of the road local representatives from political parties stood on flatbed wagons and gave speeches amplified by speakers. On top of a few of those wagons, video screens had been placed on which the leader of the national party could be seen and heard. There were also charitable institutions asking the stream of people for donations, committees from neighbourhood mosques that needed money for maintenance and religious movements calling for people to join them. Sometimes small groups would disengage themselves from the main stream to pray at the shrine of some wellrespected man at the roadside. We crossed the railway line, turned right along the tracks and arrived at an open space, qabristan: the land of the graves. At the entrance stood long rows of tables on which rose petals were laid out in heaps. They were sold by weight and handed over in clear plastic bags. Mazhar Sahib bought two bags. It wasn’t until that moment that I started to wonder about whose grave we were heading to. I asked him. He said, ‘My wife’s’. She had, he said, passed away six months ago.

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I was astounded. I had known Mazhar Sahib for several months now, I had worked in the park with him almost every day, we had had long discussions, but he had never spoken about his wife’s recent departure. Despite all his stories about love I had never wondered whom he was married to or had been. Following convention, we had never asked about each other’s wives. It seemed that I had only now become aware of another dimension in our conversations that had always been there. The dark open space of the burial grounds was lit by the small flames of hundreds of candles on top of the graves. The place was crowded with people but the noise of the street, where several amplifiers had simultaneously flooded us with speeches, had been left behind. Here people whispered and mumbled. The many prayers that were being said here flowed together into one soft murmur. Mazhar Sahib walked, legs wide apart, to the newest part of the cemetery. He filled a can with water from a public tap and rinsed the dust from his wife’s white marble gravestone. Her name was carved into the marble in graceful Arabic characters, coloured red and green. Mazhar Sahib produced incense and candles from the pocket of his long shirt, placed them around the grave and lit them. He strewed the rose petals over the grave. He opened his hands, holding them in front of his belly in an open gesture, and as he prayed tears streamed down his face. She had been, I read, 66 years of age. We took another route back to the hill on which the citadel was built. By now it was past midnight. The moon had shifted and appeared smaller. We drank tea in the park. From the graves around us rose the smell of roses and incense. Here too, people had visited their dead family members but had now returned home. During the weeks that I spoke to Javed about his work for the party, about Adil’s dedication and the differences between him and Adil, I found a book in a store in downtown Karachi. It had first been published decades ago and had only recently been reissued by the local office of the Oxford University Press. The book was called The Terrorist and was written by one H. T. Lambrick, an officer in the British colonial army who had served in Sindh in the Indus delta at the beginning of the 1940s. He described how in 1940 an uprising had started in the country to the north of Hyderabad. A group of men called fakirs had armed themselves and fought against the British colonial army. The group was led by Pir Pigara, the Turbaned Pir, a

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landowner from the Khairpur district on the eastern bank of the Indus. The fakirs formed a brotherhood and were reputed to be prepared to sacrifice their lives for each other and their leader. The brotherhood still existed. The Pir of the Turban was a hereditary title and after the death of the first pir his son had assumed leadership of the fakirs. In 1965, during the war with India, his men formed a separate unit in the Pakistani army that had fought in the Thar desert between Sindh and Rajasthan. When fighting needed to be done in the desert, everyone in Pakistan agreed that it was best left to Pir Pagara’s fakirs. In the elections the fakirs always voted unanimously for their leader and, so, he had become an influential politician. In fact, in the Khairpur area Pir Pagara ruled like a king. Lambrick, the soldier and author of the book, had captured one of the fakirs. He interrogated him extensively, so extensively that the man had told Lambrick his entire life’s story. He told him how he had grown up in a tiny village, destined to become a farmer employed by the landowner, until Pir Pagara called on him to give his life fighting for his pir. With the uprising the moment had come for the farmer to lay down his tools and take up arms. Lambrick had written down this life story and published it. He had called it The Terrorist because, while the rebels called themselves fakirs, the British considered them terrorists. The book was a mixture of autobiographical and authenticsounding passages of the prisoner’s life on one hand with, on the other, the writer’s descriptions and interpretations clearly showing British prejudice against the rebels. From the way Lambrick described the fakir, it was clear that the prisoner was the exact opposite of the author. The book unintentionally also became a mirrored self-portrait of an officer in the British colonial army. When the prisoner was passionate, the writer would be sober. When the prisoner was fanatical, the author would be logical. When the prisoner allowed himself to be led by suspicion and blind devotion, then the author would be rational. When the prisoner was mysterious and exotic, the writer would be rather dull. When the prisoner claimed that God and his pir were on his side, the author would make an appeal to law and science. When the prisoner was misguided, the author would have an open-minded view of the world. When the prisoner was deserving of pity then the author was there to give it to him. Lambrick was not a great writer. He had written an informative biography but had also conformed to the views of 1940s’ England regarding fanatical fakirs and Muslim terrorists. He had not questioned

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these views. Orientalism — the Western understanding of the East — did on a larger scale what Lambrick had done: create an image of the West by coming up with an imaginary East in which everything was exactly the opposite to the way it was in the West. Partly driven by fear, partly by a longing for the exotic, Orientalists built an unconquerable fortification dividing west from east and Islam from Christianity. Lambrick’s book fitted in perfectly with these views. He described his prisoner as a man who, if he hadn’t been blinded by his passions, could have been saved, had a little more English sensibility flowed through his veins. Yet I was intrigued by a passage in the book that reminded me of the way Adil had experienced the ceremony in which he had pledged undying loyalty to the party. It was where the prisoner described how he had been initiated into martyrdom by Pir Pigara. ‘Pir Saheb then ordered us all to lie down side by side, each man to spread his turban and shawl completely over himself, so that no part was visible. My mind was confused — for a moment I wondered whether our Lord was about to have us killed. Then his voice, in a different tone, began to declaim something in words I could not understand, though as I listened they seemed somehow familiar. At length it ended, and Pir Saheb ordered us to arise, in his usual voice. He said: “You have now passed through the shadow of death, and the life that you feel in you is a new life, dedicated for me, your Imam. Go in peace now, and remain prepared for my call.” As I went home through the night along the Sanghar road with a number of others, I asked one of them, and elderly man, what was the prayer Pir Saheb had read over us. The man replied: “If you had ever followed the bier of a Musselman to the graveyard, you would have known that they are the Janaza prayer, that the Mullah reads at the burial of the dead”.’ Adil had also spoken of a feeling that a new and grander life had started for him. He too had experienced the ceremony as a rebirth into a new world or dimension, as if the pledge of loyalty was some kind of premature death, necessary to prepare you for martyrdom. It seemed that with this death you became a part of a force many times greater than the powers that governed the earth. Adil had believed in this, believed in the significance of certain knowledge and holy conviction. Javed had played with it. He had been curious, he had investigated the power but withdrew in time. Nonetheless he had understood enough to pose like a terrorist, so he could instill fear into people and manipulate them. And when he bowled a wicket

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while I was batting and should have defended that wicket, he beat his chest and yelled, to emphasise my loss, ‘Look at me! What a Muslim terrorist!’ At these moments he turned the Western image of a Muslim as a fanatical fighter into something to be proud of. But he was never completely serious. That was the difference between him and Adil. That was why Javed was now getting married and Adil was no longer alive. After Shab-I-Barat I saw Mazhar Sahib with different eyes. And he, in turn, seemed to see me differently. After that night he would sometimes call me ‘son’. I told myself that this was less loaded than it seemed in a country where people would regularly adopt other people as kin through their choice of words. It was not unusual to address non-relatives with ‘brother’. The age difference between us was clearly too big for that. A fictional father–son relationship was a more obvious choice. Still, the expression filled me with pride. I now dared to talk to him about personal affairs that sometimes troubled me: the doubt of whether I truly wanted to understand other people, the feeling of being lost in a play in which I did not know the lines or direction, the question of what I was really doing in Pakistan. We were apart and yet close enough to discuss such matters. As adopted father and son, we talked much easier than a real father and son would have done. He talked about his longing for Ajmer, India, embodied in his devotion to Pir Moinuddin Chishti, whose grave he had left behind. He spoke of the doubt that occupied his mind; the doubt of whether his choice to come to Pakistan had been the right one. He spoke of Pakistan as ‘my poor country’, as if he was sorry that his loyalty was still divided. He sublimated the doubt by talking about it in an impersonal way. He would say: ‘We’ve become wealthier in Pakistan. The Indian Muslims are poorer than we are. But India is better for democracy’. It sounded like, ‘I’ve come to this place and I’ve survived, I have lived here, but shouldn’t I have stayed in Ajmer?’ He also talked of his longing to return to Ajmer and be buried there. He knew that wouldn’t happen. He would be buried in the cemetery where he had buried his wife. But it felt barren, as if his family didn’t belong there. Intizar Hussain, a well-known Urdu writer in Pakistan, has embodied Mazhar Sahib’s dilemma with irony and compassion in a single quote. One of his characters says, ‘Yar, you Muslims are wonderful! You’re always looking towards the deserts of Arabia, but for your graves you prefer the shade of India’.

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More and more often, Mazhar Sahib referred to himself as an old man. He said he didn’t have much longer to live. He spoke of how his wife had died. ‘Suddenly’, he said briskly, in staccato, ‘a heart attack. Blood pressure 240. Normal 140. First a big headache, then boom! She’d gone’. He told me that initially she hadn’t wanted to marry him. Maybe she had hoped to marry someone else. Her family had had to pressure her into marriage. But the love, he said, had begun during the wedding night and had lasted to the grave. He said that love flourished best in old age. By then shame has disappeared and your blood has stopped boiling. Now that she was dead he dreamed about her. He told me again how he envisioned his own death. He said that every human would be ready for death the moment it came. Sometimes death had to be persistent, as a family could be with the brideto-be. But if she wasn’t ready for it, the bride would try to gain time and delay the wedding just as his wife had repeatedly asked for a delay. When finally she did agree, she was really ready for it. That was the one moment in her life when she was at her most beautiful. She sat on her chair dressed in her wedding dress, ready to reveal herself. And when the veil was lifted, she would shine as never before, then she would truly become herself. As he told me this, I didn’t know whether he was talking about his own death or his marriage to his wife. I said, ‘You say that a person decides for himself when he is ready to die. But isn’t Shab-i-Barat the night God decides when everybody dies?’ He answered, ‘God decides when He is going to give you the strength to die. When the time comes, then no one can stop you, not even the best doctor. Your mind will be made up and that is how God will have helped you’. Javed invited me to the wedding. He said I had to come. And then he added, ‘But do bring something to read’. For if it were true that heaven was a place where nothing ever happened, a wedding remarkably resembled paradise. Nothing was as boring as a wedding. The feast seemed to go on forever and little of note happened. In an open tent the guests stood waiting for the food to be served. Javed and his bride were seated on a stage like statues, but we weren’t allowed to talk to them, we could only admire. The bride was wearing a glittering dress in all sorts of colours. She wore shiny jewellery and her hands were painted with henna. Javed wore a dark jacket over a white shirt and a beige turban wrapped around his head. A video was

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made of the guests so the family could relive the occasion later. The whole affair was essentially about seeing and being seen. I ran into Javed a few weeks later. He laughed when I asked him not to invite me to his wedding anymore. Although I was really curious to know what he now thought of his wife, I knew I couldn’t ask him. He didn’t mention it either. I did ask him what he made of the wedding. In reply he listed all the people who had attended. A lot of guests had come, so the wedding had been a success. He then said that he missed Adil. He didn’t often think of Adil, but at his wedding he had occasionally thought to himself, I wish Adil were among the guests. Of course, Javed wouldn’t have been able to talk to him as he was seated on a stage next to his bride wearing a turban on his head throughout the proceedings. Yet on the stage he had thought to himself: who is it I am sitting here for? When I think of the people in the room and who is looking at me and watching me seated at my wedding, who comes to mind? Who do I hope is proud of me? Who do I want to impress? And that was when Adil had entered his thoughts. Javed told me how Adil had died. After taking the oath, Adil was totally committed to the party. His whole life was now dedicated to the party. Everyone in Javed’s group noticed how Adil had changed. His dark and sulky moods disappeared. Only seldom was he still touchy. It was as if he now stood above the things that used to irritate him. Yet his careless cheerfulness had also disappeared. It had been replaced with enthusiasm. Now and then they would get fed up with his tales and visions of oppression and liberation. In his enthusiasm he became reckless. Although soldiers patrolled the streets, Adil refused to remove the sticker on his motorbike that showed his leader’s head. The soldiers stopped him, searched him and took his money. But he continued to look them straight in the eyes as if he wanted to say: this is my city, one day you will go away and I will still be here. They let him go but a week later he was stopped again. It was as if he was challenging them, looking for danger. Every time soldiers had insulted and robbed him, he came back with an even greater sense of dedication to the party. He started to call the boys ‘Brother’. He no longer said Javed. He said Brother Javed, or simply Brother. When the party organised a demonstration against the army, he told Javed and the other boys: Brother, you should come too. To protect the leaders and the party

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members from the army, as many people as possible needed to take part in the demonstration. But they never made it to the demonstration, neither Adil, nor Javed, nor any of the other boys. The army, it seemed, had heard rumours about the demonstration and a few days in advance, their trucks and patrol cars blocked the roads into Lalukhet. Within a short space of time the rumour spread that they had come to track down the party’s hidden weapons and arrest party members. Shots were fired and returned. Stones were thrown. Vehicles were set on fire. Javed soon withdrew to the roof of an apartment. He saw the soldiers patrol the broad cordoned-off street. In the narrow side streets and on the flat rooftops the party’s gangs held themselves back. And suddenly there was Adil, alone, walking down the middle of the main street, waving a party flag. At first he walked, then he started to run. He ran towards the soldiers. He shouted something, Javed couldn’t hear what it was. Later on the boys who had hidden themselves closer to the main street said Adil had shouted, ‘We may leave this world but we shall never leave Pir Sahib’. It was a well-known slogan that was painted on the walls of the city in red paint. Adil sometimes took things very literally. Then, as he ran, a shot rang out and Adil lay on the ground. That, Javed said, was a surreal moment. From the terrace he saw blood on Adil’s clothes and on the tarmac of the street. The military withdrew. Maybe they were afraid that the shot would trigger off a larger attack. Javed ran downstairs. An ambulance arrived, people ran to and fro but Adil was already dead. His picture was taken, bloodied head, eyes closed, mouth distorted. The picture would later turn up on the walls with martyr written above it. To Javed it always remained a mystery why Adil had suddenly run down the street like that, unprotected. What had he been up to? Had he simply wanted to provoke the soldiers by waving the party flag above his head and running past them? He didn’t have a gun on him when he was hit. His actions remained a mystery. And that only served to strengthen Javed’s last image of him. ‘He resembled an angel’, he said. ‘He seemed very light, as if he wasn’t running but floating above the ground. The waving flag, his waving hair. It was as if he was flying’. After the anger and sadness that followed his death came the jealousy. Adil became a hero in Lalukhet. He was admired and there were people who compared him to an angel. His status as a terrorist

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was safeguarded forever. There was no doubt about that fact if you had been shot by the military. Javed had to defend his own reputation time and again. His courage and loyalty were constantly being questioned. It was almost as if he could hear the people behind his back saying: he is only pretending to be a terrorist. Obviously it would take a reckless deed like Adil’s to silence those voices. But Javed wasn’t prepared to do this. And that was why he thought: the voices are right, Adil was the terrorist, not me. So, years later, sitting at his own wedding next to his bride in a tent full of people, he had suddenly thought about Adil. It was as if, in his absence, Adil had become the most important guest at the wedding. I asked Javed why he felt this way. What impression had he wanted to make on Adil? Had he wanted to take his vengeance by showing him he was getting married? Had he wanted to tell him: I was right, Adil, to take that whole circus surrounding the oath-taking with a pinch of salt? Had he wanted to show his regret and say: don’t blame me, Adil, for never having warned you of the danger? Or was he still jealous and hoping Adil would forgive him his cowardice? Had he hoped Adil would come to him and congratulate him and say good luck? Javed didn’t know.

Note ∗ Excerpted from Oskar Verkaaik (2002), Sayyid Pakistani en de bruiloft van de dood (Sayyid Pakistani and the Wedding of the Dead). Amsterdam: Bulaaq. Translated from the Dutch by Julia Hart.

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Reimagining the ‘Land of the Pure’: A Sufi Master Reclaims Islamic Orthodoxy and Pakistani Identity Robert Rozehnal Introduction 60 years after its traumatic birth, religion and politics remain inextricably linked in Pakistan. In a nation deeply divided along ethnic, linguistic, economic and sectarian faultlines, both state policy and public discourse focus on the relationship between Islamic and national identity. In the face of regional and domestic instability, politicians, the military hierarchy, religious leaders and average Pakistanis grapple over the roots of Islamic authority and authenticity and, by extension, religion’s proper role in the ideology of the state. What are the parameters of Islamic orthodoxy and who rightfully speaks for the tradition? What is the role of religion in framing the nation’s educational, legal, economic, social and administrative policies? Beyond the geopolitical realities of passports and maps, what does it mean to be Pakistani, and who represents the nation? These questions have dominated public discourse since the end of British colonialism and Pakistan becoming independent in 1947. From the beginning there has always been an unresolved tension in the constructions of Pakistan’s national identity, despite frequent appeals to a reified, universal Islam. As anthropologist Katherine Pratt Ewing notes, ‘The idea of a distinctive “Pakistani Islam”, the principle of difference that is the rationale for the founding of a nationstate separate from other nation-states, was inconsistent with the universality of Islam at the ideological level and with the reality of diversity amongst the practitioners of Islam who were to be subsumed under the signifier “Pakistani”.’1 Neither Islam nor Pakistan are inherently united. In this ongoing atmosphere of immense ambiguity and acute anxiety, however, questions about Pakistan’s Islamic

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identity have assumed an unprecedented urgency, with profound implications for Muslims throughout South Asia and beyond. This article explores a particular Sufi response to the debates over Islamic authority and national identity in Pakistan. My inquiry focuses on an intriguing text written by a spiritual master (shaykh) within a sub-branch of one of the subcontinent’s oldest and most dynamic Sufi lineages: Shaykh Wahid Bakhsh Sial Rabbani (1910–95) of the Chishti–Sabiri order (silsila). This twentieth century shaykh combined spiritual pedagogy with literary acumen, entering the combative arena of Pakistan’s public discourse to defend Sufism’s enduring relevance for postcolonial South Asian Muslims. Wahid Bakhsh’s ideas are encapsulated in his magnum opus: Pakistan ki azim ush-shan difai quwwat, or The Magnificent Power Potential of Pakistan.2 Drawing on a wide array of resources, this book surveys the evolution of Islamic civilisation in a triumphalist account of Muslim military, cultural and political history. The shaykh’s historical revisionism offers an alternative reading of the Indo-Muslim past that champions Sufism as the very essence of Islamic orthodoxy and the genuine foundation of Pakistani nationhood. The text also provides a sober assessment of the nation’s deep seated identity crisis. In an urgent, impassioned call for social reform, Wahid Bakhsh urges his fellow Muslims to mobilise the confidence, assertiveness and martial spirit of their forefather’s in order to reclaim Pakistan’s rightful position as the ‘Land of the Pure’. In the following pages, I contextualise the debates over Sufism in Pakistani political discourse and trace the Chishti Sabiri order’s imaginings of Pakistani identity towards an analysis of Shaykh Wahid Bakhsh’s enigmatic text.

The Politics of Sufism in Pakistan In the contestation over Islamic identity in today’s Pakistan, Sufism (tasawwuf) is an important — if controversial — symbol, a multivalent and often ambiguous signifier. As the inner or ‘mystical’ dimension of Islam, Sufism stands as an alternative nexus of Islamic authority, piety and practice.3 Neither a sect nor a cult, it is best understood as a spiritual quest, experienced and expressed via an interpersonal teaching network centred on the fundamental master–disciple relationship. Pushing the boundaries of normative Islam, Sufis strive for an intimate and unmediated experience of the Divine. Sufi adepts tend to emphasise the inward over the outward, intuition over intellect,

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spiritual contemplation over scholarly debate, and ecstatic poetry over legalistic prose in their spiritual strivings. Since the twelfth century, Sufi institutional orders — discrete spiritual ‘paths’ (turuq) — have proliferated throughout the Muslim world. Though they vary in their teachings and techniques, most Sufis strictly follow the dictates of the Qur’an and normative law (sharia) and model their behaviour on the example of the Prophet Muhammad (Sunnah). Despite its deep roots in Islamic history, Sufism remains a contested tradition. Much of this dissonance stems from the fact that such a broad range of practices are subsumed under its rubric. At the level of everyday social practice, Sufism is often equated with ‘popular’ worship at shrines. In South Asia, the tombs of Sufi saints provide an alternative outlet for piety and pilgrimage, especially for women who are often marginalised from the public, gendered space of the mosque. However, these same practices are a flashpoint in the public discourse on Islamic authority and authenticity. For conservative Islamist critics who reject any intermediaries between human beings and God, the cult of Sufi saints is blasphemous idolatry and the worship at shrines corrupt superstition. Yet the story of Sufism in South Asia does not end with saints and shrines. Throughout the subcontinent, the tradition has also inspired myriad forms of artistic and aesthetic expression — from vernacular poetry, to musical and dance traditions. Above all, Sufism in twenty-first century South Asia remains a spiritual teaching tradition — mediated in the intimate exchange between master and disciple and experienced through ritual performance. With their bold claims to experiential knowledge and authority, Sufis have often been misunderstood, and have frequently found themselves embroiled in conflict and controversy. The longstanding polemics against the Sufi tradition were further intensified under European colonial regimes and the subsequent proliferation of independent, neo-colonial Muslim states.4 The intensity and frequency of the attacks on Sufism by both secular nationalists and Islamists are a distinctly modern phenomenon that runs counter to Islamic intellectual history and pervasive cultural norms. As Carl Ernst notes: Ironically, as a result of strategic successes by fundamentalist movements in certain key regions like Arabia, and the massive oil wealth that fell into the lap of the Saudi regime, many contemporary Muslims have been taught a story of the Islamic religious tradition from which

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Sufism has been rigorously excluded. It is ironic because as recently as the late eighteenth century, and for much of the previous millennium, most of the outstanding religious scholars of Mecca, Medina, and the great cities of the Muslim world were intimately engaged with what we today call Sufism. It is doubly ironic because the fundamentalist story is belied by the religious practices of more than half of today’s Muslim population (Ernst 1997: xiii).

In South Asia, the British Raj attempted to appropriate and manipulate Sufi tradition — its language and symbols, its sacred sites and heroes — for political gain. Recognising the importance of Sufi shrines as the loci of regional identity and the power of hereditary Sufi leaders as moral exemplars and mediators, the British colonial administration actively incorporated Sufi leaders and institutions into its system of local politics and patronage.5 At times, the British intervened directly in the administration of local Sufi shrines, going so far as to mediate succession disputes in colonial courts. As historian David Gilmartin notes, under colonial rule the Sufi shrine’s traditional position ‘as a hinge between the culture of the locality and the larger Muslim community’ remained intact while the role of the saint’s living heirs was increasingly politicised (Gilmartin 1984). The politics of Sufism were only amplified in the wake of partition. In its effort to embed Islamic symbols in its political ideology, the fledgling state of Pakistan continued the British policy of direct control over Sufi shrines and Sufi leaders. Beginning with the secular government of the military leader, Ayub Khan (1958–69), successive Pakistani regimes attempted to link themselves with Sufi religious authority. ‘The Sufi was the symbol these secularists chose to represent their position and to legitimate their position as leaders of a Muslim democracy’, argues Ewing. ‘They strove to enhance the shrines and the Sufi origins of these shrines for the glorification of Islam and Pakistan. At the same time they sought to strip the hereditary pirs of their traditional functions’ (Ewing 1983). The state’s hegemony over religious spaces and local religious leaders was formally institutionalised with the passage of the West Pakistan Waqf Properties Ordinance of 1959. This act provided legal precedent for the state to appropriate control over religious endowments and to manage shrines, mosques and other properties dedicated to religious purposes. The result was a further dissolution of the independence and political power of both the hereditary Sufi families and the local ulema.

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The state of Pakistan used this newfound platform to aggressively pursue its own economic and social policies. As Seyyed Vali Reza Nasr illustrates: By taking over the management of the shrines, state leaders were able to use them to propagate a new interpretation of Sufism and rural Islam as compatible with development. Sufi doctrines were depicted as enjoining a positive work ethic, and rural religious festivals were used as venues for agricultural and industrial fairs. By becoming the keeper of shrines, the state was able to find a presence in rural areas, which was otherwise closed to it by the landed elite (Nasr 2001: 62–63).

This official policy of co-optation and control only expanded under the regime of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto (1971–79) and during the Islamisation campaign of General Zia ul-Haq (1979–89). In today’s Pakistan, Sufi history, sacred spaces and spiritual luminaries now form an important component of the administrative machinery and political theatre of the state. In official government literature and the public posturing of politicians, Sufi shrines are marked and celebrated as sacred national spaces while pre-modern Muslim saints are publicly embraced as poets, social reformers and proto-nationalists. Despite these determined efforts to appropriate the tradition’s symbolic capital, however, the state’s relationship with Sufism has always been plagued by an underlying ambiguity. The colonial and postcolonial state’s policies, in fact, never fully erased a deep seated ambivalence towards Sufi orders and their spiritual masters. Never fully integrated into the state’s ideology and institutions, the living Sufi shaykh always remained an ambiguous, liminal figure. In Ewing’s assessment: Within the framework of a colonial ideology, the Sufi faqir (mendicant) represented the epitome of indifference, a refusal to be captured by the ‘naturalness’ of the colonial order. The more threatening the presence of the faqir, the more demeaning were the images used to ‘capture’ him, images that continue to circulate in postcolonial discourse as versions of modernity, Islam, and secularism vie for dominance in the political arena. The Sufi saint occupies a contested position in these contemporary debates, which have inevitably been molded by the colonial experience out of which Pakistan emerged as a nation (Ewing 1997: 44).

In short, the state’s control of Sufi tradition — its worldview, its sacred spaces, its spiritual leaders — has never been totalising or hegemonic.

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Communicated orally via the intimate master–disciple (pir–murid) relationship and experienced primarily in private ritual arenas, Sufi knowledge, ritual practices and social networks survived and thrived — beyond the gaze and control of the colonial (and postcolonial) state.

The Chishti Sabiri Sufi Order The Chishti Sufi order is among the most prominent and prolific Islamic mystical brotherhoods in South Asia.6 With its doctrine of social equality, tolerance and spiritual discipline, the order (silsila) spread rapidly eastward from its roots in Afghanistan in the twelfth century. Under the guidance of charismatic spiritual leaders (shaykhs or pirs) who embodied Islamic doctrine through their piety and practice, Sufism helped translate Islam to the indigenous population. Versed in local customs and proficient in vernacular languages, Chishti shaykhs established centres of learning and hospices (khanqahs) that offered food and shelter for the wayfarers and mendicants who survived on their charity, solace for the pilgrims who visited them for spiritual blessings (baraka), and intensive spiritual training for their select corps of disciples (murids).7 The posthumous reputation of many Chishti shaykhs often led to the development of elaborate shrine complexes (dargahs) where devotees flock in search of spiritual power to alleviate their worldly troubles. As the loci of sacred geography and fonts for public social welfare, these regional shrines continue to thrive as pilgrimage sites and symbols of local Muslim culture and identity.8 Throughout modern South Asia, Sufism is still experienced in the popular practices at shrines, and expressed through the ecstatic poetry of its literary luminaries. But beyond this legacy of a rich Indo-Muslim past, it also remains a dynamic, living teaching network, rooted in the intimate exchange between master and disciple and mediated through ritual performance. In South Asia, the Chishti Sufi order developed two primary genealogical branches: the Nizamiyya and Sabiriyya. Breaking from the lineage of the predominant Nizami branch in the thirteenth century, the eponymous founder of the Chishti Sabiri sub-branch, ‘Ala ad-Din’ Ali Ahmad Sabir (d. 1291), initiated an alternative model of spiritual asceticism. From the beginning, the Chishti Sabiris were much less visible than their famous Chishti Nizami counterparts, withdrawing from urban life and the allure of the royal courts. Chishti Sabiri shaykhs

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were often renowned for their intense, awe-inspiring (jalali) personalities. In search of a life of solitary contemplation and spiritual discipline, they favoured more rural locales, avoided public appearances, trained fewer devotees, wrote fewer books and avoided building large shrine complexes. In the face of the increased communal politics, polemics and competition of the colonial era, however, select Chishti Sabiri leaders increasingly came to view silence and withdrawal as untenable. In the late nineteenth century, prominent Sabiri shaykhs linked themselves to social reform movements, founding educational institutions and publishing a broad range of texts. For example, both Hajji Imdad Allah al-Muhajir Makki (1817–99) and Rashid Ahmed Gangohi (1829–1905) — the spiritual founders of the famous Deoband madrasa — were prominent Chishti Sabiri masters.9 The social activism and reformist agenda of these nineteenth century Chishti Sabiri shaykhs mirrored the efforts of numerous Sufi leaders from diverse institutional orders across the Muslim world who resisted European hegemony and vigorously defended Sufi piety during the colonial era.10 In the context of the Chishti Sabiri order, however, it marked a radical break with historical precedent. Contemporary Chishti Sabiris are deeply attuned to historical memory. The order’s spiritual family tree (shajara) charts a spiritual heritage that links the current generation of disciples directly to the authority and legacy of the Prophet Muhammad. For today’s Chishti Sabiris, three spiritual masters set the standard for Sufi piety and practice: Muhammad Zauqi Shah (1877–1951), and his two principal successors, Shahidullah Faridi (1915–78) and Wahid Bakhsh Rabbani (1910–95).11 Through education and personal experience, these twentieth century Sufi masters were each acquainted with the institutions and ideology of the colonial state. As spiritual guides, they understood Sufism as a personal struggle for self-mastery, experienced and expressed within a moral community. As writers and public ideologues, they resolutely defended Sufism on the contested public stage of postcolonial Pakistan. Other notable twentieth century South Asian Sufi masters have pursued similar reformist agendas — the Chishti Nizami masters, Sayyid Mehr Ali Shah (1856–1937) and Khwaja Hasan Nizami (1878–1955), for example, as well as the Naqshbandi activist, Pir Jama’at,’ Ali Shah (1841–1951).12 Yet this trio of Chishti Sabiri masters articulated a distinctly Pakistani vision of Sufi identity. Throughout their voluminous literary corpus, the shaykhs responded directly to the aftermath of partition. In an eclectic range of essays, articles and books, they valourised the

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doctrinal teachings and ritual practices at the core of Sufi identity against Pakistani critics of the Sufi tradition urgently propagating Sufism as a panacea for Pakistan’s spreading social malaise. Adopting the idioms of modernity as in much of Pakistan’s official relationship to Islam, that is — the language and logic of science, rationalism and the market — they used the instruments of mass media to articulate and amplify this message to a broad national and international audience. Muhammad Zauqi Shah, Shahidullah Faridi and Wahid Bakhsh Sial Rabbani were ardent Pakistani nationalists. From their writings it is clear that they envisioned Pakistan as a tabula rasa, a new and welcoming space for South Asian Muslims to resurrect the ideals of the early Muslim community. Their vision of the nation portrays Sufi masters as the rightful heirs to the Prophet and, by extension, the true spiritual founders of Pakistan. Significantly, the shaykhs’ notion of citizenship echoes the logic and structure of the Sufi master–disciple relationship. It equates the nation with a moral community grounded on knowledge and piety, and envisions a social order mediated by the Sufi rules of etiquette and decorum (adab). This idealised vision of an Islamic state rooted in Sufi tradition made the creation of Pakistan much more palatable to these Chishti Sabiri shaykhs than it was for many of their ulema counterparts who resisted partition. Even as the shaykhs put Sufism at the centre of Pakistan’s raison d’état their narrative of the nation frames Pakistan — ‘The Land of the Pure’ — as a utopian promised land for the global Muslim ummah (community). Here too they demonstrate the specifically Pakistani nature of their Sufi identity in so far as their proposal for a Sufism imbued nationstate was given in promise for all Muslims everywhere. The public and political posturing of these spiritual masters reveals only half the story of the Chishti Sabiri order in postcolonial South Asia, however. Above all, Sufism remains a personal spiritual quest. The Sufi path (tariqa) couples a unique model of human psychology with a series of practical, bodily techniques that together create religious experience and communicate religious truth.13 At its core, the Chishti Sabiri order is a moral community that aims to reshape and reconstitute the Sufi adept through its networks of knowledge and spiritual pedagogy. Chishti Sabiri ritual practice (suluk) begins with a choice. In the pursuit of knowledge, the Sufi disciple must voluntarily submit his will to the power and authority of a spiritual master. As the embodiment of Sunnah, the shaykh serves as the

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living conduit to Islam’s sacred past. In this system, Chishti Sabiri doctrine is interiorised and actualised via a complex, interdependent nexus of ritual practices: dreams and dream interpretation; rituals of remembrance (prayer, zikr [recitation] and muraqaba [meditation]); and the annual pilgrimage networks and musical assemblies (sama) at Sufi shrines. In Sufi ritual, the body serves as a medium for knowledge and a tool for self-transformation. By adhering to a disciplined routine of ritual performance, the Sufi disciple forges a new bodily habitus, transforming the acculturated, socialised self into a sacralised, moral self. While the Chishti Sabiri disciple’s progress along the path ultimately rests on individual action and personal responsibility, the Sufi subject is moulded within the community of the silsila. Through companionship with the spiritual master and the community of fellow disciples, the murid learns to navigate the arduous inner journey of the Sufi path. In my book Islamic Sufism Unbound (2007), I explore the literary legacy and ritual practices of the Chishti Sabiri order in detail. Drawing on both texts and ethnographic contexts, I chart how the silsila accommodated to the tectonic shifts in the social and political landscape of postcolonial Pakistan. I argue that the contemporary Chishti Sabiri order is both paradigmatic and protean. Like their spiritual mentors, today’s disciples acknowledge the imperative for reform, the pressing need to respond to changing times and adapt to new environments. For individual murids, the contingencies of modern, urban life have forced a reassessment of how best to balance the necessities of the practical, lived-in world (dunya) with the demands of religion (din) and the rigours of Sufi spiritual discipline. The increased demands of the workplace, the imperative for mobility and travel, and the pervasive ambiguity and anxiety exacerbated by social, political and economic instability — all these elements have forced a rethinking of the meaning and methods of Sufi praxis. Amid all this change, however, there remains an underlying continuity to Chishti Sabiri identity. The technologies of bodily discipline, the interpretive frameworks of selfhood and the rules of Sufi decorum remain very much intact. In this sense, the contemporary silsila remains true to its historical, genealogical, ontological, epistemic and heuristic foundations. At the dawn of the twenty-first century, Chishti Sabiri Sufism is imagined and inscribed anew in texts, even as one’s spiritual quest is embodied and performed in ritual contexts and upheld in the public sphere. Consequently it is necessary to explore the mediation between

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one’s commitment to an enduring Chishti Sabari identity and one’s self-positioning as a Pakistani nationalist in both the person and the texts of Shaykh Wahid Bakhsh Sial Rabbani.

Shaykh Wahid Bakhsh Sial Rabbani’s Inheritance and Legacy In the context of late colonial India and postcolonial Pakistan, Shaykh Wahid Bakhsh Sial Rabbani emerged as the Chishti Sabiri order’s principal spokesman and public ideologue. The contours of the shaykh’s life mirrored the contradictoriness of the colonial era, as he was both drawn into participation in public events yet excluded from full participation on account of his religiosity. Educated at the Officers Indian Military Academy in Dehra Dun (India), Wahid Bakhsh was commissioned in the Bahawalpur State Forces in 1933 as infantry officer in the British Indian Army before moving with his regiment to Malaysia at the outbreak of the World War II. He retired from military service in an act of civil disobedience. After being charged with insubordination for refusing — on the advice of his shaykh — to cut his beard and wear shorts, he resigned his post and returned to the subcontinent. He joined the Civil Secretariat of the Bahawalpur Government in 1946. Subsequently, he was transferred to the West Pakistan Secretariat, Lahore in 1955 and remained there until his retirement in 1968. During his tenure in the British military and civil service, Wahid Bakhsh became deeply immersed in Sufi practice. In 1940 he took formal discipleship with the influential Chishti Sabiri master, Shaykh Muhammad Dhawqi Shah. For the last three decades of his life, he committed himself entirely to writing and an austere life of ritual discipline. In 1978, following the death of Dhawqi Shah’s principal successor (khalifa), Shahidullah Faridi, Wahid Bakhsh began to initiate his own disciples as a teaching shaykh. Throughout his public writings, Wahid Bakhsh privileges his identity as a Chishti Sabiri master, asserting that his spiritual credentials provide him with a privileged perspective on Sufism and its relation to colonial and postcolonial structures of knowledge and power. With boundless energy, Wahid Bakhsh composed a vast corpus of texts, wide ranging in scope and scale, written in both Urdu and English. The shaykh published numerous Urdu translations of classical Persian Sufi biographies, including the discourses of Farid al-Din Ganj-i Shakkar, Maqam-i Ganj Shakkar; Sheikh Abdul Rehman Chishti’s

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malfuzat Mirat al-Asrar; and Sayyid ’Ali al-Hujweri’s famous tome, Kashf al-Mahjub.14 Wahid Bakhsh also wrote numerous original treatises on ritual practice, as well as overtly polemical pieces in defense of the Chishti Sabiri tradition. Many of these works are now easily found in Urdu bookstores in Karachi and Lahore. Wahid Bakhsh clearly inherited the literary mantle from his mentor. In fact, Muhammad Zauqi Shah’s impact is palpable in the content and style of his writings. According to a senior Pakistani disciple, this was by design: ‘Zauqi Shah started with pen and paper and finished with pen and paper’, and Wahid Bakhsh carried on the former’s work.15 The vast majority of Wahid Bakhsh’s voluminous corpus focuses on Sufi doctrine and ritual performance. Yet in select texts, the shaykh responds directly to the realm of politics and polemics, commenting on the ideology and institutions of the Pakistani nation-state. Why would he do so? Analysing his actions through the lens of Talal Asad’s work suggests that he had little choice but to respond: Given that the modern nation-state seeks to regulate all aspects of individual life — even the most intimate, such as birth and death — no one, religious or otherwise, can avoid encountering its ambitious powers. It is not only that the state intervenes directly in the social body for purposes of reform; it is that all social activity requires the consent of the law, and therefore of the nation-state. The way social spaces are defined, ordered and regulated makes them all political (Asad 1999: 191).

It is the state that determines the parameters of geopolitical, social and discursive space in contemporary Pakistan. In direct response to the state’s attempt to monopolise Islam’s symbolic capital, Wahid Bakhsh’s writings imagine an alternative past, present and future in which Sufism plays an essential role not only in shaping one’s personal experience but also in the constitution of local and global Muslim identity. No text more succinctly encapsulates Wahid Bakhsh’s imaginings of Pakistan and the roots of its national and religious identity than his massive tome: Pakistan ki azim ush-shan difai quwwat, or The Magnificent Power Potential of Pakistan. In this eclectic work, the shaykh turns his attention from the rarefied heights of din (religion) to the concrete realm of dunya (the practical, lived-in world of realpolitik). In a sweeping survey of Islamic military and cultural history, he draws inspiration and guidance from a reified portrait of a lost Golden Age.

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In it Wahid Bakhsh champions the compatibility of Islam, modernity and mysticism as the genuine foundation of Pakistani nationhood and a bulwark against Western — and Indian — cultural encroachment and political hegemony. A critical examination of this text offers specific insights into how Wahid Bakhsh positioned Sufism in relation to the West, to the potential of Pakistan and to its disappointing actualities.

The Magnificent Power Potential of Pakistan The Magnificent Power Potential of Pakistan was first published in Urdu in 1986. It was subsequently reissued in 2000 in an English translation by one of the shaykh’s senior disciples: Brigadier Muhammad Asghar. It is a weighty book, more than 550 pages in length in both its Urdu and English manifestations. This scale is equalled by its scope. Many of the book’s parameters — and all of its polemics — are understood only against the backdrop of South Asian geopolitics in the late Cold War period. It was written at a time of profound upheaval and uncertainty for Pakistan: internally, the military dictatorship of General Muhammad Zia ul-Haq and, externally, the destabilising proxy war in Afghanistan fought by US-sponsored mujahidin (warriors in defence of the faith) against the Soviet Union. Amid these turbulent times, Wahid Bakhsh views the late twentieth century through polarised lens. His analysis bifurcates the globe along two civilisational zones: an aggressive, expansionist ‘West’ — Europe, the United States and, by extension, its satellite state, Israel — that perpetuates the colonial legacy to subvert and control the Muslim world, the second civilisational zone. In Wahid Bakhsh’s words: Now that the valiant people of Asia and Africa have expelled the colonialists, they are trying to stage a comeback by weakening these countries from within. They are applying direct as well as indirect strategies, which include naked aggression, subversion, a cultural offensive, an economic aid offensive, a technical aid offensive and the so-called ‘peace’ offensives (Rabbani 2000: 479–80).

In surveying the global political landscape, Wahid Bakhsh inverts Orientalist essentialisms to valourise a spiritual ‘East’ against a godless ‘West’. In many ways, this rhetorical move parallels the ideological formations of early Indian nationalism outlined by Partha Chatterjee (1993). It is a common rhetorical strategy in South Asian Islamic and Islamist discourse as well. The notion of clashing civilisations is a familiar motif in the writings of the famous Indian religious

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scholar, Sayyid Abu’l Hasan ‘Ali Nadwi (1914–99), for example. And it echoes the polemical attacks of numerous Islamists — from Jamal-ud Din al-Afghani and Sayyid Qutb to Mawlana Abul ala Mawdudi. Like his contemporaries, Wahid Bakhsh’s notion of a chasm between East and West probably ‘owes more to nineteenth and early twentieth century Orientalist notions than he seems to recognize’ (Zaman 1998: 80). Wahid Bakhsh attacks the West for its hypocrisy, cruelty, greed and violence. With its singular obsession with power, wealth and conquest, he says, the West is morally bankrupt. Though technologically advanced, it has sacrificed religion in the name of science, absolute secularism and material gain. And it is this fatal choice, the shaykh concludes, that will be the West’s undoing: They [Westerners] accepted what related to the physical sciences and what contributed towards material progress, but rejected what belonged to the purification of self, spiritual progress and success in the life Hereafter. Consequently, their one sided development has created a culture which is unstable, imbalanced and moving on a single track. Since they rebelled against their religion, they have been deprived of the treasures of religious knowledge. They have jumped from one extreme to the other, as they have run away from absolute renunciation and walked into the trap of absolute materialism. They have rejected absolute superstition but adopted absolute secularism. Their absolute hatred for women has been replaced by absolute sexual frivolity. They have freed themselves from religion, but got into a race for material progress and national superiority. In their reckless pursuit of power they have stumbled, only to discover that the weapons of mass destruction, which they claim as their proud inventions, are there to destroy the entire edifice of their civilization (Rabbani 2000: 475).

While he acknowledges the prowess of the West, his descriptions of the West render it less of a cultural and political challenge and more of a scourge. This scourge has not only devastated the Muslim world, particularly Pakistan, as he demonstrates, it has also left the West fatally weakened. Moreover, the West has been left in this condition without its full knowledge. This makes it opportune for Muslims to take up arms against the West. However, while Wahid Bakhsh uses the language of a military action, the offensive he outlines is not one of physical violence: The miraculous power of Islamic spirituality is so strong that we, the Muslims, are not required to pick up swords to conquer the spiritual

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wastelands of the West. Since every heart by nature yearns for Divine love and Divine bounty, and heart with a spiritual vacuum is absolutely defenseless against the expanding spiritual torrent of Islam. The West is helpless and exposed to the ingress of the Truth. The process of Islamic conquest in spiritually starved humanity is therefore an eternal and continuous process (Rabbani 2000: 501).

First, one has to uphold Islamic spirituality and, second, one has to make an offering of this spirituality to the West. Such an offering will unleash its weaponry upon the West, defenceless against such a spiritual charge. We, the Muslims, must realize that the Westerners themselves are alienated against the Western civilization. They have very high hopes and high expectations from Islam. The new manifestation of religion which I have pointed to is the ever-increasing demand of the West for Sufism. It is our first and foremost duty to offer Sufism to the West. And in this lies the secret of our success (Rabbani 2000: 527).

Thus, Wahid Bakhsh is able to both speak as a Pakistani in propagating an offensive against one’s enemy and as a Sufi in making that strike be that of the force of love and truth. Yet how is one to undertake the initial task of strengthening Islamic spirituality? After all, Muslims have fallen into bad times according to the shaykh. The neglect of Islam’s original teachings and traditions, he asserts, has only resulted in doubt, weakness and civilisational drift: One of the causes of Muslim decline is their indifference to and detachment from their glorious history. This book therefore brings to focus the feats of valor, operational brilliance and tactical excellence of the great captains of Islam. It also throws light on the contributions of our forefathers to science, technology, artistry, social sciences and cultural fields. The aim is to pull our Westernized and defeated minds out of their inferiority complex so that they realize that they are sparkling stars of the glorious galaxy of the Muslim civilization and culture (Rabbani 2000: 3–4).

For Wahid Bakhsh, the martial spirit of the Muslim past offers a blue-print for renewal, promising a self-confident and assertive Indo-Muslim future. Hence, the bulk of The Magnificent Power Potential of Pakistan centres on a comprehensive — yet profoundly romantic — reading of Islamic military and cultural history. In his interpretation of history, piety was the backbone of power — military, social,

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economic, political and artistic — during the zenith of the Muslim empire. The shaykh’s call for Islam’s revitalisation conflates religious orthodoxy — with Sufism at its centre — with military might, social order and cultural florescence. Rejecting passivity, apologetics and defensiveness, Wahid Bakhsh challenges his fellow Muslims to restore the dynamism of the ummah by embracing the lessons of the past. Moreover, throughout the book, Wahid Bakhsh continuously invokes numerous premodern Sufi exemplars, among them Imam Ghazali, Ibn Arabi, Junaid Baghdadi, Jalal ud-Din Rumi, Bayazid Bistami, Sayyid ’Ali al-Hujweri. As befits a Chishti Sabiri shaykh, he also lauds the luminaries of his own spiritual genealogy, especially Khwaja Muin ad-Din Chishti and Baba Farid ad-Din Ganj-i Shakkar. In Wahid Bakhsh’s eyes, these paradigmatic Sufi saints embody the virtues of the Prophet Muhammad: piety, self-sacrifice, sincerity, charity, humility and an unwavering commitment to social justice. As the heirs to the Prophet, the awliya’ Allah (the ‘Friends of God’) offer a moral compass for disenchanted Westerners, just as for Muslims. Beginning with the early community of believers surrounding the Prophet Muhammad, Wahid Bakhsh charts the rise and fall of Islamic civilisation across the centuries and around the globe. His sweeping narrative moves from the Hijra to Medina and the military conquests of Persia, Byzantium and Spain, to the Crusades, the fall of the Ottoman Empire, and resistance to colonial regimes. Not surprisingly, the shaykh gives particular attention to Muslim incursions into the subcontinent and the subsequent rise of a distinct Indo-Islamic culture. Throughout this chronological survey, Wahid Bakhsh lauds the self-confidence, faith, bravery and bravado of the early Muslim community. His interpretive lens is entirely self-referential, following the thread of a sacred Muslim past that looks past the West. By looking thus, he suggests, Muslims can build a bulwark against present and future Western encroachment. Wahid Bakhsh’s alternative narrative also offers a spirited defence of the necessity — the orthodoxy — of jihad. If the archives of Islamic history are to provide the means to renew one’s spirituality, to literally fill it with new life, jihad was the concept in Islam that would ground the offensive against one’s enemies, notably the West. Reciting a wellknown (if disputed) tradition, he defines jihad as a both an internal

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struggle against the lower self (the ‘Greater Jihad’, or jihad-i akbar) and an external resistance against the enemies of Islam (the ‘Lesser Jihad’, or jihad-i asghar). Muslims, he insists, are compelled by their faith to fight against oppression, injustice and tyranny. In another clear example of Wahid Bakhsh’s eclectic mix of ideology and idioms, he invokes the Qur’an (4: 74–76) to ‘urge the Muslims to fight for Truth and Justice, and wage jihad for human rights’ (Rabbani 2000: 51). Acutely aware of the Western polemic against jihad, Wahid Bakhsh remains unapologetic. Once again, he goes on the offensive, criticising the West for its hypocrisy and double standards. In his words: Some Western thinkers criticise Jihad. Their criticism is not understandable as they themselves have acquired greater wealth and power by subjugating weaker peoples, conquering foreign territories and plundering others’ treasuries. Their hands are stained with the blood of many innocent and weaker nations. If enhancement of national superiority and imperialism through exploitation of weaker nations is considered legitimate by them, how do they criticise Jihad, the objectives of which are to extirpate falsehood, uphold Truth, uproot oppression, eliminate infidelity (kufr) and associationism (shirk), and wipe out all kinds of malpractices?16

Outlining the rules of military engagement, the shaykh asserts that armed conflict is always moderated by strict limits of conduct that insure discipline, moderation and mercy. Torture, multilation and the killing of non-combatants, he insists, are strictly forbidden in the Muslim tradition of just war. The triumph of Wahid Bakhsh’s book is to show how Pakistan is positioned to take the helm in taking forward Islamic spirituality. According to the shaykh, The creation of Pakistan is therefore not a fortuitous happening, or the consequence of an accident of history. It is rather a Divine reward for the centuries of sacrifices, toiling and tribulations of the Mujahidin of Islam. Those visionary leaders had sensed that the decline of the Ottoman and Mughal empires would spell disaster for the Muslims and their future would be absolutely dark. The Muslims had to be rescued, and an ideological state like Pakistan was a dire necessity of the time and the right answer to the prayers of the millions of oppressed human beings in general, and the Muslims in particular (Rabbani 2000: 15).

In other words, Wahid Bakhsh asserts that contemporary Pakistan carries the mantle of the ‘first Pakistan’, the paradigmatic Muslim

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state formed by the Prophet Muhammad and the early community of believers in Medina. His strategic analysis characterises Pakistan as a key buffer state for Middle Eastern and Asian countries alike, a counter-weight to the West’s hegemonic designs. Written 40 years after partition, however, his triumphalist discourse in which Pakistan is positioned to be a world leader in Islamic spirituality in its offensive against the West is permeated by a palpable sense of disappointment and anger at how things have come to pass in Pakistan. In the shaykh’s eyes, Pakistan has utterly betrayed its auspicious nature and divine prefiguration. Mired in poverty, nepotism, corruption and a profound crisis of identity, the modern state has failed miserably in its mission to preserve the spirit and values of the Prophet’s Medina. In language that resonates with sadness and righteous anger Wahid Bakhsh writes: [The Muslims of South Asia], their dream was Pakistan — a Muslim state based on the ideology of Islam and a state founded on the edifice of Nizam-e Mustafa [‘the system of the Prophet’], and a state which would be the precursor of Islamic renaissance. By the grace of Almighty Allah, the sacrifices, toiling and efforts of the Muslims led to the creation off Pakistan. A part of the dream had come true: we had a geographic entity called Pakistan, and we had to develop it into a citadel of Islam. But alas, we lost our way! We forgot the lofty ideals and objectives for which Pakistan was created. We changed our direction and we drifted away from our course — the course that would have led us to Mecca Muazzamah [‘Exalted’] and Medina Munawwarah [‘Illuminated’]. We are now heading towards temples, churches and abodes of idolatrous practices. We had sought to make Pakistan a fortress of Islam. But we have turned it into the center of greed, corruption, luxury, materialistic values and internal discord (Rabbani 2000: 383).

Incensed by Pakistan’s various weaknesses, Wahid Bakhsh calls for immediate and comprehensive changes to stall its slide into rot. It is only through the moral reform of the individual, he says, that social and political institutions can be revitalised. In a revealing passage, the shaykh attacks those who call for top-down structural changes in the absence of a prevailing change in the way people think and act: Some of our impatient politicians, who include some religious scholars as well, claim that they can reform the society only after coming to power. And that too despite the prerequisites spelled out by the

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tradition of the Prophet (peace be upon him). Unless the masses are reformed, pious and virtuous individuals will not come to power…In order to bring pious individuals to power, we need to commence our work at the grass roots level. Piety will not trickle down from top to bottom. Reconstruction of any nation is possible only if scholars, educationalists, reformers and thinkers reform the masses by interacting with them. There is a need to establish religious schools, arrange talks for the common men, write articles in newspapers, magazines and journals, write books and help in the control and eradication of crime from society. Once the society is reformed, virtuous people will emerge in accordance with the laws of nature (Rabbani 2000: 431).

Islamic values and practice, Wahid Bakhsh asserts, cannot simply be codified, systematised and enforced. Instead, they must be inculcated, internalised and enacted. The shaykh calls for an educated, pious elite to lead the Pakistani masses back to their Islamic roots. And once again, he evokes the Golden Age of the early Muslim community as the eternal, universal paradigm for emulation. It is the only political model, he asserts, in which national policy and public institutions emerge directly from individual faith and practice. Wahid Bakhsh outlines a host of practical reforms for Pakistan’s revitalisation. The restoration of Pakistan’s foundations, he argues, is not solely a spiritual battle, but one that must be fought simultaneously on multiple worldly fronts. In response to ground level realities, the shaykh offers a broad palate of prescriptions designed to purge Pakistan of its colonial vestiges. He calls for legal reforms to institutionalise and enforce the sharia;17 educational reforms to promote science and technology while solidifying ‘religious literacy’ (Rabbani 2000: 441–43); economic reforms to promote growth and stability while eliminating usury (riba) and the vicious cycle of the debt trap laid by international monetary institutions;18 sweeping military reforms to secure internal social stability and promote a unified front of Islamic nations to resist Euro-American, Israeli and Indian expansionism and hegemony;19 and political reforms to institutionalise an ‘Islamic democracy’ purged of all ‘Western influences’ under the leadership of an educated, pious elite of select ‘intellectuals, scholars, thinkers and social reformers’.20 Collectively, this panoply of institutional reforms is ambitious in scope and scale. Yet Wahid Bakhsh offers few practical details on precisely how they should be implemented, institutionalised, and administered.

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In this sense, his vision of social reform is reminiscent of Maududi, the founder of Jamaat-i Islami, who ‘showed little interest in the actual working of institutions’ and ‘was more concerned with abstract theoretical formulations and lessons in moral philosophy’ (Nasr 2001: 87). Pakistan can never be rebuilt, Wahid Bakhsh continues, if it fails to overcome the forces of internal dissolution. Regionalism and local ethnic identity politics, he says, threaten national unity, undermine political institutions and weaken the boundaries of defense. These home-grown divisions are as destructive as any external enemy. In the shaykh’s words: We need to bury our political, religious and ethnic differences and face the enemies of Islam like a solid wall …Nationalist parties are raising slogans of ‘Pashtunistan’ [‘home of the ethnic Pashtuns’], ‘Azad Balochistan’ [‘a free home for the ethnic Baluchis’], and ‘Sindhu Desh’ [‘the Sindhis’ country’]. But selfish motives, mutual rivalries and jealousy blind them. They do not realize that four smaller countries, which they wish to create, will be swallowed by India overnight. Their dreams of independence will be shattered and their personal ambitions ruined. When the necks are chopped off, who will wear garlands? And what use is the crown when the heads have rolled? (Rabbani 2000: 199).

An even greater danger to Pakistan’s integrity, Wahid Bakhsh suggests, is the threat of religious sectarianism — the growing specter of Sunni and Shi’a communalism. Drawing on a well-known Hadith, he makes a desperate plea for Muslim brotherhood. The divisions within the ummah should be a blessing, he insists, promoting healthy debate and competition that deepens faith and solidifies the community of believers. The alternative — the proliferation of sectarian violence — could tear the nation apart. Throughout the text, Wahid Bakhsh is pointedly critical of Sunni-centric Islamists. He decries the spread of Wahhabi and Salafi doctrine, denouncing the exclusivity of their faith and the absolutism of their political and ideological agendas. Not surprisingly, Wahid Bakhsh levels an especially harsh critique against the Deobandi movement. The leadership of Deoband, he argues, has betrayed the legacy of the movement’s founders, men like Hajji Imdad Allah al-Faruqi al-Muhajir Makki (1817–99) and Rashid Ahmed Gangohi (1829–1905), who were themselves Chishti Sabiri masters. ‘The Deobandis have deviated from the path of their prominent leaders and founders of their school of thought’, he writes.

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‘In fact, they are treading the path outlined for them by the enemies of Islam’.21 As an antidote to rigid sectarian loyalties and infighting, Wahid Bakhsh urges the state of Pakistan to stop exploiting religion for political gain. As an Islamic republic, Pakistan’s institutions and laws must encourage unity, defend minorities and promote a shared sense of community. According to the shaykh: These differences among Sunnis, Shias, Barelwis, Deobandis, Muqallids [followers of discrete schools of Islamic law] and non-Muqallids are of a peripheral nature. They have nothing to do with the core issues of Islam on which, by the grace of Allah, the entire Ummah [global community of Muslims] has consensus … We must not worry about the sectarian differences while enforcing Islam in the country. Our constitution should permit all sects to practice religion the way they want. The Government should enforce only those clauses on which all the sects have consensus, such as prohibition of interest, laws of inheritance, prohibition of drinking, adultery, corruption and criminal procedures. Peripheral or controversial issues like visits to the shrines, sama’ [listening to music], ta’ziya [Shi’a processions during Muharram], and milad [public celebrations of the Prophet’s birthday] should be left to the individual sects.22

In Wahid Bakhsh’s opinion, only a strong, centralised and assertive state can protect religious freedom and preserve social order. Loyalty to the nation, he insists, must ultimately trump the parochialism of regional, tribal, familial and sectarian identities, but should be a loyalty that simultaneously attends to those aspects of religious practice that holds for all and for all time. In Wahid Bakhsh’s optimistic assessment, once its own house is in order Pakistan can realise its full potential as a central player in the global geopolitical order. In a spirited call to arms, he urges his countrymen to work together to resist the continuity of neocolonialism: Colonisation of the entire under-developed world by the West has a lesson for all the Muslims and non-Muslims. Strong Islamic Empires did and can even now help to protect the rest of humanity from the ravages of the West…Although colonialism has ended and the physical size of European empires has shrunk to their native lands, they continue to dominate the international politico-economic sphere and exploit the weak nations on the basis of their industrial power, economic

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prosperity and military muscle…India and other Asian countries must therefore strengthen Pakistan rather than weaken it. The politicians and religious clergy of Pakistan must understand the role of Pakistan in the global power structure. They must overcome mutual rivalries and get united to fight the enemies of Islam. They must remember that any weakness in Asia will promote Western hegemony (Rabbani 2000: 248–49).

For Wahid Bakhsh, this is ultimately Pakistan’s true calling: to assume the vanguard of a global Islamic renaissance. In his construct of Islamic sacred history, nothing less will do if Pakistan is to live up to its name (‘The Land of the Pure’) and divinely sanctioned legacy as the heir to the ‘first Pakistan’, the Prophet’s Medina.

Conclusion The Magnificent Power Potential of Pakistan is an anomalous book in a Pakistani market glutted with religious literature, much of it ideological and highly polemical. Even for Shaykh Wahid Bakhsh Sial Rabbani, whose literary pursuits embraced multiple genres in diverse registers, this book is atypical. Published in both Urdu and English, the work is clearly aimed at a broad audience of educated Pakistanis, as well as potential international converts and allies. In a critical but creative voice, the shaykh alternatively embraces and resists the parameters of modernity. He appropriates scientific thought, technological innovation and the mass media. At the same time, he rejects absolute secularisation, the cult of individualism, unbridled free market capitalism and democracy — all of which he sees as distinctive (and destructive) Western values and institutions. Pakistan is the front and the centre in Wahid Bakhsh’s imagination. An ardent nationalist, the shaykh was firm in his support for a homeland for South Asian Muslims and unwavering in his optimism for Pakistan’s future. This distinguishes him from many of his Islamist and ulema counterparts who resisted the independence movement and lamented partition. In keeping with the famous Hadith, ‘Love of the homeland is part of one’s faith’ (hubb al-watan min al-iman), Wahid Bakhsh’s writings characterise the foundation of Pakistan as nothing less than a divine reward. At the same time, the text articulates a distinctly Pakistani Sufi identity: a sharia-minded and socially active Sufism, rooted in Indo-Muslim tradition, but responsive to

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the changes and challenges of postcolonial South Asia, including its geopolitics. Wahid Bakhsh’s historical narrative draws inspiration and guidance from an idealised portrait of Islam’s Golden Age. Pakistan’s salvation, he insists, lies in the restoration of the spirit of the early Muslim community — an ethos grounded in tolerance, discipline, order and strength. Throughout the text, the shaykh seeks a middle ground between two ideologies: an aggressive, exclusivist, conservative Sunni Islam (with no space for Sufism), and an absolutist, expansionist, secular West (with no regard for religion). In his view, only a strong, centralised, and assertive Pakistani state can transcend the divisive forces of identity politics, regionalism and sectarianism. Wahid Bakhsh’s framing of Pakistan as an Islamic state, his frequent invocation of a lost Golden Age, and his outrage at the social and moral decay of the nation mirror the style and substance of numerous Muslim social critics. Yet the shaykh’s final rhetorical flourish distinguishes him from his counterparts. For Wahid Bakhsh — the most prolific of twentieth century Chishti Sabiri masters — Sufi piety and practice are both the quintessential expression of Islamic orthodoxy and the enduring bedrock on Indo-Muslim identity. In short, the shaykh reconfigures an alternative Pakistani identity that is simultaneously Muslim, modern and mystic.

Notes 1. See Katherine Pratt Ewing (1997: 67). On the origins and development of the state of Pakistan, see also Ayesha Jalal (1990). 2. Wahid Bakhsh Sial Rabbani (1986); id (2000). Many of the arguments of the book are summarised in another (and much shorter) English text by Wahid Bakhsh (1988). In this article, I quote from Asghar’s English translation. 3. For an overview of Sufi history and practice, see especially Carl W. Ernst (1997); and Annemarie Schimmel (1975). 4. For detailed cross-cultural and historical studies on the polemics over Sufism in various Islamic societies, see the essays in de Jong and Radtke (1999). 5. Ewing (1997: 49). For a more detailed examination of the British policy towards local Sufi institutions in the Punjab, see David Gilmartin (1988: 39–72, 205–24). 6. For an overview of the history, piety and ritual practices of the Chishti order, see Ernst and Lawrence (2002). The definitive work on the Chishtiyya remains Khaliq Ahmad Nizami’s Urdu magnum opus (1980/1985). See also id., ‘Chistiyya’, in Encyclopedia of Islam, vol. 11 (1965: 50–56).

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7. On the history of Sufism in South Asia, see especially Carl Schimmel (1975: 370–402). Schimmel provides a masterful survey of the Sufi contributions to Indo-Muslim culture and the development of regional literary and, in particular, poetic traditions. See also the two-volume work by Saiyid Athar Abbas Rizvi (1975; 1983). 8. For an example of the cultural role of local Sufi shrines, see historian Richard M. Eaton (1982) on the shrine of the Chishti saint Baba Farid ad-Din Mas’ud Ganj-i Shakkar (d. 1265) in the town of Pakpattan in Pakistan’s Punjab and in Metcalf (1984: 333–356). For anthropological studies of contemporary practices at South Asian Sufi shrines, see the essays in Pnina Werbner and Helene Basu (1998). 9. The most comprehensive account of the history and legacy of the Deoband madrasa remains Metcalf (1982). 10. For an overview of the polemical debates over Sufism in the context of modernity and colonialism, see Elizabeth Sirriyeh (1999). See also Ernst (1997: 199–228). 11. While Carl W. Ernst and Bruce B. Lawrence (2002) focus primarily on the predominant Chishti Nizami lineage, the authors do give some attention to the Sabiri sub-branch. See especially pp. 118–27 and 130–40. A comprehensive history of the Chishti Sabiri silsila, however, has yet to be written. 12. On Sayyid Mehr Ali Shah of Golra, see especially Gilmartin (1988: 58–59). On Khwaja Hasan Nizami, see Ernst and Lawrence (2002: 113–18). On Jama’at ‘Ali Shah, see Arthur F. Buehler (1998: 190–223); and Gilmartin (1988: 59–61; 103–107). 13. For a theoretically nuanced approach to Sufi psychology and ritual practice see Scott A. Kugle (2003). For a broad overview, see also Ernst (1977: 81–146); and Schimmel (1975: 98–227). 14. Wahid Bakhsh Sial Rabbani (1994); ‘Abd ar-Rahman Chishti (trans. 1993); Sayyid ‘Ali ibn ‘Uthman al-Hujwiri (trans. 1995). 15. Personal interview, 10 December, 2000, Karachi. 16. Rabbani (2000: 36. Especially in the wake of 9/11, jihad is a much misunderstood and maligned concept. For further insights on this concept, see especially Lawrence (1990); Cornell (1991: 18–23); and Kepel (2002). 17. Rabbani (2000: 382, 449). Clearly, Wahid Bakhsh views the implementation of sharia as the first step to social reform, but he provides no details on the codification, interpretation, and institutionalisation of Islamic law. 18. Ibid.: 453–66. The debate over riba remains a hotly contested issue in Pakistan’s domestic politics. Calls for its elimination remain a central item on the political platform of Pakistan’s coalition of religious parties. 19. Ibid.: 552–62. Wahid Bakhsh calls for military conscription and civil defence training for every male citizen of Pakistan between the ages of sixteen and sixty; the issuing of licenses for personal weapons; increased support for a national defense industry and military research; and the development of a ‘Common Defense Council of Islam’ to coordinate, finance, and implement a ‘common foreign policy of the Muslim states’.

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20. Ibid.: 435–41. Wahid Bakhsh provides a broad outline of ‘Islamic democracy’ but few details on its practical implementation. 21. Rabbani (2000: 407). On Hajji Imdad Allah, see especially Kugle (2003: 42–60). 22. Ibid.: 428–29, 433–34. For an insightful study of the history of sectarian politics and violence in contemporary Pakistan, see Muhammad Qasim Zaman (2002). See especially Chapter 5, ‘Refashioning Identities’, pp. 111–43.

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Part II The Difficulty of Nationalist Visions

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5

Registering Crisis: Ethnicity in Pakistani Cinema of the 1960s and 1970s∗ Iftikhar Dadi Introduction Even though the film industry of Pakistan has been a major producer of popular films, especially since the late 1950s, a proper study of its cinema is still in its infancy. Apart from Mushtaq Gazdar’s study Pakistan Cinema 1947–1997, little in the way of interpretive and critical scholarship has been published.1 According to Gazdar, Pakistan is one of the top 10 movie producing countries worldwide — in terms of the number of films produced — with an average of 80 films per year till 1997 (Gazdar 1997: 1). It is thus likely to be one of the least studied film industries, which is all the more surprising considering that film analysis is potentially very useful in illuminating the dramatic transformations of Pakistani culture and society. Certainly, the watching of films has continued to provide Pakistanis with a key leisure activity for decades, yet no critical analyses of film semiotics, production, distribution, reception and spectatorship have been undertaken. There is also little work on television in Pakistan, despite its importance in the shaping of regional and national identities and its role in the rise of Pakistani consumer society.2 This article relies upon Gazdar’s overall narrative of the development of cinema, but also subjects a few films to a more detailed formal examination with reference to a period of crisis in Pakistani society. The relationship between cinema and society is neither simply causal, mimetic nor reflective. Rather, this relationship is overdetermined, with thematic evasions and temporal distanciations that do not allow for a simple mapping between political crisis and cinematic production. Moreover, the effects of brute facts on cinema, such as the loss of more than half of the country (by population) in 1971, cannot be discounted either. I begin by examining a graph (after Gazdar) of the number of films produced each year between 1947 and 1997 (Figure 1), which shows the dominance of Urdu cinema from 1953 until the fateful year of 1971,

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when the rising number of Punjabi language films permanently eclipsed the declining number of Urdu films (Gazdar 1997: 240). The decline in Urdu film output, however, began in the late 1960s, when the number of Punjabi and Bengali films began to rise accordingly. If there was a Golden Age of Pakistani Urdu cinema from the late 1950s to the mid-1970s, it was certainly over by the late 1970s when the number and quality of Urdu movies began to deteriorate severely. This decline can be attributed to numerous factors: the loss of the East Pakistani market in 1971; the introduction of the VCR and with it the convenient availability of ferociously competitive Indian films; the consolidation and extension of television programming that included serials dealing with social themes; and the imposition of more severe codes of censorship under General Zia’s regime. In this article, I have focussed on Urdu cinema of the Golden Age and traced its decline in relation to the crisis Pakistani nationhood experienced before and in the wake of 1971. This exercise is an initial attempt to interrogate cinema in Pakistan in relation to gradual and catastrophic political and social change, in the hope that others will extend and challenge my findings.

Modernity and Karachi Hamza Alavi has argued that the rise of Muslim separatism in India before 1947 was not primarily a mobilisation based upon Muslim or Islamic idealism, but rather was led by an auxiliary ‘salariat’ class, comprising aspiring and actual white-collar employees, for whom the most important source of patronage was government service. This Muslim salariat backed the idea of Pakistan as a way of securing this patronage for itself. This role of the salariat ‘can be fully understood only with reference to … the economically dominant classes, namely the indigenous and foreign bourgeois and the landowning classes on the one hand and the subordinate classes, the working class and the peasantry on the other’(Alavi 1989: 225–26).3 Suggesting its somewhat precarious position between Marxist class divisions, the salariat’s weak position led to its constant dependance upon government intervention in order to protect its interests. At the founding of Pakistan, the salariat was over-whelmingly comprised of UP-muhajirs (immigrants from the United Provinces in India) and Punjabis: At the time of the Partition, Muhajirs were well-established in the bureaucracy, though not in the armed services which are about

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85 per cent Punjabi, the rest being Pathans. The well-established Muhajir presence in the bureaucracy was a source of patronage and protection for them. They identified therefore with the Pakistan state and with Islamic ideology, and were hostile towards regional ethnic movements…. The bureaucracy, with its substantial Muhajir component, was presided over in Pakistan by the CSP (the Civil Service of Pakistan), successor to the colonial ‘Indian Civil Service’, the so-called ‘Steel Frame’ of the colonial regime. It was the senior partner in the military–bureaucratic oligarchy that has ruled Pakistan since its inception (Alavi 1989: 242).

The salariat continued to exert its influence during the 1950s and largely supported the rise of the big capitalists, many of whom were originally Bombay-based entrepreneurs. During the Ayub era (1958–69), the wider policies of centralisation, rapid economic development and the growth of a super-elite industrial sector under the guidance of American economists accelerated the consolidation of a national elite, which was now composed of more diverse ethnic elements, yet still excluded the majority of the population (Ahmed 1998: 19–26). The supremacy of Urdu films from the late 1950s to the late 1960s notably coincides with the regime of Ayub Khan and the broader socio-economic transformation occurring in Pakistan during this dynamic decade. As numerous historians have pointed out, Ayub Khan deliberately continued the implementation of the One Unit policy to create ‘functional inequality’. According to the government’s planning documents, this made it necessary to have ‘some initial growth in income inequalities to reach high levels of savings and investment’. While Ayub’s economic policies prompted massive centralisation in West Pakistan and negated regional specificity and claims, especially by East Pakistan, his promotion of Karachi-based industrialist families — a large number of them not originally Urdu-speaking, but speaking Gujarati (and other Mumbai-based languages and dialects) — led to their coming into possession of an extremely lopsided share of industrial capital (Sayeed 1980: 57). The close relationship between Pakistan and the US in military and security matters was paralleled by an alliance leading to US assistance in the issue of Pakistan’s economic development — though this was marred by the lack of US support during the Indo-Pakistan war and its aftermath (Talbot 1998: 169–79). Along with the traditional (largely absentee) landowning families, the bureaucracy, dominated by muhajirs and Punjabis, and

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the largely Punjabi army, the consolidation of the business sector during the Ayub era added to and complicated this multifaceted elite balance. It must be understood that this trend of growing inequality was economic, social, educational and cultural in a wide sense — an embrace of Westernisation but also a certain facility with Urdu characterised the West Pakistani elite. As will be shown from an examination of Urdu films from this period, an intensified hegemony of a certain type of Urdu overlay national life. I characterise this as ‘UP Urdu’, which marks the cultural hegemony of various elite agents who may themselves not necessarily have come from Urduised backgrounds, such as Gujarati-speaking industrial seths (tycoons) and the Punjabi bureaucracy and army brass. The case of Punjab itself is especially striking in this regard: twentieth century Urdu literature is simply inconceivable without the enormous contribution of Punjabi authors, who had largely ceased to write literature in Punjabi.4 According to Hanif Ramay (as paraphrased by Feroz Ahmad [1998: xix]), ‘Punjab lost its identity in order to gain a larger Pakistani identity, it began to perceive itself alone as Pakistan, while others started calling Pakistan the greater Punjab’.5 A key role the Ayub-era elite played during the 1960s was to not only deflect populist majority claims by East Pakistani Bengalis for a more equitable share of financial and social resources, but also co-opt demands by subaltern groups within West Pakistan itself. Cinephilia of the Urdu film was widespread during the 1960s among the urbanised Pakistanis, as Indian films were banned, and television broadcasts, which started in 1964 remained limited in their programming and accessibility for several years. The Urdu film enjoyed such a hold on popular imagination that Shaukat Thanvi, a noted satirical writer, considered ‘Filmaria’ to be an incurable new disease, ‘tropical or possibly confined to under-developed countries’ which was ‘not prevalent in this country [earlier but is now] … widespread, and in large towns particularly … in College students.…’ According to Thanvi, ‘our invaluable Pakistani films’ transport their subjects into a dreamy, imaginal and romantic world filled with melodramatic scenarios. The patient afflicted with Filmaria, having lost all appreciation for the achievements of ‘Quaid-e-Azam Mohammad Ali Jinnah, Mr Liaquat Ali Khan, Doctor Mohammad Iqbal and Tagore’, is instead continually immersed in cinematic plots and lives of film stars. The patient is even heedless of his religious obligations: ‘Instead of offering his prayers five times a day in a mosque, he visits the cinema

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shows in the town — a subject on which compared to all others, he has a remarkable fund of information and the soundest views’ (Thanwi 1970: 23–26). Watching the cinema of the 1960s and early 1970s today evokes vivid personal recollections. My earliest memories are of growing up in the second storey of a house my parents rented in Karachi in a development called PECHS. While our house, which was located only two blocks away from the main intersection on Tariq Road, was more modest, the bungalows past Nursery further towards the airport were the really grand ones, magnificent modernist architectural edifices on 2,000 sq. yds, with grand staircases, murals and polished terrazzo floors. Many of these structures have been demolished to make way for high-rise apartment blocks, but some still exist as remnants of aspirations of the groups that rose to prominence in the 1950s and 1960s. This was precisely the new urban fabric of Karachi, with its façade of modernisation, which was vividly described in Qurratulain Hyder’s novella, Housing Society, first published in 1963.6 Hyder describes the new urban social rites and opportunities available to the emerging muhajir and Punjabi elite in Karachi, made possible by the rise of new Americanised professions such as international business, advertising, and public relations. Stuffy colonial British relationships no longer had much hold over the residents of the Society, whose lodestar was now the shiny new world of a pop lifestyle oriented by American patronage. The lives of the Society residents, in their Westernisation, sophistication and cynicism, had in a very short period greatly diverged from their previous avatars in India that were based upon feudal decay and older ashraf (noble elite) values — the residents successfully created the proper social distance from their poorer brethren in the more ‘backward’ refugee settlement in Karachi, the Pir Ilahi Buksh Colony. Indeed, the social descriptions in Hyder’s novella — sophisticated and pointed indices of location and taste — can be read productively in relation to the modernist mise-en-scène interiors of Urdu films of the period. For example, witness the setting to the dramatic denouement in Housing Society: Countless cars were parked all over a still unpaved road of the P.E.C. Housing Society and dignitaries alighting from them were gingerly making their way through them to the spacious compound. The prominent Karachi businessman, Jamshed Ali Syed, had invited almost all the V.I.P.s of Karachi to his house-warming. Through the picture window in the lounge, the expansive green lawn looked like a

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Technicolor scene on a cinemascope screen. Bright lights in the trees. Colourful Japanese lanterns. Flowerbuds bursting with blooms. Sofas scattered all over the lawn. Boxes of expensive cigarettes on little tables. Rows of long tables loaded with food and drink. Wine cooling in buckets of ice. White-uniformed bearers. Cabinet ministers, secretaries and other senior officials, ambassadors. Press and commercial Attaches. Big name industrialists. Packs of journalists busily taking notes. Photographers strolling around flashing bulbs. Pakistani ladies dressed in alluring ‘Indian’ saris, foreign women in evening gowns and cocktail dresses. A band was playing on the terrace and several couples were dancing.… Inside, in the lounge, a number of guests were intently discussing the mural on the wall. Suraya, who was wearing a French chiffon sari with large red flowers on it, stood nearby, talking to her admirers. Her hair was done in the latest ‘beehive’ style and the air around her was fragrant with Chanel No. 5. The daring cut of her blouse left her entire back exposed (Hyder 1999: 244).7

Beyond this glittering face of Karachi, there remained the continued problem of refugee resettlement, resimmering ethnic tensions and also the transfer of the nation’s capital to Islamabad in the early 1960s that altered the balance between the bureaucracy, business and other professions (Ansari 2005).

The Social Film Gazdar has identified the period 1957–66 as transitional, in which many modern themes were introduced into Pakistani cinema. Melodramatic realism was employed in a number of films dealing with social issues starting in 1957, where realism was achieved through a number of mise-en-scène devices, which include modern architectural interiors and street scenes with staged elements of street life, while the melodramatic mode centrally emphasised the emotional subjectivity of the characters. The melodramatic–realist plot usually moves towards a narrative resolution based upon individual sentiments that also prefigured values of the larger social good. To understand cinematic codes of the social film, it is useful to refer to scholarship on early Indian cinema, as Pakistani cinema in its initial years drew upon many of the same filmmakers, writers and technicians who were earlier associated with Bombay cinema. Pakistani Urdu cinema and Indian films share many of the same cinematic codes,

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themes, and techniques, even as differences begin to slowly but persistently appear. Geeta Kapur, Ashish Rajadhyaksha and others, working on Indian film and other visual mediums, have identified a mode of ‘frontality’ that was instantiated as a formal structure in popular Indian visual culture from the nineteenth century onwards. Geeta Kapur describes this frontality in relation to painting, theatre and cinema as ‘frontality of the word, the image, the design, the formative act. This yields forms of direct address; flat diagrammatic and simply profiled figures; a figure-ground pattern with only notational perspective; repetition of motifs in terms of “ritual play”; and a decorative mise-en-scène’ (Kapur 1987: 80). One sees this mode, which was inherited from Parsi Theatre, in a number of Pakistani films produced in the 1950s. Scholarship on Hindi cinema has drawn attention to the manner in which this cinematic code shares in traditional practices of viewing Hindu deities, the darsan.8 However, this analysis still needs to attend to how Muslims, who may not necessarily share these spectatorial practices, view such films. In the context of Pakistani cinema, where mythologicals are absent, I provisionally call this mode the dastan (story) mode in order to distinguish it from ‘mythologicals’ based upon Hindu myths in which viewing by darsana is foregrounded.9 According to Vasudevan there is also the historical genre in India in the late 1930s to the 1950s that was implicitly Hindu nationalist (Vasudevan 2000: 154). The linkages and differences between the mythological, the historical and the dastan clearly need to be explored with more nuance and sensitivity than is possible here. But some preliminary remarks must suffice. The primarily dastan mode films include either historical romances or pictorialisations of A Thousand and One Nights type of stories — for example, as the Urdu film Dosheeza (Damsel), which was released as late as 1962, exhibits. Its characters perform as if part of a tableau and are portrayed with little inner psychological characterisation, remaining as set types and there is a sense of stasis produced by the camera that remains largely inert and immobile. Moreover, the dastanic characters are not specifically ethnic, but two-dimensional types based on legends. Indian scholars have also discussed the development of melodrama and its relation to realism in Indian films from the 1950s onwards. Their findings are very relevant for Pakistani cinema, as the ‘social’ film in Pakistan needs to contextualised in relation to the creation of the ‘Muslim social’ genre in India, which explored the quandaries and moral dilemmas of characters caught in difficult social circumstances.

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It may be noted that this was primarily a secularised genre — even though the characters are Muslim, their dilemmas are not. This genre arises in India as a compensatory voice set against nationalist communalisation. As Vasudevan has suggested, by the end of the 1930s, the ‘non-Muslim’ social film was seen to have moved away from an embracing framework and towards communalised expression, which led to the belated entry of Muslim filmmakers who explored this genre, offering films that addressed universalised dilemmas instead. Here is Vasudevan’s salient argument at length: An influential film periodical, Filmindia, argued that the [social] genre was the preserve of Hindu drives to reform and modernize society, and the Muslim film-makers were averse to introspection about the practices of their community, preferring to invest in genres such as the historical. It should be underlined that this argument was a retrospective one, for the reformist films of the 1930s, while addressing change in Hindu society, never identified themselves in terms of particular socio-religious groups, and some of the issues they raised, such as the oppression of women, the contest of feudal authority, and the depiction of social inequality, could obviously have an appeal broader than the Hindu community. However, hegemonic practices tend to leave their identity unmarked in order to assume to speak on behalf of society as a whole, and when the exclusionist and suborning aspects of an emerging Hindu nationalist hegemony surfaced in the 1940s, there developed a drive to pluralize unmarked categories, such as the social. Thus we witness the emergence of the category of the Muslim social, led by Muslim-led studios, which laid claim to a reform and modernisation of Muslim society. Films such as Najma (Mehboob Khan, 1943) and Elaan/The Call (Mehboob Khan, 1948) pitted liberal professionals against the effete, feudal face of Muslim society. Here the address to the particular group was not isolationist. Rather, in appealing for change in the Muslim community, they clearly staged, for the wider public, the desire of Muslims to embrace a common modern social agenda (Vasudevan 2000: 156 and passim).

The Muslim social, which continued well into the 1980s in India, exhibits ‘difference’, but subordinates it to address the wider Indian society and is therefore not a primarily religious genre.10 My analysis of Arman (Desire) that follows will also thus implicitly argue for the transplantation of the Muslim social in Pakistan that continues the project of secularised reform, especially in relation to gender, which has been an abiding concern of the Indian Muslim social film for decades.

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However, the earlier social film from the 1940s did not remain simply one distinct genre out of many. By the 1950s, the Indian social film became an amalgamated artifact. In this sense, as M. Mahdava Prasad, Ravi Vasudevan and others have emphasised, older separate genres were subsumed by the 1950s into an emergent ‘super-genre’ in 1950s Indian cinema, called the ‘social’: The mixture of codes, generic and sensational elements, and a narrative undermining of social identity makes the social film of the 1950s an imaginary space in which a popular audience of mixed social background were offered a rather fluid system of signs, modes of address and social positions. Industry observers had their particular explanation for this mixture. They believed that the ‘social’, initially conceived of as a conventionally middle-class genre, had become an omnibus form in which different social groups were being catered to by different elements of the film. One observer noted that, whereas in the 1930s dramatic and story values appealed to the middle and upper middle classes, and stunts and action dramas appealed to workers, in the 1950s ‘a new type of social realism also came to occupy the screen. Actions, thrills, magic and stunts were introduced into the stories to attract the masses (Vasudevan 1993: 72).11

Prasad has seen the social as marking the emergence of a new kind of realism (Prasad 1998: 55–64). Vasudevan’s discussion of the social film emphasises its composite nature, however, made up of a combination of long-standing genre codes, such as iconicity and frontality, realism12 and melodrama, and classic Hollywood editing strategies that emphasised the relationship of suture between the screen image and the spectator (Vasudevan 1993: 61). Vasudevan stresses that the composite nature of the ‘social’ super-genre does not result in an incoherent narrative or a free-floating universe of interpretation — rather, the formal language of the film is resolved in a manner that helps produce static (and gendered) mythical meaning. I would like to suggest, however, that the different modes do not necessarily correspond, by some reductionist sociological aesthetic, to particular social segments of the audience.… it is difficult to separate out ‘traditional’ from ‘modern’ address, or to suggest that such addresses correspond to distinct audiences.… However, there is a strong tendency to subordinate movement and vision toward a stable organisation of meaning.… This has a parallel in the way in which the

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narrative reorganises the family so as to secure a stable position for the middle-class hero. To my mind, this feature brings the complexities of the popular cultural form into alignment with a certain normalising discourse and hegemonic closure (Vasudevan 1993: 72).

This is an apt analysis of the melodramatic–realist and social Urdu films in the later Ayub era as well, which also became aligned with elite normalisation of the Pakistani national imaginary. In short, the parallels between the Indian and Pakistani social film suggest the need for a more comprehensive study tracing the role of the social from the 1930s well into Pakistani television serials of the 1990s, while remaining attentive to the drama of shifting political and national scenarios.

The Ayub Khan Era Before I turn to an analysis of specific films, another salient factor to consider is Ayub Khan administration’s keen interest in the management of culture. Ayub Khan was always well-aware of the potential of cinema to be used as propaganda. His highly capable bureaucrats, Qudratullah Shahab and Altaf Gauhar, headed the Ministry of Information and under their aegis, the Department of Film and Publications produced an ensemble of documentary films and newsreels, which had to be played compulsorily by all commercial cinemas before the screening of a feature film. The Department also produced the feature length propaganda film, Nai Kiran (A New Ray of Light, 1959), which was released in separate versions in Urdu and the four regional languages — and the fact that the Urdu and the Punjabi version shared the same actors is surely not accidental. Gazdar has compared the effect of watching Nai Kiran with that of Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will. He recognises, however, the complexity of the Ayubian cultural intervention, in that the overall standard of documentary filmmaking unrelated to politics improved dramatically and the cultural policies of the country in general were imbued with ‘modern’, ‘progressive’, ‘tolerant’ and ‘secular’ values (Gazdar 1997: 73–78). The extent of governmental efforts in cinema can also be seen in the critical and exhaustive 410-page report on the state of film in Pakistan, prepared by government officials and published in 1962.13 This article provisionally argues that the insistent foregrounding of newsreels and documentaries was coupled with the rise of television with its own modes of presentation. This resulted in the addition

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of another mode to the omnibus that was the social film by the early 1970s, with the incorporation of a documentary mode in feature cinema itself.14 This mode is also seen in some Amitabh Bachchan films from the 1970s onwards and so its scope is again obviously larger that of the boundary of Pakistani cinema. This documentary mode is most commonly visible when the diegesis unfolds in a public outdoor location, which cannot be fully scripted. The documentary mode thus shares something with cinéma vérité’s emphasis on actual locations, where the director does not control traffic, movement or accidental encounters in the camera background, which produce in the spectator the effect of apprehending everyday life seemingly without cinematic artifice. To sum up our discussion so far, by the mid-1960s, the Urdu social film, which incorporated a number of cinematic codes, including most importantly melodrama (emotional subjectivity) and realism (contemporary mise-en-scène, classic Hollywood editing, etc.) was well in place. (The documentary mode will not be fully apparent until the mid 1970s). The Ayub era was characterised by the rapid growth of the elite Pakistani economy, political unrest against (largely Punjabi) centralisation and (largely muhajir) accumulation, and the festering of the East Pakistan question. The pervasive ethos was the effort towards the development of a dense, discursive web of governmentality.

Arman (Desire, 1966) The Urdu film Arman (1966),15 the product of a new generation of Karachibased filmmakers, captures something of the youthful exuberance and energy of the Ayub era.16 The producer, Waheed Murad, also played the lead role of Nasir in the film while composer Sohail Rana wrote a number of highly memorable songs. This, put together with the efforts of director Pervez Malik, who had studied filmmaking at the University of Southern California, resulted in the first platinum jubilee film in Pakistani history, having had a run of over 75 weeks. Arman’s protagonist Nasir recalls Hyder’s description of the residents of Housing Society, where a rapidly growing economy held the promise of a fully modern life for the elite. The film’s plot narrates the social dilemma of Seema — the daughter of Begum Sahiba — who has had a illegitimate child with a lover who is presently abroad. The lead female character is an orphaned relative of Begum Sahiba, the saintly Najma (played by Zeba). Begum Sahiba, despite having adopted

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Figure 2: Najma (left) agrees to cover up the existence of Seema’s baby (by making arrangements to have it cared for by a poor family).

Figure 3: Begum Sahiba discussing with the munshi (secretary) about Nasir as a possible prospect for her daughters.

Figure 4: The munshi.

Figure 5: Nasir’s father with his servant.

Figure 6: Koko Korina song, the band.

Figure 7: Koko Korina song, Nasir singing with the band.

Figures 2–7: Stills from Arman (1966)

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Figure 8: Koko Korina song, giant Coke bottle at the bar.

Figure 9: Koko Korina song, waiter dancing with a tray of Coke bottles.

Figure 10: Koko Korina song, Nasir recoiling from first ugly woman.

Figure 11: Koko Korina song, Nasir recoiling from second ugly woman.

Figure 12: Nasir convinces his father of his decision to marry Najma, by arguing for her virtues as the bearer of Eastern domesticity.

Figure 13: The munshi and Begum Sahiba arrange for the baby’s existence to be revealed to Nasir and his father, ir order to prevent Nasir from marrying Najma.

Figures 8–13: Stills from Arman (1966)

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Figure 14: Seema anxiously waiting to see who will be handed the baby.

Figure 15: Najma anxiously waiting to see who will be handed the baby.

Figure 16: The caretaker hands Seema’s baby to Najma, who is disgraced, and the prospect of her marriage with Nasir destroyed.

Figure 17: Gul Khan attempts to rape Najma who has been living after her disgrace with Gul Khan’s aunt, the caretaker of the baby.

Figures 14–17: Stills from Arman (1966)

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Figure 18: Villager: ‘The thief stole the bike’.

Figure 19: Villager: ‘Why did he [Jagirdar] dismiss you instead?’

Figure 20: Farmoo: ‘Though hardworking and loyal, I have suffered….’

Figure 21: Farmoo: ‘… grave injustice. My reputation has been ruined….’

Figure 22: Farmoo: ‘… and I have been disgraced’.

Figure 23: Farmoo: ‘A day will come when I won’t tolerate anymore…’

Figures 18–23: Stills from Anari (1975). Meeting under the village tree, villagers incite Farmoo after the Jagirdar has fired him.

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Figure 24: Farmoo: ‘That’s how capitalists treat us’.

Figure 25: Villager: ‘What are you waiting for? Grab him [Jagirdar] by his collar’.

Figure 26: Villager: ‘If want to retaliate, set fire to his house’.

Figure 27: Farmoo (agitated): ‘I will indeed, and when the Jagirdar’s house…’

Figure 28: Farmoo (declaiming): ‘… has been reduced to ashes, I will laugh and he will cry’.

Figure 29: The Jagirdar suddenly shows up, surprising Farmoo who exclaims, ‘The Jagirdar! I’m done for!’

Figures 24–29: Stills from Anari (1975). Meeting under the village tree, villagers incite Farmoo after the Jagirdar has fired him.

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Figure 30: Farmoo to Jagirdar: ‘The people have turned against you’.

Figure 31: Farmoo (pointing to the tree), ‘those people there’.

Figure 32: The villagers have vanished.

Figure 33: Farmoo: ‘I am a blundering fool. The fact is they incited me’.

Figure 34: Gulabi convinces Farmoo to leave for the city to find his prospects.

Figure 35: Gulabi warns Farmoo, ‘The city folk are very clever. Don’t allow them to cheat you’.

Figures 30–35: Stills from Anari (1975).

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Figure 36: Farmoo daydreams of Gulabi loudly, ‘you will be in my memory day and night,’ disturbing other passengers.

Figure 37: Passenger: ‘Please do it softly, will you?’

Figure 38: Farmoo remembers Gulabi’s warning about the clever city folk.

Figure 39: Farmoo decides to confront the passengers, ‘I’ll see how smart they are’.

Figure 40: Farmoo rudely places his foot on the knee of passenger, ‘You city people think you can outwit me?’

Figure 41: Farmoo boasts about his exploits as an outlaw, ‘Don’t you know that I am Farmoo, the gangster?’

Figures 36–41: Stills from Anari (1975). Encounter with city passengers in the train compartment.

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Figure 42: Farmoo: ‘If I become upset, I will deal with you the same way I handled the Jagirdar’.

Figure 43: Farmoo, ‘…rivers of blood will flow!’

Figure 44: The passengers are awed by Farmoo, who brags, ‘Now you have changed the tone of your voice’.

Figure 45: The passengers in awe of Farmoo ‘the gangster’.

Figure 46: The passengers now try to placate Farmoo by humbly massaging his legs. Figures 42–46: Stills from Anari (1975). Encounter with city passengers in the train compartment.

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Najma, treats her like a servant-girl in a stereotypical soutela (stepmotherly) fashion.17 Najma agrees to cover up Seema’s lapse by arranging for the latter’s child to be cared for by a family in a village (Figure 2). When the dashing Nasir (Waheed Murad) visits Begum Sahiba’s house in order to find a suitable bride for an arranged marriage, instead of choosing Seema — as Begum Sahiba had hoped — he unwittingly falls in love with Najma. When Nasir’s father asks for Najma’s hand in marriage for his son, Begum Sahiba arranges for her crafty munshi to reveal the existence of the illegitimate child and claim that it is Najma’s (Figures 13–16). Najma selflessly decides to cover up Seema’s moral lapse and embraces the attribution of motherhood by maintaining silence. This act immediately destroys her chance to marry Nasir, putting into play a more serious, melodramatic, cinematic mood that resolves itself after numerous emotional turns.18 As expected, the resolution of wider social issues, such as an out-of-wedlock pregnancy and the vexed relationship between duty, fidelity and desire, are rendered as individual moral quandaries, whose resolution, nonetheless, upholds the bourgeois moral universe. In this respect, the film’s outcome is already prefigured, echoing Vasudevan’s observation: ‘Indian popular cinema is singularly indifferent to mechanisms of suspense and surprise: the moral universe of the fiction, the figuration of guilt and innocence, is always already known’(Vasudevan 1993: 65). Arman introduced a kinetic body language in Pakistani cinema, while remaining largely faithful to the melodramatic realist narrative frame of the social film. While eyeline match and shot-reverse shot editing was very rarely used in its editing (except in songs), the subtle but constant camera movement and tracking shots, along with modernist mise-en-scène interiors, overcame the stasis associated with older modes, evoking emotional drama and a dynamic sense of identification with the characters on screen. The film was very selfassured in its handling of ethnic and gender roles and also about exploring a modernity inflected by Americanisation. In a nightclub (Figures 6, 7) that virtually serves as an advertisement for Coca Cola, or at least seems to be a highly visible early instance of product placement, a pop band performs the famous song ‘Koko Korina’ (Figures 8, 9). The visual excess of Coke as a signifier clearly denotes Americanised modernity. This graphic fetishisation of Coke, echoed in the words of the song itself, strongly suggests a teleological fascination towards Westernisation by the national elite.

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Ethnic types precede the ‘Koko Korina’ sequence and crop up throughout the film (Figures 4, 5, 17). The crafty Gujarati munshi and Nasir’s father’s simpleton servant are both muhajir, yet safely occupy subservient social roles, as indexed by their non-UP Urdu pronunciations.19 Nasir’s quest for idealised feminine beauty is also predicated upon his recoil at discovering two dark women in the club who do not conform to normative ideals of beauty that Najma obviously exemplifies (Figures 10, 11). But as expected, Najma is much more that a pretty face and Nasir’s decision to marry Najma is based firmly upon his perception of Najma as the bearer of the essential ‘Eastern’ (not Islamic) domestic values (Figure 12). Also, even though Begum Sahiba (Figure 3) herself is clearly an enforcer of patriarchy, this is not a jarring or out-of-place value, as she comes across as a well-meaning but somewhat traditionally obtuse character.20 Arman’s self-assured take on gender and ethnicity, incorporated smoothly in the narrative flow, is non-interruptive of diegesis. In Arman’s melodramatic realist take, the foreclosure of non-UP Urdu speakers from morality and modernity brings out modern ethical subjectivity as primarily UP Urdu-speaking. This valuation of subjectivity was not possible in a strictly dastan mode, in which everyone remains a mythical character type. By contrast, Arman marks the non-UP Urdu speakers as clearly and identifiably ethnic in a realist fashion — even if their exact ethnicity in some cases remains unclear. What begins as a light-hearted romantic comedy during its first hour increasingly becomes preoccupied by the psychic toll exacted by Nasir’s misrecognition of Najma’s circumstances, leading to the emotional torment of not only Nasir and Najma, but of all the secondary characters and thereby of society at large. I read the performance of affective labour by Arman’s characters as also enacting an allegory of the struggle of the Pakistani elite to interpellate themselves into the Ayubian US-inflected modernity, even as this aspiration founders upon unanticipated political developments.

The Aftermath of 1971 The devastating loss of East Pakistan in 1971 permanently altered the ethnic equation in Pakistan. Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto no longer had to defend his policies against majority East Pakistani claims and thus did not need to rely upon the 1960s elite to bolster the case for privileges enjoyed by West Pakistan as a whole. Instead, his populist rhetoric drew upon the frustrations of the disadvantaged masses in

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West Pakistan itself — especially rural Sindhis and Punjabis. Bhutto’s nationalisation of the assets of the industrialist families in the early 1970s, his reform of the bureaucracy — the CSP and other governmental positions — by limiting the entry of muhajirs, his introduction of Sindhi language teaching in educational institutions in Sindh, and the perception that his administration allocated resources away from Karachi, all set the stage for ethnic claims to emerge forcefully in mainstream politics. While Bhutto’s reforms eventually led to the rise of an urbanised Sindhi middle-class, Hamza Alavi also suggests that the eventual stranglehold on all national institutions by Punjabis was an unintended consequence of Bhutto’s social engineering: [The CSP was] the senior partner in the military–bureaucratic oligarchy that has ruled Pakistan since its inception. It was powerful enough to keep the military at bay even during the Martial Law regimes of General Yahya Khan. The situation changed radically after Bhutto’s reform of the bureaucracy which effectively broke its back. Ironically that removed the main barrier that stood in the way of the hegemony of the army which is now supreme. With it has come unchallenged Punjabi hegemony in the country (Alavi 1989: 242).

This period also coincides with the emerging dominance of Punjabi cinema (Figure 1), whose rustic vigilante aesthetic, unlike that of the Urdu social cinema, remained somewhat outside the parameters of the competition posed by Hindi films through the rise of the VCR in the mid-1970s. Peter Manuel has suggested that Pakistan preceded India in adopting audio cassette technology for legal and pirated distribution of songs. One might also expect the spread of the VCR in the country to have followed an analogously precocious trajectory, especially since the forbidden fruit of Indian cinema was unavailable on the big screen or on TV (Manuel 1993: 95). While the VCR itself was banned during those early years, its use nevertheless spread rapidly, undermining the urban audience for Urdu cinema. Under General Zia’s censorious regime, the crisis of Urdu cinema was acute by the year 1980. Punjabi cinema, beginning in the early 1970s, embodied Punjabi identity with a new imagination. This cinematic identity eventually formed a distinctive genre. As Gazdar and others have pointed out, it was the black-and-white Punjabi film Wehshi Jat (1975), based on the Urdu short story by Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi, which ‘has so many scenes

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of blood and gore that it shocked even the short story writer…’ [T]he successes of Wehshi Jat set a trend of ferocity and savagery in Punjabi cinema....’ (Gazdar 1997: 144). Maula Jat (1979) was even more popular, crystallising the genre of hyper-violent Punjabi cinema, typically a vigilante and outlaw response to rural exploitation but, according to Gazdar’s influential argument, also enacting an allegory of the repression instigated by General Zia’s martial law regime.21 Gazdar identifies a number of tropes peculiar to these Punjabi films: the chinghaar (battle cry), the bhangra (dance), and especially the barrack, ‘a high-pitched full-throated, threatening yell, as sort of warming up, a prelude to a brawl, verbal or physical’. Gazdar notes that the meaning of barrack is untranslatable, ‘difficult to explain through any single word in English or Urdu’. This incommensurability precisely marks the emergence of a genre proper to Punjabi film, definitely eclipsing the ‘super-genre’ of the Urdu social film (Gazdar 1997: 134).22 By the mid-1970s, the Urdu social film, under pressure from Indian cinema circulating through the VCR and the emerging Punjabi jat (an ethnic group native to Punjab) genre and other vernacular expressions, arguably ‘migrated’ to popular TV serial format — an important transformation that awaits detailed study.

Anari (Novice, 1975) The emergence of Punjabi cinema was, however, also felt by Urdu cinema internally. As an example, I consider the Urdu colour film Anari, directed by S. Suleman, which was released in 1975 and starred the highly successful Nadeem–Shabnam pair — both originally having made their careers in East Pakistan.23 While the film did fairly well at the box office, achieving platinum jubilee status, it is not considered as electrifying or groundbreaking as Arman or Aina (Mirror,1977), and is a rather plodding piece of work in its numbing repetition, endless monologues and flat camerawork.24 However, I have shown how its very lack of narrative cohesion is indicative of the mid-1970s atmosphere in Pakistan.25 I argue that the Urdu social film is no longer self-assured of its own social and moral universe, including its take on ethnicity; rather, its ideological coherence is put under considerable strain in the mid-1970s. Anari is the story of a village idiot, Farmoo — a shortened version of Farmabardar (‘obedient’ or ‘follower’) — played by Nadeem. Farmoo is a pure-hearted but highly gullible good-for-nothing, whose blind mother and unmarried sister, despite undergoing great financial

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hardships, are unable to get him to find a job that he can hold on to. Farmoo’s mother finally begs the village feudal-landlord, Jagirdar Sahib, to offer Farmoo employment. On the very first day of his job, Farmoo almost drowns the Jagirdar’s farm manager in a well and threatens to strangle the accountant — in order to enact physically and literally the Jagirdar’s frustration with the corruption of these employees. When Farmoo in his gullibility loses Jagirdar Sahib’s new bicycle to roadside thieves, he is fired from his job. Sitting under the tree that serves as the village meeting place, Farmoo is incited by the villagers to protest against the injustice meted out to him by the Jagirdar, prompting him to declaim a parody of revolutionary rhetoric (Figures 18–27). Suddenly when the Jagirdar arrives, Farmoo backtracks and tries to blame the villagers who have fled the scene by this time (Figures 29–33). With his future job prospects ruined in the village, Farmoo is persuaded by his childhood sweetheart, the beautiful village belle Gulabi (played by Shabnam), to leave for the city in order to try and find work and finally make something of himself (Figures 34, 35). Farmoo’s bumbling adventures in the city continue to land him in a great deal of trouble, but due to his innate sincerity, his social and financial situation is satisfactorily and mythically resolved, even though the gullibility of his character shows no signs of changing. Anari is a comedy in which the anachronistic appearance of Farmoo, decked out in an effete red kurta–pajama (tunic and pants) and a red fez, evocative of perhaps Lucknow rather than a Punjabi village, provides an overdetermined visual cue from the outset. The idiot Farmoo has neither wisdom nor wealth. But he is a highly eloquent and gifted orator in UP Urdu and the entire diegesis of the film provides an opportunity for Farmoo to show off his eloquence. When opportunities for employment appear to be fully blocked, his exceptional skill with the language provides for a sort of compensatory social capital for Farmoo. Moreover, Farmoo’s mother, Jagirdar Sahib and Gulabi all speak perfect UP Urdu, in a setting reminiscent of a Punjabi village. In this respect, the mise-en-scène of the film does not evoke the same sense of self-assurance we see in Arman. Here the discursive Urdu and the visual cues of the Punjabi village appear to be at crosspurposes, undermining any sense of ideological coherence. In comparison with Arman, the film is unquestionably a poorer aesthetic artifact — the camera is far more static and the acting is much more frontally oriented, theatrical and artificial. Anari is

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no longer a melodrama, but a film that combines the dastan mode with a new sense of documentary realism. Farmoo’s adventures are vaguely reminiscent of Sheikh Chilli stories26 and the dastan mode is thus appropriate for their narration in much of the film. The editing resolutely avoids classic Hollywood techniques of suture and interpellation — eyeline match and shot-reverse-shot. No attempt is made to pictorialise the inner life of Farmoo or Gulabi or any of the other characters, who all remain types — without inner psychological depth. In a number of outdoor action scenes, however, the mise-enscène threatens to break altogether from the loose script, allowing for the documentary mode to interrupt the dastan mode. Anari is not considered to be a political film, but I argue here for a reading that foregrounds its oblique political character.27 Farmoo rails against the perceived injustice committed by the Jagirdar and also against the alleged duplicity of the city slickers. His naïve, idiotic oratory, such as threatening to unleash rivers of blood, and revolution against landlordism, parodies the verbose socialist rhetoric expounded by Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto from the late 1960s. Bhutto’s claim to popularity, as the champion of the disadvantaged masses, was coming under increasing strain due to growing disappointment regarding his actual performance as the leader of Pakistan since 1971 (Ali 2005: 83–107). But the film’s political undertones also encompass the discordancy of its own framing — perhaps the need for ideological suture across the trauma of 1971, by Nadeem and Shabnam, both actors from (former) East Pakistan, here incongruously playing the role of Punjabi villagers. I have already suggested how Farmoo’s character enacts the stripping of previously guaranteed employment opportunities to muhajirs. With a socialist revolution already co-opted by Bhutto, the muhajir-to-the-city (Farmoo) is left with little except the desire to project a compensatory identitarian symbolic capital. His attempt to migrate to the city is precisely a quintessential ‘muhajir’ (migratory) experience, which, after the oil shocks of 1973, was oriented increasingly towards the Persian Gulf and was very much a part of the trajectory of imagination and practice shared by muhajirs, Punjabis, Pathans, and other ethnicities in Pakistan. This popular orientation towards the gold-paved streets of the Gulf was more directly explored by the 1979 Punjabi film, Dubai Chalo (Let’s Go to Dubai), marking the desire of a large number of Pakistani blue and white collar workers to seek phantasmatic material success in the oil-rich Arab countries.28

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The symbolic purchase of UP Urdu is most evident in the relationship between Farmoo and the train travellers, but this transaction is also fraught with ideological excesses. Before boarding the train, Gulabi asks Farmoo to be careful in the city, as the ‘city folk are extremely clever’ (Figure 35). Upon boarding the train, Farmoo reminisces loudly about his life in the village, disturbing the surrounding passengers. When these passengers object, Farmoo, remembering Gulabi’s advice, instead of becoming docile and humble in the presence of city folk, decides to confront the passengers by boasting about his dangerous exploits as an outlaw who confronted the Jagirdar (Figures 36–39). Moreover, he boldly places his bare feet upon the knees of the traveller in front of him (Figures 40–43). This audacious act of rude behavior immediately elicits threatening responses from the passengers in the train compartment, who are visually coded to be the supposedly clever and devious city slickers. However, Farmoo’s outrageous revolutionary rhetoric delivered in UP Urdu allows him to gain the upper hand and, after this rhetorical flourish, the passengers are reduced to humbly serving Farmoo for the remainder of the journey (Figures 44–46). By 1975, this encounter on the train between the city folk and Farmoo can only be chiasmatic — Farmoo, the Punjabi village simpleton, who nevertheless declaims in perfect UP Urdu, manages to outwit the cleverer city dwellers, who can only express themselves in Punjabi accented Urdu. Gullibility and particularity are tortuously mapped onto the city folk, rather than onto Farmoo. It is precisely the very incongruity of the encounter, with its mixed-up signifiers, which reveals the lingering ideological substrate of Urdu cinema in relation to ethnicity. Urdu cinema continues to work towards the foreclosure of the ethnic as a proper subject, but by now this operation is itself under considerable strain.

Conclusion I emphasise again that this is a very preliminary study of a body of materials on films, which requires extended and group efforts to investigate more fully. My analysis has attempted to identify the structural aspects of the formation of the national subject in the 1960s as an unmarked universal. The cinematic modes that arose by the mid-1960s instantiate a combination of inherited codes of the dastan, with an emerging melodramatic realism by which the ethical and proper subject narrating national subjectivity is produced as a

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UP Urdu speaker. By the early 1970s, the rise of documentary realism, television, political and social changes after the break-up of Pakistan, the reign of Bhutto and the emergence of the Punjabi jat genre, all precipitate a crisis in the Urdu social film, which can no longer represent a self-enclosed social world as an analogue of the national that Arman offers. The cinematic in post-1971 is articulated with the social in an overdetermined sense, and relates to national crisis by temporal lags, evasions and aporias as much as by recognition via structural codes and thematic content. It senses national crisis as internal to the medium itself and by its representational fantasies that continue to insist on the primacy of UP Urdu in a Punjabi village setting in Anari. The identity politics that gathered force in Pakistan before and after 1971 shattered previously hegemonic elite subjectivities. In the process it also undid an unstated, unspoken universal consensus regarding the nation, unravelling it in the absence of a new consensus, corroborating Ayesha Jalal’s observation that ‘Urdu appears to have provided greater impetus to the counter-narratives of regional identity than to the construction of a Pakistani collective ethos’.29 The left was co-opted by Bhutto in the late 1960s and 1970s, and Islam, co-opted by Zia in the late 1970s and 1980s. If blindness to ethnicity in the 1960s films is by now demonstratably clear, it is immeasurably more difficult to imagine a new national project to replace the 1960s hegemonic subject. The normative Pakistani-ness that existed in a palpable fashion the 1960s has, of course, decisively vanished from the national imaginary after 1971 and is not likely to reappear in the foreseeable future, especially when discursive and institutional density to the nation also appears to have thinned out considerably since the Ayub era — the state no longer being able to even promise opportunities for its citizens within a national framework. The rise of populist cultures since the 1970s owes something to Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto’s reorganisation of national institutions and his rhetorical skills, but also to the loss of the promise that the nation embodied during the 1960s. In that sense, while there is no longer a single Pakistani national cinema, there is, apart from numerous vernacular expressions, perhaps a ‘lite’ national mass culture fuelled by pop songs, television serials and the pervasive presence of Hollywood and Bollywood films on VCR, CD and DVD formats. Paradoxically, however, the demise of the 1960s elite national subject has not meant the demise of Urdu at all. Rather, the use of a simplified and modified Urdu is possibly more widespread in

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Pakistan than ever. In this respect, analyses of the Pakistani language and ethnic quandaries need to be attentive to their expressive and popular cultural dimensions (Rahman 1996, Ahmed 1998, Rahman 2002).

Notes ∗ I want to clarify from the outset that I am neither a film scholar nor a social scientist, but an art historian and surely not the best qualified person to undertake an analysis of cinema in relation to its social frames, specifically the relationship between ethnicity and film in Pakistani films of the 1960s and 1970s. But the paucity of prior work has led me to undertake this preliminary and tentative study. Preliminary versions of this paper were delivered at the conference ‘Literature and National Integration: Revisiting the Language Question’, University of Texas at Austin, November 2002, and the ‘Beyond Crisis’ workshop at Johns Hopkins University in March 2006. I am very grateful for the insightful comments on this effort by Kamran Asdar Ali, Samina Choonara, Naveeda Khan, and especially Aamir Mufti, respondent at the ‘Beyond Crisis’ workshop. 1. Basic facts and some interpretative suggestions are available in the gossip columns in Pakistani pop magazines, newspapers, and the Urdu trade journal Nigar (Ornament). The manual of filmmaking and critique by Zafar Iqbal Miyan, Miyari film sazi (Quality Film Making), has useful period information. Online resources include the very useful and fairly complete database http:// mazhar.dk/film/; reviews of mostly campy and raunchy Punjabi and Pushto films are available on http://www.thehotspotonline.com/moviespot/index. htm; an overall survey article by Sajid Iqbal, ‘Pakistani Cinema’ is on the British Film Institute website http://www.bfi.org.uk/features/imagineasia/ guide/contemporary/pakistani.html; a site dedicated to brief surveys by decade is http://pakistani_films.tripod.com/; useful information is also available on http://www.imdb.com/Sections/Countries/Pakistan/; and http://www.punjabilok.com/misc/movies/landmarks_pak_cinema.htm. Yasin Gorija’s recent books in Urdu include Pakistan ki 100 shahkar filmain (100 greatest Pakistani Films) and Pakistan millenium film da’irektari (Directory of Pakistani Films at the Millennium). Also see Alain Desoulieres, ‘The Three Lives of Umrao Jan Ada’, in Vasudha Dalmia and Theo Damsteegt, (eds), Narrative Strategies: Essays on South Asian Literature and Film. Mushtaq Gazdar’s indispensable text is Pakistan Cinema 1947–1997. 2. Some of these works are written from functionalist Communications Studies perspectives. See Nawaz (1983); Ahmed (1983); Desoulieres (1999); Tahir (1996, 2000); Rawan (2001); Ali (2005); and Kothari (2005: 289–305). 3. Both Aamir Mufti and Naveeda Khan have pointed out that Alavi assumes the ‘salariat’ class as clearly marked by its Muslim affiliation and already pre-constituted and liable to misuse as a handy and perhaps misleading marker to delineate ‘Muslim difference’ in pre-partition India. I acknowledge

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the substance of their critique, but am unable to offer a more carefully articulated narrative here for the pre-Partition period. However, this article argues for the rise of newer Americanised professions by the 1960s, as evidenced in literature and film, and thus for complicating the salariat marker as fully descriptive of Pakistan from the late 1950s onwards. Irfan Malik, himself a poet writing in Punjabi, eloquently presented this dilemma at the ‘Literature and National Integration Conference’ at the University of Texas at Austin, November 2002. Also see Ayesha Jalal’s analysis of Ramay’s ideas in her ‘Conjuring Pakistan: History as Official Imagining’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 1995, vol. 27: 73–89. An English translation is available in A Season of Betrayals: A Short Story and Two Novellas, edited and introduced by C. M. Naim. On the relation between literature and ethnicity in Pakistan, see Fehmida Riaz, Pakistan: Literature and Society (New Delhi: Patriot Publishers, 1986). Riaz discusses Hyder’s works (pp. 21–25) C. M. Naim has noted in his introduction to the novella that the narrative flow is ‘staccato and rapid. The scenes shift quickly, and through their firm linearity doesn’t allow for a truly montage-like impression, the final effect on the reader is much like that of watching a fairly fast-moving film’. See Eck (1998) for a good introduction. On the relationship between darsana filmic codes and the Hindi social film, see Vasudevan (2000). Fareed Kazmi (1994). Also see Mukul Kesavan (1994) in the same volume. This is available at the Digital South Asia Library, http:/dsal.uchicago.edu/ books/artsandideas/. ‘The terrain of the personality is a social and familial matrix in which the reality of everyday life becomes an inevitable reference point. Such a miseen-scène is vividly in evidence in the Hindi social film. Whatever the degree of fabrication, the street scene of the 1940s and 1950s is animated by the activity of newspaper hawkers, vegetable peddlers, construction workers, mechanics, urchins, shoe-shine boys, petty thieves and pedestrians going about their business. Vehicles — cycles, trucks, cars, trolleys, buses — and significant places — railway stations, cafés, the red light area — are also deployed in the semantics of the street and of movement. See Vasudevan (1993: 73). Report of the Film Fact Finding Committee, Govt of Pakistan, Ministry of Industries, April 1960–April 1961. A book on cinema by the critic Alamgir Kabir — The Cinema in Pakistan — especially on East Pakistan, was also published at the end of the Ayub Era. Kabir’s survey of Bangladeshi cinema — Film in Bangladesh — also contains historical information on East Pakistani cinema. This claim needs to be substantiated by further research, including locating and analysing the Ayub era documentary newsreels and seeing their crossfertilisation with popular cinema.

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15. Arman (Urdu, B/W) 1969. Starring: Zeba, Waheed Murad, Nirala, Tarannum, Rozina, Bibbo, and Zahoor Ahmad. Producer and Writer: Waheed Murad. Director and Screenplay: Pervez Malik. 16. On the contribution of Karachi to Pakistan film see Slote (1984: 39–42). 17. Fareed Kazmi has argued that the female lead character in Muslim social films usually comes from a degraded, poor or humble background. 18. As Yasin Gorija (2000: 101) puts it Arman ‘was fully comedic in its first half, and fully tragic in its second half, yet the director exercised a firm hand throughout’. 19. Later on in the film, Gul Khan (the nephew of the women taking care of the illegitimate child) does speak perfect UP Urdu. But as he is obviously dressed as a Pathan, his attempt to rape Najma thereby betrays his questionable ‘ethnic’ morality. 20. Gender is, of course, a central question in these melodramatic films, but one I cannot do justice to in this article. 21. Also see the online reviews by Omar Khan on: http://www.thehotspotonline. com/moviespot/bolly/reviews/m/Maulajat.htm; and http://www.thehot spotonline.com/moviespot/bolly/reviews/w/WehshiJat.htm. 22. The analysis of the jat genre is indebted to Samina Choonara’s presentation at the conference ‘Literature and National Intergration: Revisiting the Language Question’, University of Texas at Austin, November 2002. 23. Anari (Urdu, colour) 1975 — starring: Shabnam, Nadeem, Sangeeta, Ghulam Muhyyudin, Asifa, Lehri, Sabiha Khanum, Mustafa Qureshi; producer: Arfam Malik; director: S. Suleman; http://www.mazhar.dk/film/history/70s/1975. htm#super. 24. Even though successful Urdu films continued to be released during the later 1970s, their end was not far away. One of the most successful Urdu film, which ran for some 400 weeks was Aina (Mirror), released in 1977, and which was a solidly ‘East Pakistani’ affair, starring the Nadeem–Shabnam pair and directed by Calcutta-born Nazrul Islam. Aina again shows the difficulty of characterizing Urdu cinema in simplistic ethnic-muhajir terms (Gazdar 1997: 149–51); http://www.mazhar.dk/film/history/70s/1977.htm. 25. As clarification, I should mention that another version of Anari [Anaari] directed by Mustafiz was released in East Pakistan in 1969, also starring Nadeem, but this film was an apparent flop and I have not been able to find a copy of it or read a synopsis of its plot. Moreover, two Indian films by the same name were released in 1959 and in 1975. As I have also not been able to study these films, my analysis of the Pakistani Anari of 1975 that follows is therefore highly provisional; Anari (Urdu, 1969) — starring: Nadeem, Shabana (although Gazdar lists her as ‘Shabnam’ in his filmography, p. 264), Jalil Afghani; director: Mustafiz; http://www.mazhar.dk/film/history/60s/1969. htm#flop. Anari (1959) — director: Hrishikesh Mukherjee, with Raj Kapoor. Anari (1979) — starring: Shashi Kapoor, Sharmila Tagore; director: Asit Sen. 26. I refer here to the figure of Sheikh Chilli (Chili) as a trickster and fool who appears in a number of oral-based short tales in South Asian folklore. It may

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be noted that three films with the title Sheikh Chilli were made during early Indian cinema, in 1928, 1930 and 1942, and a Pakistani Urdu film with the same name was released in 1980. 27. For a short list of films considered political, see ‘Pakistani Political Films, The Herald (January 2003): 260–64. 28. Dubai Chalo (Punjabi, colour), 1979 — starring: Mumtaz, Ali Ejaz, Nanha, Durdana Rehman, Naghma, Tani, Nasrullah Butt, Changezi, Allauddin, Ilyas, Qavi; director: Haidar Choudhry; http://www.mazhar.dk/film/history/70s/1979.htm. 29. Jalal’s analysis is based on official testbooks, but her conclusion is salient for popular cinema as well (1995: 87).

6

Listening to the Enemy: The Pakistan Army, Violence and Memories of 1971 Yasmin Saikia If a human being cannot empathise with another human being, who else would? Do you expect demons to become human? Perchance, demons do become human; tell me, wouldn’t you be embarrassed? —Bhupen Hazarika (1962)1

Introduction In 1971, two wars broke out in East Pakistan. One was a civil war between East Pakistan and West Pakistan, and the other was an international war fought between India and Pakistan. In the wars, a variety of men representing the armies of Pakistan and India, as well as the Mukti Bahini (Bengali militia created with Indian support), and proPakistani Bengali and ‘Bihari’ civilians who volunteered in the auxiliary armed forces of Al-Badr and Al-Shams raped, looted, killed and terrorised civilians in East Pakistan, particularly women.2 In this article, I investigate the memories of some of the soldiers of the Pakistan Army to document the process and context of the violence of 1971 and analyse them in order to understand the complexities and nuances of personal memories.3 In particular, I trace the gradual transformation of soldiers into perpetrators of violence and continue the analysis further to trace the emergence of a human from within the abyss of violence. While committing violence, many of them admitted that they came face-to-face with their limited human condition and their vulnerabilities, which, in turn, enabled them to see the humanity of their victims. The recognition of these similarities had important consequences in the perpetrators’ lives, motivating them to rethink their experiences in the war and create a narrative that is different from the standard official history of 1971 in Pakistan. Drawing upon a popular local expression of insa¯niyat (humanity), soldiers tell the story of the war as a breakdown of the human condition, reminding us of the fragility and responsibility entailed in

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being human, which, unfortunately, they failed to live up to. In the process of committing violence, some of these men encountered and recognised the human desires of their victims — the emotions of love and hate, deep anxiety as well as the attachment to life and fear of death. In becoming aware of their victims’ human emotions the perpetrators recognised that what was within them was also within their enemies. Their lives became interconnected even though the external markers of identity such as nation, ethnicity, religion and gender, separated and distinguished them and motivated them to fight and destroy each other. The blurring of differences, at least temporarily, enabled perpetrators to see their victims as human and understand the limited power of violence that cannot undo humanity. An understanding of insa¯niyat of self and others emerged and produced a new understanding of the war that perpetrators report on, which I will address at greater length subsequently in the article. A slight caveat is necessary here in order to explain insa¯niyat and the theoretical location of its use in South Asian society and culture. Historically, the origin of the term is located within the culture of Sufi Islam and is considered the basis of human relationships. Insa¯niyat is the love that makes human beings recognise their humanity and facilitates their relationships with others. Conversely, the lack of insa¯niyat destroys man’s relationship with man. South Asian Sufi culture, being richly influenced by local Indic traditions along with PersoIslamic mystical ideas as expressed in poetry has many interlocutors and texts of insa¯niyat to draw from.4 Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi, a thirteenth century poet–scholar of Islam (he lived and wrote in the Seljuk kingdom of Konya, Turkey), is the most prominent and beloved interlocutor on the subject. Using the metaphor of the ‘mirror’ to talk about men as reflections of each other and of the Divine, Rumi’s poems and discourses urge us to pay attention to the images we see in the mirror of life because they reflect what is within us.5 His appeal is to overcome the deformities reflected in these images by moving beyond the demands of our individual ego and embrace the shared reality of human life to make a truly humane and inclusive society.6 Rumi’s humanistic philosophy resonates throughout South Asia and insa¯niyat provides the framework for a ‘good’ human society. Although widely invoked in Pakistan, research shows that insa¯niyat is not a textbook lesson taught and learned in schools. The sources of insa¯niyat are in the lived experiences of people. In the state of war and violence, perpetrators

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of the Pakistan Army came face-to-face with a crisis of insa¯niyat and had to grapple with it, which some say with honest concern and deep remorse they failed to do. To explore the soldiers’ narratives for tracing the process and crisis of insa¯niyat we have to begin with a subtext on the issue of killing and destruction that are parts of every war. While listening to the soldiers’ stories, I began to gradually understand that killing and violence were not natural impulses but that they were learned behaviour, taught and cultivated as ‘duty’ within the institution of the army (see Grossman 1995). The Pakistani soldiers performed this ‘duty’, i.e., killed on behalf of the nation-state to establish power and force enemies into submission. The armed violence in 1971, however, produced different consequences of loss and failure for Pakistan and became a site for personal transformation for some soldiers who had experienced the war first-hand. An ethics of humanity emerged, motivating them to question the call for ‘duty’, i.e., commit violence. In short, one can say that the perpetrators were humanised in the war. The ethical dimension of this memory cannot be predated to the period before the war. It is in the war, and in the experiences of violence, that we begin to see the emergence of an ethics itself. It is this story of the process of finding insa¯niyat that I highlight in this article. What is the architecture of the memory of the war of 1971 in Pakistan today?7 How do individuals negotiate between state and personal memories?8 Can retrospective memory work to tell us what happened then?9 Why should we listen to killers and perpetrators and what lessons do we learn from their experiences?10 These are some of the questions I address here. In this article, I have adopted the methodology of presenting what some perpetrators told me in their words to overcome the division between experience and analysis. At the same time, I am interested in investigating the myriad ways in which an event may be narrated, incorporating personal and collective experiences to, thus, enable an inflection of the official narrative of the history of 1971 from the Pakistani perspective. And as we see how individual lives and recollections are entangled with the events of 1971, we begin to understand the historical conditions and intersections that connect 1971 with other episodes of postcolonial history in the subcontinent.11 First, I locate the history of 1971 within the long duration of violent history in the subcontinent, paying particular attention to the identitarian politics following the partition of the Indian subcontinent

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in 1947. Next, I attend to a variety of soldiers’ memories to analyse the language of masculinity and Muslim identity that was allegedly invoked for justifying violence in 1971. I also investigate personal and collective memories — what is remembered and forgotten — to explore how memory works in contemporary Pakistan for producing divergent narratives of the war. Third, I present the memories of ordinary soldiers whose lives were transformed in an extraordinary moment of war and violence. I use some of their stories to further the discussion on the ambiguous figure that appears as a heinous individual, a perpetrator and, simultaneously, as a soldier/worker — a victim — of the system. Heeding the soldiers’ message that violence can be a transformative experience, I draw upon Jalaluddin Rumi’s writings to frame a discourse on 1971 enabling us to see ‘self’ in ‘others’ and come to terms with our violent past. Rumi’s appeal to see the world through ‘heart-knowledge’ is a powerful language that facilitates the transference of experiences, making them shared events to which we can respond humanistically. This article is an effort to contribute to the vocabulary for knowing self and other in South Asia and returns to the fundamental ground of insa¯niyat for writing a human story that emerged from destruction in the war.12

Locating 1971: History, Politics, and Violence The ethnic and religious violence that took place in East Pakistan in 1971 is connected to many previous moments of violence in the subcontinent which were conceived and carried out with the intention of destroying the ‘other’. The history of ‘otherising’ in India is a long and complicated story created within the multiple spaces of politics, economy, society and culture beginning from the establishment of British colonial rule in the nineteenth century.13 I do not want to enter into a lengthy discussion of the process of ‘otherising’ and its outcome in postcolonial India. I will, however, briefly address the construction of the ‘Hindu other’ in the Pakistani military and political psyche and the construction of the ‘Muslim other’ in the Indian state psyche — both these categories being used for inciting violence in 1971. Both represent fractured narratives of hate and manipulation of people for fulfilling statist agendas. Initially, the term ‘Hindu’ was not used to signify the enemy of ‘Muslim’ in newly created Pakistan. Pakistan, it is important to note at the outset, was not a single, homogeneous nation but was made up of various communities that were divided into two wings — East and

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West. Besides the multi-ethnic and linguistic communities of Punjabi, Bengali, Sindhi, Pathan, Baluchi and Urdu-speaking Indian émigrés who were largely Muslims, there was also a sizeable population of Hindus and Christians in Pakistan. Under the leadership of Mohammad Ali Jinnah the different groups were able to ‘imagine’ a new nation called Pakistan, claiming for themselves a non-specified Pakistani identity. The equality of all citizens, irrespective of religion, was guaranteed by Jinnah in his inaugural speech on the establishment of Pakistan on 14 August 1947. The policy of non-discrimination on the basis of religion by the state continued during the tenure of the military rulers — Ayub Khan and Yahya Khan (1958–71). On the site of national politics, however, by the early 1960s the term ‘Hindu’ was invoked to mobilise Pakistan’s struggle against the enemy nation — India — and after 1965 the categories India and Hindu were interchangeably used.14 India became Hindu in the Pakistani state view and this impression was compounded through political rhetoric and discourse, particularly by Zulfikar Ali Bhutto who initiated an agenda of ‘Islamic Socialism’ to reconstruct Pakistani identity. Many veterans of 1971 claimed that despite the injection of religion in the public political sphere, the Pakistan Army continued to maintain a secular identity, within which ethnic politics took precedence over religion. In India, the Muslim emerged as a problematic category at the very moment of the birth of the nation, in 1947. Partition did not purge the Muslim from the body politic and popular view deemed the Muslim as the ‘enemy within’. Jawaharlal Nehru’s politics of secularism and socialism did not erase and level the ground for full Muslim participation within the nation-state. The frequent outbreak of religious riots deepened the cleavages between the two communities and national politics focused on identitarian issues of ‘them’ and ‘us’ — Muslim and Hindu.15 In 1971 the rhetoric of Hindu as the enemy of Muslim Pakistan and Muslim as the enemy of Hindu India was primed for violence. The West Pakistani administration called upon its soldiers to annihilate the rebels in East Pakistan and made the war a struggle between the nation and an ethnic group, the Bengalis whom West Pakistan considered overly influenced by Hindus. The grievances of the East Pakistani Bengalis for the equitable distribution of resources, greater political representation in Pakistan’s national parliament, the end of economic exploitation and the removal of restrictions on the use

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of the Bangla language in the public sphere were downplayed by the Pakistani military establishment as engineered by ‘Indian Hindu masterminds’.16 The war of 1971 was triggered after the general election of 1970 when Sheikh Mujibur Rahman and his Awami League Party won the election and demanded to form a Bengali majority government. The possibility of a Bengali becoming the Prime Minister of Pakistan created panic among the political elite in West Pakistan and the ruling military junta reacted by deploying the national army to frighten the Bengalis into giving up their claim to state power. For nine months, beginning from 25 March until 16 December 1971, a rein of terror took over East Pakistan. So it was that two wars — a civil war and an international war — came to be fought in East Pakistan. In the civil war, West Pakistani troops along with local Urdu-speaking ‘Bihari’ supporters terrorised Bengalis, now transformed into the category of ‘Hindu-like’ thus justifying Muslim (Pakistani) violence against them (Mascarenes 1972; Sisson and Rose 1990). Large numbers of Bengali Hindus fled to India in the wake of the war from (Muslim) East Pakistan. The migration of Hindus from East Pakistan to India confirmed for India that religious persecution was driving the violence in the war, with the Indian press highlighting this. This garnered for Bengalis the active assistance of the Indian authorities. They formed a guerilla army, the Mukti Bahini (Liberation Force) and their soldiers wreaked havoc upon the non-Bengali communities.17 The international war fought between India and Pakistan, with the support of the Soviet Union and the United States of America respectively, was part of a long-drawn series of cold war battles in the Indian Ocean region. Further, fuelled by the memories of hate lingering from the partition of 1947, India used the opportunity presented by the Bengalis to fight against Pakistan to break up the new nation-state. The army establishment in India is very clear on this point. Repeatedly, the retired generals I interviewed told me, ‘We went to war in 1971 to settle scores with Pakistan and divide it. It was essential for India to vindicate what happened in 1947’.18 At the end of the war, Pakistan’s military dictatorship ended in the east. Bangladesh was born as a new and independent country. The war of 1971 was the first successful overthrow of a military dictatorship by people in twentieth century Asia, but alongside this heraldic feat was a dark human story of loss and destruction. Ten million people became refugees, two hundred

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thousand women were raped, and several hundred thousand Biharis became ‘stateless’.19 The violence and displacement notwithstanding, India and Bangladesh were jubilant about winning the war. India celebrated its victory over its arch enemy Pakistan by dismembering it and Bangladesh triumphed through ending of ‘internal colonialism’.20 The loser, Pakistan, on the other hand, adopted the policy of silence, trying hard to forget the dismal loss of one-half of its territory and the imprisonment of 92,000 Pakistanis as prisoners of war in India. It is important to note here that of the 92,000, 52,000 were soldiers of various ranks and of the rest, 40,000 were civilians, including 3,600 women and children.21 International pressure ensued for ending the hostility between India and Pakistan and resolving the problem of POWs as imprisonment of civilians went against the Geneva Convention of 1949. This encouraged the two countries to enter into a bilateral agreement called the Simla Pact on 2 July 1972 in which India agreed to release the POWs and both countries agreed that ‘in Jammu and Kashmir, the Line of Control resulting from the ceasefire of December 17, 1971 shall be respected by both sides without prejudice to the recognised position of either side’. Following this agreement, over a period of one and a half years (until April 1974) batches of Pakistani POWs were released from India and Pakistan officially recognised Bangladesh. The diplomatic and bureaucratic efforts for normalising mutual relations between the states notwithstanding, the memory of the war penetrated into the national psyche of Bangladesh, India and Pakistan and the states continued to mark the ‘other’ as aggressor to assuage its own guilt. While some may squabble over the finer details of interpretation and the roles of the different groups of ‘others’ in generating hate and violence, few can deny that the war of 1971 combined state violence with ethnic and religious hatred to target the vulnerable. Leaders and followers reduced their enemies into abstract numbers of population and demographic units, categorised as ‘us’ and ‘them’. The abstraction of the human person to fit ethnic and/or religious labels opened up the space for a cold, inhuman purpose for one group to exploit another. Bound communities saw themselves as enemies of other bound communities, and instigated by their leaders men elevated violence to the level of duty and transformed life into death for furthering the sovereign power of the nation and state. Vulnerable humans used and exploited by the system were not accounted for and their lived

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experiences were obscured and cancelled from the national registers. As in all wars, the stories of violence were suppressed and erased from public memory. At a more personal level, those who suffered — victims and perpetrators — women and men, even today, 35 years after the war, continue to be haunted by their memories. Listening to men’s narratives, we are forcefully reminded that violence was not happenstance or incidental — violence was written into the inscription and manifestation of cultural, political and ethnic differences between East and West Pakistan. We also learn that violence served multiple purposes. At one level, it was used as a tool to set groups against one another — Muslims against Hindus, Bengalis against Biharis, Pakistanis against Indians and vice versa — at another level, its purpose was to shock and break down the morale of the civilian population deemed enemy supporters. Violence was also used arbitrarily to produce a diffused atmosphere of terror, sometimes flaring up without purpose, just for the ‘sake of it’. The memories of men who had fought, raped and killed reveal an intimate, hidden story of the war that is not told in history books or recorded in state documents. They are troubled, dark memories, unutterable in many instances to the perpetrators themselves. The problem of enunciation, however, does not limit the possibility of developing an understanding of these suppressed memories.22 Paying attention to the moments of silence, when a narrative abruptly stopped (sometimes in mid-sentence) allowed me to grasp the shame and the agonising struggle of the perpetrators who cannot make enough sense of their traumatic memories to tell an easy story. The personal dilemma of the perpetrators notwithstanding, the historical records exhibit two dominant genres. Both address the external issues of the war. Military and political history focus on the armed conflicts, operations and military activities, strategies, tactics, and acts of diplomacy (for example, see Choudhury 1974; Siddiq 1977; Dasgupta 1978; Dixit 1999; and Bose 2005). The second emerging genre glorifying high-ranking soldiers’ personal memories of valour and bravado has created semi-fictionalised narratives of the war (example Lehl 1979; Matinuddin 1993; Jacob 1997; Niazi 1998; Qureshi 2003; Nanda 2003). But, at the margins of these celebratory national narratives are several stories of common people that are waiting to be told. The stories that I present in the rest of the article constitute the voice of the foot-soldiers of 1971. The stories that these men tell us tell

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are about their personal experiences of violence, cautioning us, their listeners, to be critical of the ideological narratological manipulations while inviting us to ponder the vulnerability of the human being in a war.

In Pakistan: Perpetrators Talk I travelled to Pakistan in June 2004 with a multiple entry visa and permission to live there for a year. On my arrival at Lahore, I immediately contacted scholars in local universities, telephoned the veterans affairs office and introduced myself to the press. I also gave an interview to an English language daily about my research, which, in turn, generated an extended discussion in several letters to the editor (Friday Times, 26 July 2004). In short, I started my research work in Pakistan with much visibility. I was surprised that despite the delicate nature of my research topic no one put up obstacles and I was allowed to investigate the story and the historical sources without any hitches.23 It quickly became clear to me that the reason for the easy access was because no one cared about the history of 1971 in Pakistan. It was a forgotten memory for most people, including scholars and students.24 In the military academy, however, 1971 is remembered for lessons on strategy, battle plans, operations, the role of officers and unit commanders and such technical matters. One issue that continues to haunt the Pakistan Army is the revolt of the Bengali officers in the East Bengal Regiment (EBR) in March 1971.25 The Pakistani officers talked at length about the civil war, of ‘brothers killing brothers’, and seemed unable to understand why and how that could have happened.26 The confusing memory of 1971 as a story of ‘betrayal’ within a ‘family saga’ depoliticised the issue perhaps making it easy for the military administration to facilitate my research work. I had another sanction. As an ‘Alig’ I had easy access to social and familial networks and was warmly received as a member of the ‘Aligarh family’ by many ‘old boys’ and ‘old girls’ of the university.27 The Fauji Foundation became my main ‘patron’ in Islamabad. Through this organisation, I contacted the principal actors, those military bigwigs who were directly involved in the war. Most of them are now retired from the army but continue to be involved in the civil sector of the administration. Although they were fully aware of the purpose of my research — to collect memories of war and violence — they did not seem anxious treating me as they would any guest. Many of them had left their

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homes in India in 1947 but they clung to the memory of their native villages and towns, and my visit provided them an opportunity to recount some tales of the home they had ‘lost’. And, those who had subsequently visited India fondly remembered the hospitality of the people there. Not surprisingly, many of them had Indian friends in the United States, their interactions being facilitated by their children who live there. By and large, the Pakistani military officers were curious about the Indian economy and standards of living while praising the Indian education system. The curious juxtaposition of my location as a researcher while being treated as a guest enabled me to interact with the representatives of the Pakistan Army at a close and personal level. In the course of my interviews, I repeatedly encountered a pattern of extreme hospitality but my hosts were uncomfortable about discussing critical issues about the war and spoke condescendingly to me as I was a woman.28 Their outlook towards the people of Bangladesh was, likewise, fractured. The rhetoric of Bangladeshis as brothers occupied the same space of representation to them as ‘betrayers’ and ‘Indian-like’, i.e., ‘other’ or ‘Hindu-like’. Despite this, I was able to persist and probe the experiences of the Pakistani military in 1971, often making many of the representatives very uncomfortable with my insistence. I interviewed 123 Pakistani military personnel who represented different ranks. The vast majority of retired officers live in Lahore and Rawalpindi. I was often welcomed to their homes and got to know their families quite well. To conduct interviews with rank and file soldiers, I travelled to and lived in their villages. This provided me with the opportunity to discuss with young and old people their memories of the war. With women, I was able to discuss intimate topics about their conjugal life and marital problems after their husbands returned from the war. On many occasions the women told me, ‘life has not been the same as before he had left for Bengal’. This hinted at a change in their relationship but since I was not able to explore this subject in greater detail without upsetting my hosts, I decided against it. In the villages, I was dependent on the men to take me from one house to another and even walk me from one village to the next to conduct my interviews.29 Ironically, the men who had been presented to me as perpetrators became my protectors while conducting this research. Barring two interviews with two very high ranking military officers, who I will refer to as X and Y, almost all the others had some recognisable characteristic patterns that I had come to expect from

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reading books on 1971 and studying oral history.30 The Pakistani army officers and soldiers generally confirmed these patterns by highlighting issues of duty, love for the nation, economic compulsions, peer pressure, etc., as reasons for their actions in the war. If one pays attention to these explanations they enable a partial understanding, in so far as one can understand why people commit violence, of how they are persuaded to join in the horrific activities, and how they later contrive to distance themselves from what they have done. X and Y, however, cannot be matched to these characteristic patterns. Nonetheless one can say a few things about them. Although, on the surface they both appear to be different, both X and Y have some common features of a perpetrator — recognisable in their speech about the violence they committed. They made the violence in the war out to be a normal thing. In meeting them I saw the face of what Hannah Arendt calls ‘the banality of evil’ (Arendt 1963: 252). Both X and Y talked about violence in a normal, matter-of-fact tone to explain that they performed the ‘duty’ that was required of them as military administrators. I will briefly talk about the interviews with X and Y to explicate their banal approach to violence against their role as perpetrators, which they denied. The first thing that struck me when I met X was his obsession with gardening. He invited me to a tour of his meticulously groomed garden and as we walked along he gave me a report on each plant. He told me about the quality of the seeds that he imports from London, the slow process of germinating the seeds while he designs the layout of the flower beds, the careful transplanting, growing, watering of his plants and his enjoyment in seeing the flowers in full bloom. The careful planning process, the grooming of each plant, the arrangement of colour and the careful selection of the mix and variety of plants that he maintains would make one think this fussy gardener was only concerned with his plants’ survival and flourishing. This is not what X is all about. Neither are his military colleagues fooled by his passion for gardening. They insisted that I should ‘ask about the violence he committed’ in East Pakistan. Despite being pre-warned, I was not prepared for such a man as X who celebrates violence as masculine valour and denounces human morality as weakness. The stories of killing he told me became increasingly gory as he became more comfortable talking to me. For two and a half hours I listened to one horrific story after another.31 When he had finished, I was relieved to be able to leave but carried

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the unhappy stories with me. I can still recall his cold, careful voice chronicling the various events of killing, ‘duty’ in his terms, which he engineered and executed so that he could ‘clean Pakistan of the betrayers, the Bengalis’. X started the story of his career in East Pakistan in 1971 by recounting the first order he gave which entailed the mass killing of Bengalis in Santahar, a railway town in northern East Pakistan, because, in his opinion, they — the Bengalis — had killed ‘over 17,000 Biharis’. The vast pile of bodies that were stacked in the railway building was clear evidence of the 17,000 missing Biharis, he concluded, and so he ordered the mass killing of Bengalis in retribution. X did not bother to investigate the reliability of what he had heard by inquiring whether Biharis had fled in the wake of ethnic violence; how many Biharis were in hiding; what kind of stories were the neighbours telling; and were all the Bengalis in the colony involved in the violence against the Biharis. He took pride in claiming that men like him ‘saw the problem on the ground. The Bengalis were deceiving the Pakistanis and they had to be taught a lesson’. This killing was followed by the killing of intellectuals in Rajshahi University and an attack on Dhaka University to teach the Bengali students a lesson on how to be good citizens. Specifically in the Dhaka University incident, it is well-known that many female students were raped. When I raised the question of the violence against women in Dhaka University he said, ‘no one raped anyone. Those who complain about it were looking for trouble’. The violence he indulged in even exceeded the tolerance of the establishment. He was removed from East Pakistan and the army court-martialed him. But an injury from an operation beforehand provided the opportunity to appeal for leave on medical grounds. After several months, X was reinstated and posted to the western sector. Much to his dismay, he found that the war had ended there as quickly as it started — within 12 days (3–16 December 1971) — and he could not execute his plans ‘to kill as many Indians (read: Hindus) as possible’. It would be unfair to say that X hated Bengalis and Hindus only. For him killing was an activity that he indulged in with passion, without consideration for ethnicity, religion or gender, but he masked his violence as acts of love for the nation. His passionate embrace of violence became further evident when I asked about the guns on display in his living room — there were over a dozen with several rings on each of them. My question provided him yet another opportunity to speak

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of killing. He chronicled the story of each gun and the ruthless killings by his ancestors — the rings indicated the number of people killed. These guns were his inheritance and he displayed them like trophies to illustrate the ‘manliness that distinguishes his family from many others in Pakistan’. Y, on the other hand, was a soft-spoken, quiet man. I had to strain my ears to hear him. Unlike X, Y did not flaunt his bravado in war nor he did he speak carelessly about the Bengalis. He never once hinted at his participation in the violent activities in East Pakistan that would incriminate him as a perpetrator. He denied any knowledge of the violence in his administrative area of Comilla (Southeast East Pakistan), despite written evidence of his activities there (see Mascarenes 1972). He claimed he had only obeyed commands and tried to maintain law and order. Although, crude soldiering was not his style, Y is known in the circle of veterans for his plots for arresting Bengali civilian officers — some of them his ‘friends’ — and ‘disappearing’ them without a trace.32 Of course, Y did not answer these questions when I raised them. He told me that he rose to the top of the military administration because of his abilities and merit. Yet no one could have risen to such a powerful office in Pakistan, as Y did, by simply obeying orders. The cultivated presentation of Y as a quiet, sophisticated man and his actions in war contradict each other. We know from eyewitness accounts that Y is not what he says he is. Like many other perpetrators representing the Pakistani as well as the Indian military, Y buries the violence he committed in his soft, calculated speech and his willed ignorance. While X burst forth with pride about his ‘military’ pursuits, Y passes them over in staged silence. Neither indicates even a hint of regret or remorse about the events of the war and their parts in it. Not all veterans of 1971 can be categorised as X- or Y-like. Participation in such a war with such intensity of violence was not a tried and tested experience for a vast number of officers and rank and file soldiers in the Pakistan army, although many of them had fought in the 1965 war against India. That was a strategic war fought at the border between India and Pakistan. The Indian and Pakistani armies are adept at staging such confrontations periodically. Both the armies certainly know the art of defence and strategy, but they were not prepared to deal with the extent of damage to people as in 1971.33 When the Pakistani soldiers were exposed to the realities of people’s unrest, they reeled under its impact and broke down.

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Violence became the language they used to reclaim the power that had slipped out of their control. While interpreting Pakistani soldiers’ actions it is crucial to remember that most of them were relocated from West to East Pakistan to ‘bring back law and order in the region, even at the cost of violence’. Pulled out of their familiar environment and sent to a strange land where they could not understand the language and customs, the soldiers reacted with fear and fulfilled the mission they were brainwashed into believing in — that they were going there to kill Hindus.34 For most of these men the army provided an outlet to see and interact with the larger world outside their village and community. The encounter with the outside world was not easy for them and more often than not, produced many wild fears and deep anxieties. When they arrived in East Pakistan, many confessed, they found the swampy terrain frightfully unfamiliar and were terrified because they could not swim. Many soldiers drowned in the small rivers and streams. The unfamiliarity of the language was another source of discomfort. Many of them told me that when they came across small groups of Bengalis, they immediately reacted because they could not understand their speech and immediately suspected that the Bengalis were conspiring against them. Often, they resorted to violence — beating to disperse the crowd because they feared for their own safety. The breakdown of communication between the Bengali civilian population and the Pakistani army administration brought the Bihari and Urdu speakers into the picture. Many of them had immigrated to East Pakistan from India and were active supporters of the Muslim League. These Bihari men now felt that it was their moral duty to support Pakistan — which represented the Muslim League ideology — to save it from destruction.35 Many of them became informants and helpers of the Pakistanis, as well as, joined the civil armed forces whose main activity was to terrorise the Bengalis to force them to give up the armed struggle. It is important to note here that the violence was not one-sided. The Pakistanis raped, killed and terrorised civilians and were assisted and helped by the local Biharis. So, too, did the Bengali Mukti Bahini militia men. With the help of the Indian military and border security forces they created terror among the people of East Pakistan. The unfamiliar terrain of war, ethnic and religious differences as well as personal fear for one’s life created conditions for men to forget that the people they were killing and brutalising were

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fellow countrymen. The Pakistanis saw themselves as representing the national ethos, while Bengalis were transformed into ‘Hindu’ or ‘Hindu-like’ ‘enemies’, ‘traitors’ and ‘anti-Pakistani’. During my interviews, I repeatedly probed soldiers’ memories for the experience of killing and sexual violence. It was always at this point of recounting their experiences that silence entered the narrative. Abruptly, many soldiers stopped telling their stories or changed the subject of our discussion. I claim that it is the traumatic memory of the destructive force of their violence that is at the heart of the perpetrators’ silence. One can say that silence marks the moment of a ‘crisis of remembering’ and reveals the complex intersection of an unforgettable memory and a need to forget a violent history. Silence is not devoid of language; it is expressive of the inability to put the memory into a perspective that can allow a new text of the war to emerge. This is the struggle of these men and mine. Culturally uneducated, Pakistani soldiers could not understand Bengali body language either, and interpreted Bengali curiosity as assault. One such account highlights this cultural gap. In early April a group of Pakistani soldiers were air-dropped by helicopter in an area called Belonia, in southern East Pakistan. When they approached the embankment in the early evening, they saw a group of Bengali men walking towards them. Fearful of an assault, the soldiers prepared to fire but were stopped by their commanding officer. On approaching the Bengalis, the officer found that they had brought buckets of water to welcome them. This situation was not unusual or distinctive. The Bihari men I interviewed in Pakistan tell similar stories of the cultural gaps between the Bengalis and the Punjabis and confirm that the differences became critically important in the delicate war scenario. All Bengalis, even the unarmed civilians, were viewed as the enemy and the Pakistani soldiers had a license to kill them. Added to this was the cultivation of manliness and bravado, which is a part of all armies. A high value was placed on physical toughness, which had to be perpetually performed. For instance, an officer told me, ‘there is a famous picture of a Pakistani officer holding a limb of a dead man and almost eating it over Bhairab bazaar Bridge. This picture was circulated among the officers to boost their egos…. This was a posed picture. The man at heart was a coward, but he became celebrated as a hero’.36 In another instance, a military intelligence officer in Rajshahi in a show of bravado killed six people, including a prominent politician. When news of it spread the local people

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organised a demonstration against the officer. Fearing for his life the officer discarded his military uniform, put on civilian clothes and stayed inside his house protected by a machine gun, until he was rescued. But once in Dhaka, his story changed and he started ‘bragging about killing six people with a special rifle’. The Pakistani establishment created the myth of superhuman power over others, particularly over the Bengalis, to enable the soldiers to believe that they could easily win the war. Not everyone in the establishment agreed with the logic of creating a myth about military prowess. Even before the war began, the commander in the east, Sahibzada Yakub Khan, sent desperate telegrams to Islamabad asking for a halt to the military solution. Failing to convince the President, General Yahya Khan, Sahibzada Yakub resigned from his position on the ground that a military solution was not acceptable.37 Strange as it may seem, the chief commander of the Pakistan Army in the eastern wing became a conscientious objector, for which he was punished. In recalling the violence in the war, he said, ‘We did not hear the many aza¯ns (call to prayer) rising from the pulpits of East Pakistan’. Pakistanis had failed to hear the different voices of their co-nationalists in the East. Their violence submerged the voices. Perhaps there were many more men like Sahibzada Yakub Khan who did not want to execute a military solution but no one listened to them. Today many in the Pakistani military are afraid to face their initial apprehensions. They use the common rhetoric of nationalism in order to justify their actions in East Pakistan. The general explanation I received was, ‘The Bengali people were initially not against us. Many of them continued to be pro-Pakistani to the end. But the Indians had infiltrated and manipulated the Bengalis and with the help of Hindu intellectuals, they engineered the civil war … We were simultaneously fighting a variety of enemies there’. Several of them tried to sanitise the events by explaining that ‘not too many people were killed in East Pakistan, perhaps fifty or sixty thousand’. The one million that India and Bangladesh claim were killed, they said, ‘is an exaggeration’. Frequently, they talked about killing and violence in the camps as necessary but rarely addressed the issue of rape. Occasionally, they admitted to having ‘relationships’, ‘affairs’, and ‘girlfriends’ in East Pakistan. Even if I accepted the rhetoric of ‘relationship’, the reporting of these interactions by Pakistani men without taking into account the hierarchies of power at work was truly disturbing. How could a

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Pakistani army officer, a representative of the master class, not be aware of the compulsions that led women to these ‘relationships’, and the limited options women had to reject their overtures? Was it really mutual? Also, the explanation for killing co-citizens in a normalised tone and representing the Bengali demand of justice as a derivative politics engineered by the Indian ‘masterminds’ continue to undermine the enormity of the issues that led to the break-up of Pakistan. Yet, how do we address the question of why ordinary Pakistani officers killed and raped East Pakistani civilians in war time. In my interviews I probed this issue further and many of the officers responded to this query. Together we investigated the distinctive emotional narrative of the individuals who were transformed because of the violence they witnessed and/or committed. I now relate a few interviews in brief to provide a general sketch of the range of memories and scrutinise them to understand the moral frame of humanity that was destroyed in the war.

The Voice of Humanity Speaks The voice of Colonel Ali is both poignant and assertive. The quote I provide below is a string of thoughts and memories of the horrific past of 1971, but which Colonel Ali refuses to craft into a comprehensive story for, in his words, there was no purpose to the war. The moving threshold of violence that is graphically projected in his story makes us keenly aware of the moments when sanity passed into insanity, the protective umbrella of the state became the destructive force of killing, when man became enemy and non-man, unrecognisable to himself.39 When you are part of the machinery called state, nation, you see it face to face. You see how comical/farcical it is. I had served in East Pakistan from 1962–66 and went back again in April 1971. Before the war, the Pakistanis used to treat the area as if it was their colony or a holiday resort, where everything was permissible to them. We brought with us the same arrogance when we went to fight the Bengalis. In the officer’s mess, we were shown pictures of the atrocities that the Bengalis were committing, particularly in Chittagong and Santahar. This was our side of the story of the Bengalis killing Biharis and Pakistanis. In another instance, a little Pakistani girl, a daughter of a Major, who was the sole survivor of a family that was brutally murdered, was taken from house to house to show how the Bengalis had orphaned her. This girl could not even speak. She was in shock and the army told her story on

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her behalf. There was so much fear, everyone was afraid of the other. Exaggerated stories were made up on both sides without verification and evidence. For instance, in Joydevpur an officer was killed by his own men. There were no Bengalis involved in it. Later, however, the story was told differently.

As Colonel Ali continued to speak he moved back and forth between the Pakistani and Bengali points of view. He admitted that the swiftness of events had left him totally confused and he quickly lost sight of the purpose of the war. He started imagining that the entire war was a devious plot masterminded by some ‘outside’ enemy. He felt hopeless and helpless because he had no control and no leaders to follow. He recalled his feelings in these words, In the subcontinent, we live in a false consciousness of the enemy. Often there is no foundation in the real, but we take recourse to it. When an opportunity arises we act it out violently, maybe it makes us feel heroic, masculine, autonomous. Most people in the war had no idea what they were fighting against, there was no plan. It became empty with each passing day without any leadership. We were all worried about ourselves, we were fighting ourselves. Nobody could see; we were all blind…. I carried out a guerilla operation on July 15, 1971. It was the infamous train incident in which many people were killed. It was one of our first successful ventures across the Indian border. In the evening, when I returned to Dhaka and listened to the BBC report, I learned that fiftysix people were killed. I felt justified that we killed some Indians, they were killing us. I felt very proud then. The general called me and gave me a pat on the back. Later that evening, in the Dhaka Club everyone celebrated the news. A few weeks later, I gradually slipped into madness … War is madness, how can a thinking person be heroic in that? I was recommended for a gallantry award. You have to be a SOB to get an award for killing people. No one was willing to see me as a person, weak and haunted by my own life. The Pakistanis claim I had seen too much violence of the Bengalis and that drove me nuts. I hear the Bengalis claim me as a conscience of the Pakistani violence. I was given credit for the breakdown. But in reality it was a lot different. It took me thirty years to figure it out. I am just human. When I was inside the machine called the army, I was a part of it. I have spent a lot of time thinking about it. Now I know much better. But I don’t talk about it. The biggest problem to deal with is the emptiness. How can one write stories after killing civilians or fellow soldiers and ask people to celebrate?40

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Colonel Ali admits that he did not fight against the violence; rather he contributed to the war machinery until his psychological breakdown. The experience of mindless violence, the impersonal state machinery and his own dehumanisation in the process forced Colonel Ali to grapple with his fragile human condition. His state of madness freed him and he stopped playing the role of a soldier. Later, on regaining his equilibrium, he was able to recognise his and his ‘enemies’ humanity and he has made it his mission to tell the stories in his own language, Punjabi, which he believes enables him to convey his deepest emotions.41 Of all the interviews that I conducted in Pakistan, only a small fraction, no doubt, touch on these human matters. They may seem to be insufficient to frame and explain the difficult issue of how people are transformed by violence. As many explained to me, they did not see what was happening to them and those around them when they were inside it. But, now they think differently. The significance they are giving to their memories and their humanity in retrospect may not allow historians to create a ‘thick description’ of the war that is authenticated by cross-reference and evidence for corroborating the soldiers’ stories. Nonetheless, the individual voices of the soldiers that emerge from inside the vortex of the war machine decentre the master narrative of official history and illuminate us, however obliquely, with a powerful truth emerging from the location of the individual person’s understanding of the true nature of war. The loss of insa¯niyat that these men report rests on a thin line between ‘doing duty’ and killing, but it is in the condition of war that they suddenly encounter and realise the difference between the two. In retelling their stories, which highlight this understanding, I do not seek to judge nor exonerate the men who committed crimes against humanity. But, after a year of continuous interaction and discussion with several perpetrators of 1971, I have slowly come to appreciate that they are raising important questions about the military staging of nationalism and the making of perpetrators as a part of the nationbuilding process. The question that arises is: can we hear what they are saying? Malik is from a village in the area of the Salt Range in the Punjab, which at one time boasted the highest recruitment of soldiers in the Pakistan Army. For most families in the region even today the army is a lucrative source of employment and hence highly desirable. Malik came from a very poor family. His widowed mother made a bare-bone

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living by selling sugar cane and channa (chickpeas) in front of a local school. In 1968, when Malik was 16 years old, he found employment in the army. After a couple of months training, he was posted to East Pakistan. For three years he lived there and completed his normal duties. In 1971 when the war broke out, his unit was not well prepared — the collection of ration was a recurring problem. Malik, along with a few others, was given the responsibility of acquiring food for the mess. Since the Bengali merchants and shop keepers refused to sell them food, he had to go out to the villages and acquire ration for the soldiers. He said, ‘I looted some shops and beat Bengalis in the process. Some of them probably died. But I did not see it as violence. I was told to provide rations by my superior officer and I carried out his orders. In the army we are not allowed to question orders. We obey the commands and do as we are told’. When I asked if in the process of acquiring rations for his unit, he also committed violence against women, he said, I did not beat nor assault woman. But I did not do anything to save a woman. My peers [common soldiers] did rape many women in East Pakistan. Some even brought them to the camp, married and lived with them. No one stopped them. Since you ask, and I must tell you the truth, I will admit that there were occasions when my senior officers raped women. At times I had to stand outside the house and guard it. I knew why they had gone inside the house; they went there to rape the women. But I could not stop them. I was a sepoy. It was not my place to disobey the commands of my officers. My duty was to stand guard and that is what I did.42

Malik’s explanation of obeying commands, performing duty without asking questions, his complete subordination to the orders of his superiors perplexed me. When I asked him why he did not rape when others around him, his peers and superior officers too, were guilty of raping women yet no one punished them for it, he took a while to answer the question. Slowly, he said, ‘my zameer (conscience) would not let me commit such a crime’. I was nonplussed by this remark. How can a man distinguish so clearly between duty and ethics? How can he not be inflicted by remorse and a desire for justice on behalf of the victims? I soon learned that my assumptions were wrong. Malik has given much thought to these issues for, as he described himself, he is a troubled soul. To help me understand his suffering, he invited me to meet his mother because he had shared his pain

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with her. His mother is an old, invalid woman.43 When I met her in his home, she blessed me for my endeavour and told me, My son used to write letters to me from East Pakistan and later from the POW camp. I could not read his letters because I am illiterate. I took the letters to the local school master and all the women gathered to hear what Malik wrote. We used to be very proud to hear about the battles he participated in. But the violence troubled everyone. The women blamed the East Pakistanis for the violence. But I’d sit in a corner and think about the violence that my son was witnessing and my heart cried out, ‘tauba, tauba’ (forgiveness). I was very sorry that my son was part of such violence. But I knew he would not do bad things to women because he was raised by me, his mother. So I prayed to God to save him from committing violence and to save the women and children of East Pakistan because no women should suffer the loss of a child or be dishonored in war. I know my son still thinks about East Pakistan and what he witnessed there. The memory cannot be erased. He has taken refuge in religion to seek Allah’s forgiveness. That is all we can do.

The mother and son’s narratives clearly addressed the predictable violence that takes place in war but it moved beyond and raised questions about ethics. Men like Malik and women like his mother can understand that during the state of war, the propaganda of hate, the manipulation of minds, and the technological and political developments of the time transformed ordinary people into killers and murderers of other ordinary people. The state had called upon them to execute the duty of killing. Nonetheless, it is the person, the perpetrator who has to bear the consequences of his action. His mother believes that repentance is the beginning of the healing process. But there is no space in Pakistan for men like Malik to discuss what they experienced and lost. Not unlike their victims, the perpetrators live their lives in silence, repulsed and tormented by their brutal memories. Mohammad came to my apartment on his own initiative because ‘he needed to talk about the war’. Mohammad started his account in these words, I am from Attock. My father was in the army and I joined the forces because that was the only source of employment for us. I had to support a widowed mother and several brothers. In April, 1971 I arrived in East Pakistan. Soon after, our unit was sent to a border town in Northern Bangladesh. We were told that a large number of Biharis were

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slaughtered by the Bengalis. We had to teach the Bengalis a lesson. Eleven of us were sent to carry out the mission. After a day of fighting, we took many Bengalis captive. We sent them to the unit headquarters; I don’t know what they did to those men and women. At the end of the day, when I looked around, I saw the whole place was strewn with body parts. There were decapitated bodies, heads without bodies, dismembered arms and legs littered all over the place. Dogs were roaming about, dogs without any hair on them. They were feeding on human beings. Scores of vultures were descending too, and the dogs and vultures were fighting over human body parts. I thought, ‘He was a human being like me. Is this what a human being does to another human being? Humanity had died’ (Insa¯niyat khatam ho geya).44

Once he started this story, the floodgates of brutal memories were unleashed and he talked for several hours. He recounted in detail other campaigns, the initial successes and the gradual loss of control on the part of the Pakistani Army leading to their surrender to the Indian forces on 16 December 1971. In explanation he said, ‘Our officers were very corrupt. But the Bengalis were loyal to their land. Even when we took their families hostage and shot them, some of them died crying, Joi Bangla (Victory to Bangla). How can anyone conquer a people who love their land so much? No force can succeed against them. I knew this early on, but like the other soldiers, I fought for my country. We were disciplined. We did what we were told to do’. Later reflecting on his experiences in the POW camp in India he said, ‘There I became human (waha insa¯n bana)’. It appears that in his cell there were 36 men, and they often discussed their memories of the war. Only three of the 36, Mohammed reported, could honestly admit that they did not commit unnecessary violence in East Pakistan. Discussions with his cellmates made him realise that during the war they had became tools in the war machinery. Fear and anxiety and a desire to live at the cost of others drove them to cloak themselves in the garb of nationalism and commit violence in the name of doing duty. But, in their victims’ death, perpetrators saw their own emotional and psychological fragility and vulnerability. The mirroring effect of the victim enabled these men to see how the propaganda of hate and manipulation of minds had transformed them — ordinary men — into killers and murderers of other ordinary men and women. But in talking and acknowledging their crimes, they were able to dismantle the received narratives and rewrite their own script centring the human story.

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The acknowledgement of the shared human condition was a profound turning point in Mohammad’s life. He said, ‘When we acknowledged our gunah (sins/crimes), and did tauba from our heart, we became free. Even the barbed wire of the camp, daily inspection and parading by the Indians, trundling empty days of listlessness did not bother us. We became insa¯n (human), free and unencumbered, no longer fearful and following the orders of men above us. We had found our freedom’. On returning to Pakistan after two years of imprisonment, Mohammad resigned from the army because he said, ‘I had found my humanity (insa¯niyat)’. In this single sentence, in a momentary, almost matter-of-fact manner Mohammad realised the entire reality of his being and that of the world, the world of human beings that was lost in war. The realisation was not new. Yet, when I heard it, I was stunned. A simple truth of humanity was forgotten in the violence during the war and no one took notice. Even if they did, they marched on, ruining everything in their way and in the end a non-human order was put in place and people accepted the logic of inhumanity and called it love for the nation.45 State, nation, territory took precedence over human beings and man became anonymous, his actions irresponsible. However it is not productive to loathe the perpetrator and to take sides with the victim in order to understand an historical event. A different sensibility is required to hear what men like Mohammad, agents of a violent history, are telling us. His humanity is, like that of others, complex as well as fragile, fluctuating, delicate, yet, resilient. The inter-subjective connection between man and man was forgotten in the period of the war but by remembering the loss men like Mohammad have reconstituted their human selves and those they thought they had destroyed.

Conclusion: Facing the Other Listening to the variety of soldiers’ memories we become aware there is no final analysis or neat conceptualisation that can encapsulate their experiences. Men like X and Y and many others in Pakistan cannot distinguish between their personal experiences and the textbook account of the event. We cannot access them for who they are; rather we confront an image that is a caricature of a human. Fortunately, however, not everyone in the Pakistan Army is masked and devoid of humanity. Many of them who experienced the war and committed violence were transformed and have moved to another

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place where history has become a personal encounter with their own selves and others and in the face-to-face exchanges they have acquired a sense of responsibility that transcends the confines of national history, militarism and nationalism. Based on their experiences these men can now appeal to us to reconsider the contingent nature of the outward forms of subjective national identities and focus on the unmarked ground of humanity in the subcontinent. On this ground, multiple identities crafted by nations and states exist — they remind us — but it also offers us space for a new understanding of shared humanity which is at the centre of subcontinental memory, although occasionally forgotten in times of violence. The memory of a shared humanity — Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi wrote seven centuries ago — is the foundation of human identity. Without denying that varieties of external labels are created through ethnic, religious, linguistic, economic, social and cultural factors, Rumi urged his listeners not to confine themselves to these markers but continue the search for something within them that can be shared by others, in other words, find the universal base that makes one a human being like another. In this message, Rumi delivers a powerful concept of humanity that overcomes distinctions between self and other. Before engaging Rumi’s discourse in some detail, it is important to recognise that his work emerged from within the context of the tumultuous time of the Mongol invasion in the thirteenth century, an age of unparalleled violence and catastrophe.46 By recapturing the world of violent change within which Rumi lived and spoke his human message, one can begin to understand its relevance to our world and time of violence. Rumi’s mystical compositions are anchored in Islamic thought and religion. The foundational issue for Rumi is that man must sacrifice his self so that the glory of the Divine can become evident in the individual and so in humanity. Departing from the traditional mould of a teacher delivering a scripted message, Rumi’s discourses and poems were impromptu and spoken from his heart. His utterances talked about opening up to the possibility of intrusion from outside, a stranger, the Unknown, which interrupts the project of the self and creates a new possibility for a different kind of knowing. Rumi begins his famous book of poems, The Mathnawi, by reminding listeners that in telling stories of others, we begin to understand our secrets.47 The blurring of distinctions between self and other is repeated and elaborated several times throughout

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the Mathnawi. In one of his poems he reminds us that ‘we may know who we are or we may not. We may be Muslims, Jews, or Christians but until our hearts become the mould of every heart we will see only our difference’. Rumi’s call for the end of the individual self and submission for unison should not be read in line with the Hegelian ontology of sameness or likeness. Rather, his point is to unsettle human subjectivity, permitting us to talk about man’s relation or non-relation to man and God, in short, to overcome the process that is fixated on destroying the ‘other’ so that the self can triumph. Of course, the state of being/non-being and becoming part of a collective whole, Rumi suggests, is not a platform for creating common goals and experiencing monolithic humanity. Nor does Rumi make man the location of knowledge. In his poems and discourses it becomes clear that the creative possibility and potential for being human is a gift and a promise to mankind made by God. Rumi asks: can we be human and fulfill the role required of us? Rumi’s call to unmask the individual self and embark on a shared human journey is an active process blending the sensory and the spiritual worlds to enable continuous changes and transformation within the self while simultaneously acknowledging the interconnectedness with a variety of others. The significance of this webbed relationship between self and others undoes the totalising, stifling hegemony of individualism that dominates the concept of humanism in the West, and makes room for exploring new meanings of the interconnected as well as the independent human being to think beyond given structures. This concept offers human societies a template for continuous dialogue and is a truly liberating space to unfetter and unhinge from the singular, competitive national identity. It invites recognition of multiple identities and also creates space to claim a connection to shared humanity, which is our due. I read this message within a historical framework to revisit the question of nationalism, a construct of modern men and draw attention to the underlying connections shared by humanity at large, even those separated by hate and national politics in India, Pakistan and Bangladesh? In other words, I draw upon Rumi’s message to ask: Can we write a people’ history of the subcontinent without the barrier of flags? Our interlocutors of 1971 make us understand the meaning of the end of the national self by letting themselves become haunted by the memories of violence committed against each other. In the face

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of the victim that they see in the mirror, they see their own faces. The deformed image frightens and yet commands a moral responsibility to engage in and inspect their actions. These men, who take on that responsibility, in allowing us to access their thoughts and letting us interrogate them, show the possibility of becoming human in the truest sense, weak but resilient, confounded but not destroyed. In telling us their memories they are doing more than registering guilt, pain, fear, grief or anger. Rather, in continuously searching for the meaning of their actions, at least in their minds, they have let themselves be disturbed, upset and even overwhelmed by the memory of the ‘other’. In listening to their stories we become keenly aware of the import of Rumi’s message of letting ourselves become disturbed by others in order to produce a clearer image of our humanity. The perpetrators of 1971 teach us how the condition of one’s humanity and the concept called ‘man’ is extremely precarious. Violence against the other is a medium of undoing one’s humanity, but simultaneously it is a site to move beyond the limited outcome of the history it produces and enable people to unfetter. It is in this space that human subjectivity is unhinged from ‘structures’ like nation and national identity, although it may be temporary. The momentary unmarking is the place for another interrogation and the possibility of finding closure from the event of violent history. The perpetrator’s ability to acknowledge the violence committed against another human being is the most powerful statement of all. Being haunted by the memory of the other, the perpetrator delivers justice to his victim that no tribunal, state or court of law can deliver and in that same gesture realises that his existence as a human rests on the victim. He owes his life as a human to another, his victim, whom he tried to destroy. This is the story that national history cannot speak, the truth lies with the survivors — perpetrators and victims — who let us enter a murky world of memories and show us the possibility of moving beyond it towards closure. It is our task to listen to this history and then reveal it for a better understanding among people in the subcontinent.

Notes 1. ‘Manuhe manuhar baabe’ by Bhupen Hazarika was composed in 1962 as a gesture of peace making between the Assamese and Naga people to settle the boundary disputes. He sang it for the first time in his visit to Nagaland. In 1972, responding to the violence that the people of Bangladesh had suffered

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in the war, Hazarika composed another song, ‘Ganga amar ma, Padma amar Ma’, in which he described the relationship between of the people of India, particularly Assam, and Bangladesh as two eyes belonging to the same face of humanity. He sang this song in Comilla, Bangladesh during the independence celebration. I have used the lines from ‘Manuhe manuhar babe’ as my frontispiece because it speaks to the core of my article which is the human potential to realise one’s humanity. The term Bihari is not meant to identify the people of Bihar. Rather, a variety of Urdu-speaking people who migrated from India to East Pakistan after partition were commonly referred to as Bihari in order to distinguish them from the local Bengalis. I am not including in this article women’s memories in Bangladesh and India, or memories of perpetrators from India and Bangladesh. The extended study is part of a larger book project. In Diwan-i-Ghalib, the famous poet Mirza Ghalib writes, ‘Bas kain dushwar hain, Har kam kain asna hona, Admi ko bhi muyashar nahi Insan hona’ — It may be difficult to make every task easy, it, however, seems man cannot learn to be human. This sentiment echoes over and over again in South Asia and the critique that man has failed to be human is gaining voice in the state of insecurity and terror in the region. We see in others that which is within us, says Rumi. We hear words whose meaning we understand because they echo our thoughts. Our lives are mirrors of each other, even though we may think and believe we are individuals — unique and different. Rumi’s masterpiece, the Mathnawi (in six volumes) is regarded as the most outstanding work of Perso-Islamic mysticism on the relationship between man and man that brings one closer to the Divine. Rumi also composed the Divan-i Shams. Apart from these two masterpieces, his discourses produced in Fihi Ma-Fih, Mejalis-i Seba and Mektubat repeatedly address the issue of man’s relationship with man as well as the Divine. To study the history and outcome of 1971, we need to keep in mind the story of 1947. The first person accounts of partition told in the voices of women by Ritu Menon and Kamla Bhasin (1998) and Urvashi Butalia (1998) have provided me a grammar for pursuing oral history and search for the hidden and horrific experiences of violence in 1971. Also, the works of fiction on 1947 provided an entry point about the production of narrative and the sites of remembrance outside and beyond the archive and documents of the state. I have found the creative writings of Sadaat Hasan Manto (1987; 2003); Kushwant Singh (1956); Som Anand (1998); Bisham Sahni (1988); Alok Bhalla (1994); S. Cowasjee and K. S. Duggal, eds (1995); and Mohammad Memon (1998) to be particularly instructive. The emerging body of academic articles and essays, memoirs, and eyewitness accounts, likewise, have influenced and informed my research and narrative, for example, Pandey (1999); Das et al. (2000); Kaul (2001); Bagchi and Dasgupta (2003). The use of personal narrative and memory for talking about trauma is not new to the subcontinent or the study of 1971. Africanists were at the forefront

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of developing oral history for methodological and epistemological inquiry nearly fifty years ago. In Latin American history, testimonial narratives have produced counter-statist accounts and challenged the production of history from the archive and documents of the state to show the extraordinary range of contexts in which history and narratives are produced. India has a rich oral tradition that goes back several thousand years before the establishment of history as an official subject for documenting the past in the British colonial rule. For discussions on the uses of oral history and fieldwork in India, see Amin (1996; 2005); and Singer (1997). On the limitations of national history, see Chakravarty (1992a); Kumar (2001); Mayaram (2003); and Saikia (2004). On the subject of violence, pain and the endurance to tell about people’s experiences, see Pandey (1992; 1995). 9. Methodologically, the effort of oral history is unique in that it allows for asking questions that were, perhaps, ignored or not imagined in the past and to evoke recollections and understandings that were previously silenced or ignored. The probing works of oral history done by Thomson (1998); Mamdani (2001); and Hetzfeld (2005), among others, offer some examples. The project of oral history creates conditions for a face-to-face encounter with the agents of history and challenges us to move beyond the limited world of doing conventional history to engage in human interaction. The interactions that occur between the researcher and the research subject seep and penetrate the project, challenging oral historians to account for human relationships generated in the field, as well as contextualise and assimilate the method and narrative to answer larger questions for over-coming stigmatised history, and for a more sensitive interaction with the silenced subjects for democratising history and memory — for example, see the works of Sereny (1983); Butalia (1998); and Redlich (2002). 10. In order to tell, one must remember the past, which involves struggle for the survivors as well as the social and political life of the nation. Remembering, Gyan Pandey argues, may force us to address issues and open wounds that a nation does not want to deal with (Pandey 2002: 27–55). But the project of remembering the traumatic past has to be more than coming to terms with the bad and ugly that national history wants to silence. Moreover, remembering need not be directed at creating an oppositional story. The cognitive structure of writing a people’s narrative must move beyond and outside the control of already produced statist narratives, otherwise it cannot alter the received story of history that is accepted as the past. The task of unshackling and overcoming the general accepted story of the past and telling the story that is passed over and even silenced requires moving beyond the established historical methodology and epistemology and telling the past in terms that includes narrative, testimony, myth, history and memory. Ashis Nandy (1983; 1995) and Dipesh Chakravarty (1992) have made repeated appeals for fulfilling the responsibility of writing history in South Asia in South Asian terms that is inclusive of the variety of ways people know and remember the past, which promises to make history in South Asia autonomous of the official record keeping apparatus.

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11. Kleinman (1997); Das (2000); Hesford (1999); and Nandy (1995), among others, have cautioned against overemphasis on theory and preoccupation with critique leading to devaluing empirical research. Likewise, historian Igna Clandinnen appeals to us not to make a horrific event, even one such as the Holocaust, into a ‘unique and exceptional’ story of violence, but to read the texts of human actions and sufferings for understanding realities of politics and society (Clandinnen 1995). 12. In another context and time, after the Holocaust, Primo Levi wrote about his struggle to see his and his perpetrators humanity, in the midst of violence and beyond it. In The Drowned and the Saved, Levi writes, ‘The networks of human relationships inside the Lagers were not simple; it could not be reduced to the two blocs of victims and persecutors. Anyone who today reads (or writes) the history of the Lager reveals the tendency, indeed the need, to separate evil from good, to be able to take sides’ (Levi (1986: 37). Again, in Survival in Auschwitz, he writes, ‘When the broken window was repaired and the stove began to spread its heat, something seemed to relax in everyone, and at that moment Towarowski … proposed to the others that each of them offer a slice of bread to us three who had been working… It was the first human gesture that occurred among us. I believe that that moment can be dated as the beginning of the change of which we who had not died slowly changed from Häftlinge to men again’ (Levi 1993: 159–60). Levi’s humanity and moral courage revealed in his writings echo the emotions and experiences of some of the soldiers we will encounter in the text of this article. 13. For a history of ‘othering’ leading to the partition see Pandey (1994). Also see Talbot (1995); Bayly (1985); and Kakar (1974). 14. For an extended reading of the changes that took place within the army leading to the Islamisation of its image, see Haqqani (2005). For a reading of the ambivalent search for a narrative to construct an official history of Muslim Pakistan to fit evolving state agendas and politics, see Jalal (1974) and Gilmartin (1998). 15. On this subject, see Van Der Veer (1994) and Gaborieau (1985: 7–14). For an excellent essay on the divide between philosophy and political construction of the Muslim, see Bilgrami (1992). 16. In the parliamentary debates, the East Pakistani representatives repeatedly reported on the ‘injustices’ done to the people and place. In turn, we hear many of the Pakistani parliamentarians complaining of the Indian Hindu assault on the Muslims and driving them across the border to East Pakistan. They expressed deep suspicion of the Indian activities and the identity of the people who were coming across the divide (See National Assembly of Pakistan Debates, 1962–64). During my conversation with officers and rank and file soldiers they repeatedly mentioned fighting the Indians in East Pakistan, because in their opinion India had infiltrated the place with their ‘spies and agents’ in the guise of teachers. Hence when they attacked the civilian population, one of the main targets of the Pakistan Army was educational institutions and their faculty.

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17. The ethnic conflict between Bihari and Bengali are documented in Urdu and English language newspapers in Pakistan. I have consulted the daily reports of the Imroz and The Dawn from March to December 1971. Administrator–writer Masood Mufti, who was in East Pakistan during the war and served as a POW, provides detail sketches of the ethnic violence of the Bengalis against non-Bengalis in his quasi-historical, though imaginative books such as Lemhe (1995); Chehre (1996); and Raize (1996). B. Withaker, Ian Guest, and Rt Hon. David Ennals have documented the atrocities against the Biharis in a report called The Biharis in Bangladesh. Minority Rights Group (London: Amnesty International, Report No. 11, 1975). 18. Although retired bureaucrats are more cautious on this subject, they do not hesitate to talk about the aftereffects of the war. The Bengali leaders and masses were very unhappy with the continued presence of Indians after the war, so it seems, and demonstrated against them to leave the country. The Bengalis did not want to be ‘colonized’ again. Ashok Mitra was Economic Advisor to Indira Gandhi during this period and was in Bangladesh during the reconstruction. He reaffirmed that the Indian government policy was to dismember Pakistan and develop economic ties with Bangladesh (personal conversation, Calcutta, June 2005). 19. These numbers are provided by the Indian and Bangladeshi sources. The Pakistani sources question these numbers and say they are exaggerated. 20. This term was first used in 1969 in Justice Shahabuddin’s report to the government to describe the feelings of the East Pakistanis toward the state controlled by West Pakistan. See Choudhury (1974). 21. International Review of the International Committee of the Red Cross, 1972, Geneva, Switzerland. 22. Georgio Agamben has argued that an utterance constitutes a voice even though the speaker may not have recourse to a language constituted by words to express his/her experiences. The effort to grasp experiences and recognise their implication is sufficient to generate an understanding between the speaker and listener. See Agamben (1991). 22. See ‘Breakdown of ‘71’, Friday Times, 26 July 2004. 23. The materials that one can access for undertaking research on 1971in Pakistan are many. Many public and private institutions and libraries in Lahore and Islamabad, including the private library of Ahmed Salim, The National Archives, the National Documentation Center and the Defense Library in Islamabad maintained by the armed forces have a sizeable collection of public papers, documents, journals, newspapers, transcripts of speeches, parliamentary debates, memoirs and secondary books in Urdu and English. The Hamoodur Rahman Commission Report which is, by far, the most important official document on 1971 is, however, not available for scholarly use; neither are the records at the General Head Quarters (GHQ). In addition to undertaking archival research, I benefited a great deal from discussions with the officers at the Fauji Foundation University and Defense Library in Islamabad.

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24. Many Pakistani scholars were surprised that I was searching for a history of 1971. Some told me that it was not an ‘important’ topic and others cautioned me that the ‘military rulers will be unhappy about such research’. Curiously, the students I met, on the other hand, were very keen to know about Bangladesh. Many did not even know that Bangladesh was born out of Pakistani violence in the war. For me their and ignorance about their history and enthusiasm to learn was both encouraging and distressing. During my stay in Pakistan, I hired a young woman from Punjab University to be my research assistant and her dedication to find obscure literary materials and search the history going back to 1947 made the research an enriching experience. These and other interactions with students in Pakistan made me realize that the younger generation is far more open to knowing the past for what it is. The experience was similar in Bangladesh when I had undertaken research there in 2001. 25. The EBR revolted on 25 March 1971. The story has an element of drama. It appears that during dinner the Bengali officers stood up and fired on their fellow West Pakistani officers, killing many of them. Soon after this revolt, Ziaur Rahman, who later became President of Bangladesh, declared the independence of Bangladesh in a radio broadcast from Chittagong on 26 March 1971. 26. Many officers of the Pakistan Army expressed this sentiment concerning the EBR. For Ikram Seghal, whose father Chand Seghal had raised the 2 East Bengal, the import of this statement is heartfelt. Ikram Seghal, as he himself states (he has written many columns on this issue), is a Punjabi and a Bengali and he refuses to embrace one label over the other. His mother was a Bengali from Bogra in East Pakistan (in present-day Bangladesh) and his father was from Sialkot in West Punjab (in present-day Pakistan). Ikram Seghal started his career as a second lieutenant in 2 East Bengal. After the EBR revolted, Ikram’s identity became a matter of suspicion for everyone. The Bengalis saw him as an enemy because of his Punjabi connections and the Punjabis suspected him due to his Bengali roots. In the end Ikram was court-martialed and released from active duty. Today, when Ikram remembers the war of 1971 he continues to refuse to take sides with either group because it would mean for him betrayal of his parents, his Bengali mother and Punjabi father. For Ikram, it was a war between family members and he resists their divisions, at least, emotionally. He told me during one of our conversations, ‘I was really devastated in 1971. I always thought Pakistan was the finest experiment in nationhood, two distinct parts bonding together’ (personal conversations, February–March 2005). 27. Hafiz Malik writes, ‘It is not farfetched to state that Muslim national theory in India after 1857 was the child of Sir Sayyid’s Aligarh Movement’ (see Malik 1980: 281). Almost everyone in Pakistan accepted that Aligarh Muslim University is the birthplace of the Indian Muslim ideology that culminated in the foundation of Pakistan.

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28. Many of them advised me on my research methodology, gave me long lectures on the history of the subcontinent and the military history of Muslim conquerors, and/or told me stories about violence to flaunt their ‘bravado’. 29. The villages that I visited in the Kushab valley and the Salt Range region are remote and generally inaccessible by car. Donkeys and mules are the main source of transport and are used for carrying firewood and fodder for the cattle. Most of these villages do not have electricity or running water. Women spend a lot of time fetching water, fodder, firewood, and the essentials for cooking. The men I interviewed live a retired life, which led many women to comment, ‘They are good for nothing except for smoking hookah and talking’. 30. Except for Colonel Ali who requested that I use his name, all the names of the Pakistani soldiers in this article are pseudonyms to protect their identity. 31. This interview was conducted in the General’s house in Karachi on 2 March 2005. X refused to be put on tape. He told me that in all these years he has refused to talk to outsiders about his experiences in East Pakistan. Presumably, I am the first person he allowed an interview. 32. I had interviewed a wife of a ‘disappeared’ doctor in Chittagong in 2001. Her husband was well-known to Y. When he was arrested for the first time by the Pakistani intelligence, Y helped to secure his release. But a second arrest led to his disappearance. Mrs A (wife of the doctor), however, continued to believe the Y was not capable of brutal actions. ‘He was such a soft spoken, quiet man’, she told me. But having said this, she wondered, ‘Y would have known what happened, he was the head of the administration those days’. 33. A case in point for the Indian Army is in the north-east region of India where it operates through coercion and terror and has created a huge rift between the people and government. In Pakistan, the record of the army is very poor in Baluchistan and northern Waziristan in particular. There the army rules rather than governs. 34. One soldier told me, ‘In the Pakistan Army whatever you feed the soldiers they will believe and follow. Nobody spoke up. We were told ‘vahan pe sab hindu humko musalman banana hai. Indian ne pura Dhaka kabza kar liya, aapko ja ke bachana hai’ (there, you have to convert the Hindus to Islam and make them Muslims. The Indians have besieged Dhaka. You have to free it and provide protection)’. 35. In Karachi, when I lived and worked in Orangi, I had many discussions with Bihari immigrants from East Pakistan. Almost all of them reported that the ‘ghost of Muslim League had worked on their minds in 1971 and led them to support Pakistan and commit violence on its behalf’. They regretted their actions and spoke without rancor about the Bengalis. 36. Information based on a personal conversation with an officer in Lahore. 37. Sahibzada Yakub resigned as Commander of the Eastern Wing when he failed to convince the Pakistan President and his advisors to follow a political solution. He was recalled to Pakistan, demoted from his position, and court-martialed. Later, when the war was over and Sahibzada’s advice was

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proven right, he was appointed as the foreign minister of Pakistan during the prime-ministership of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. Curiously, at the level of ordinary people, discussions on 1971 seemed more animated and candid whenever I engaged them to recount their memories. They all agreed that both military and politicians particularly Bhutto, were at the heart of the break-up of Pakistan, and many referred to it as the ‘partition of Pakistan’. The term non-man was used by Primo Levi in his book The Drowned and the Saved (1986). Personal interview, 11 August 2004, Lahore, Pakistan. Colonel Ali is writing a novel on 1971. Personal interview, 31 July 2004, Pakistan. Malik’s mother passed away in July 2006. Personal interview, December 2004, Pakistan. One of the soldiers told me that they were ordered to burn, kill and destroy everything that came in their way to create fear and panic among the Bengalis. He reported that as they marched along they killed men, women, children and cattle, and ransacked the villages. The long march from Dhaka to Halwaghat in Mymensingh took several days and at the end of it they had devastated the countryside. The violence was unbearable to this soldier and he had a psychological breakdown. The two English translations of the Discourses that I have consulted are Arberry (1993) and Thackston (1999). There are various translations of the Mathnawi. For this article, I consulted Book One, translated by Jawid Mojaddedi (2004).

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Strength of the State Meets the Strength of the Street: The 1972 Labour Struggle in Karachi Kamran Asdar Ali∗ Why did they kill us? We wanted our rights — bonus, wages, health benefits, why did they kill us? To be honest we all cried, I cried too. — A textile worker, remembering June 1972

Introduction On 10 February 1972, the newly installed President and civilian martial law administrator of Pakistan, Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto, addressed the nation in order to present the salient features of his government’s new labour policy.1 As Bhutto laid out the details of workers’ benefits, he also warned them of dire consequences if they did not refrain from participating in ‘lawless behaviour’. He asked the working class to desist from their ‘gherao and jelao’ (lit: encirclement and burning) politics, ‘otherwise,’ Bhutto raged, ‘the strength of the street will be met by the strength of the state’.2 A few months later Bhutto’s government fulfilled his threat. On 7 June 1972, the Karachi police killed several workers when they opened fire on demonstrating labourers in the major industrial area of the city. The next day the police fired again on the funeral procession of one of the deceased workers. Press reports indicate that at least 10 people were killed on that day, including a woman and a child. These killings marked what is considered by many as the beginning of the end of one of the most protracted labour struggles in Pakistan’s history. Starting in the late 1960s, this movement was pivotal in shaping the transition from military rule to democratic forms of governance. Bhutto’s Pakistan People’s Party (PPP) had come to power through the overwhelming support of the working class, students, and radical left groups, the key participants in this movement.3 It is indeed ironic, and also revealing, of Bhutto’s politics, that the PPP was instrumental in suppressing the workers’ struggle.

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Ask most Pakistanis about the significance of the years 1971–72 and, if they do recall, they will say that that was the year Pakistan lost its eastern wing. The meta-narrative of the creation of Bangladesh subsumes histories of all other events, happenings and struggles of that crucial era in Pakistan’s national history. Although not a part of the formal educational curriculum, the 1971 war with India is constantly retold in the popular press primarily by ex-high ranking army officers seeking to absolve themselves of any responsibility in the events that led to the break-up of the country. Such histories are by and large apologies for the atrocities that Pakistan’s military committed against its Bengali citizens. If the past can only be reconfigured in its relationship to the present, it makes complete sense for the Pakistani elite to concentrate on rehabilitating itself in front of a public that has lost confidence in its military rulers after the 1971 crisis. Shahid Amin, in his rendition of another South Asian event of early twentieth century,4 reminds us how nationalist master narratives can induce selective national amnesia in relation to events that fit awkwardly into neatly woven patterns (Amin 1995: 3). Similarly, events such as the labour movement during the late 1960s in Pakistan have remained a part of individual memories. Collectively, however, not many in Pakistan even remember the series of events that shaped those years. The unwritten history of such struggles is connected to their unremembered status in the national psyche. As participants of these events grow old and pass away, they take with them crucial pieces of this past.5 A past that like many other collective struggles of the Pakistani people remains buried in the hearts and minds of the actors themselves, seldom shared or celebrated by the nation as a whole. For example, it is almost forgotten how the long military rule in the 1950 and 1960s, with deep links to industrial and feudal interests, led to a popular mobilisation that demanded democratic reform, economic redistribution, social justice and rights for ethnic minorities. The results of the 1970 elections, with nationalist parties winning in Baluchistan, the North West Frontier Province (NWFP) and in East Bengal, is interpreted by some as an important juncture in Pakistan’s history in which there was a popular consensus to resolve the nationalities question.6 In the same vein, although rarely remembered or discussed in the national media, Bhutto’s violent reaction can also be considered as a watershed event in the history of the nation’s working class movement. In order to rethink this particular moment, a major theme of this article is to capture the events that

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convey Bhutto’s response to popular opposition early in his rule. In addition, I also pursue the question of how trade union leadership itself perceived the labour movement of the time. Ranajit Guha (1994), in an article on the relationship of the Indian national movement with the masses, borrows the Gramscian concept of hegemony to show the processes through which consensus was built by the nationalist elite leadership. He argues that these leaders needed to harness the intuition and enthusiasm of the people so that order could evolve out of chaos. The subalterns’ popular initiatives, autonomy of function, the immediacy in their politics and the spontaneity of their actions needed to be disciplined by the bourgeois national elite for it to control and hegemonise the national movement. Through cultural and historical analysis I shall critically evaluate the teleological assumptions which begin with the expectation that the capitalist factory, in its ideal construction, acts as a powerful agent of social change transforming older particularistic identities of peasants/ tribals who are drawn into the factory as workers and binds them into new universalistic ties of class solidarity (Chakrabarty 1989: 21). It is within such a framework that I want to understand some of the responses by the trade union leadership to the events of June 1972. Hence, in presenting the argument I will analyse the relationship between the workers, the trade union leadership and the state of Pakistan. In discussing the 1972 labour struggle, I focus on Karachi, the industrial and commercial hub of the country and the most ethnically diverse city with a long history of labour politics. Being the major beneficiary of the state of Pakistan’s industrialisation programme, Karachi was one of the world’s fastest growing cities between 1947 and 1972, with its population increasing by 217 per cent during this period (Hasan 1999). More than half of Karachi’s growth since the early 1950s is attributed to migration from India and from rural and other urban areas of the country. This population increase, which was linked to ethnic and social heterogeneity, changed the social and political cohesion of Karachi as a functioning city. Academic studies, when available, concentrate on Karachi’s ethnic politics and violence, on housing and on resource distribution (see Hussain 1990; Shaheed 1990; Verkaaik 1994; Hasan 1997). Missing in these analyses is a discussion on the confluence of ethnicity and its relationship to labour and working class struggles that have historically shaped the political and social growth of the city in the last 50 years. Within this

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context, in addition to detailing the labour strife in the early 1970s in Karachi, this article also contributes to the understanding of the social and historical processes that have led to the substantive decline of labour and class based politics and the concurrent emergence of a politics increasingly shaped by issues of ethnic, religious and sectarian differences in contemporary Pakistan. I base this article on research in public and private archives, interviews with key participants in the labour movement, ordinary workers and with civil and political administrators. In this work, I have relied upon how the actors themselves recall the events of more than 30 years ago. I have heard many versions of the events and also multiple analyses of what happened and why. Memories, while reflecting the interest of the teller (Portelli 1992: 2), were still highly consistent with how the events were reported in the national media. Where people differed was in their analysis of the larger political momentum of the time. In order to present a more comprehensive understanding of the situation I shall continuously add my own reading of the processes under discussion.

Industrialisation and Labour Pakistan, at its independence in 1947, inherited only nine per cent of the total industrial establishment of British India. The lack of industrial capital was mirrored by the weakness of organised industrial labour and the peasantry (Shaheed 1983: 270–90). The nascent Pakistan government followed an import substitution model to rapidly industrialise the economy. The state also relied heavily on agricultural exports, specifically East Pakistani jute, to subsidise industrial development in West Pakistan (Papaneck 1967). The state promoted industrialisation by providing soft loans and tax holidays and by setting up the Pakistan Industrial Credit and Investment Corporation in the late 1940s with assistance from the World Bank and foreign capital. Due to lack of an early response from the local merchant capital, the state also formed the Pakistan Industrial Development Corporation (PIDC), through which it initiated industrial projects that were then transferred to the private sector at bargain prices (Alavi 1983: 228–69). The first phase of private industrialisation occurred after the Korean War, when the profits gained by Pakistani traders were channelled into industrial investment. Special areas were developed in Karachi — the Sind Industrial Trading Estate (SITE) and the Landhi–Korangi industrial

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area, respectively — and land was sold to construct factories at extremely generous rates. With the state’s role in setting up industries, the bureaucracy became intrinsically involved in the control of this industrial expansion. For example, between 1947 and 1955, 774 new industries were established in Karachi, representing almost 50 per cent of all industrialisation in Pakistan (Salar 1986). State agencies directly financed the industrial concerns or participated in legislating laws to favour this growth. On the one hand, the collusion of the bureaucracy and industrialists was manifested in facilitating the finances for expansion of industrial houses; on the other, this alliance kept the wage rates down and insured industrial peace by brutal suppression of the working class. Despite state-sponsored repressive measures, worker unrest increased. The declining social and economic conditions of the working class and the disparity in income levels that were becoming shamelessly evident in the Pakistan of the 1950s gave rise to several labour strikes. According to estimates, between 1954 and 1957 there were more than 250 strikes in which more than 200,000 workers were involved (Salar 1986). An example of workers’ living conditions in the early 1950s is evident by the report filed by an International Labour Organisation (ILO) representative in 1953.7 According to the report, Karachi was still a city where a large section of the population, being refugees from India, did not have adequate housing. People were living on sidewalks and workers’ living conditions were extremely precarious. Trade union representatives would occasionally raise issues of housing and welfare with the factory owners. These requests were periodically turned down on the basis of the fact that such investments would lower the margin of profit. Earlier, in 1951, the government had ratified the ILO convention on freedom of association and the right to organise. Irrespective of the lofty ideals of higher wages and workers’ participation guaranteed in these conventions, the workers’ living condition did not improve in practice. Moreover labour was periodically warned by government functionaries not to hamper the industrialisation process with strikes and upheavals (Shaheed 1983: 273). The emerging state subordinated labour organisations by sponsoring anti-communist trade unions,8 by banning left and popular trade unions and passing draconian labour laws that effectively prevented collective bargaining or the right to strike. Trade union workers with whom I spoke remembered how radical workers and those desiring to form unions were either

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harassed, beaten by local goons hired by the industrialists or terminated from work on one pretext or the other. With rampant unemployment and a surplus of labour, many workers desisted from joining unions due to the fear of such reprisals. The military take over of the state of Pakistan in 1958 intensified this repression. Most labour laws were functioning under the Industrial Disputes Act of 1947, until the time it was repealed and re-enacted under the rubric of the Industrial Dispute Ordinance. The ordinance brought more industries under the essential services banner, prohibiting the formation of unions there. Strikes were made illegal and the registration of unions was made difficult. To safeguard against contravening ILO conventions, a system of conciliation and mediation was devised. Conciliation officers were government functionaries who referred unsettled disputes to industrial courts for mediation where the process could take months to settle. The idea was to move labour grievances from the streets to the courts and boardrooms under the watchful eye of state functionaries. The already beleaguered common worker was further entangled in the alien language of rules, regulations and legal sophistry to fight for his rights. During General Ayub Khan’s rule (1958–69) bureaucrats and exarmy officers began directly running major industrial units. This was an era of unprecedented growth in the wealth and holdings of Pakistan’s major industrial houses. They moved into banking and insurance that further supplied them the funds for expansion. Pakistan’s growth was heralded by economists from the United States as a model for the rest of the Third World and as a premier example of ‘free enterprise’. Gustav Papanek, the head of the Harvard Advisory Group to Pakistan, would affectionately call Pakistan’s state-sponsored bourgeoisie ‘robber barons’ and argued that the rising social and economic inequality contributed to the economy’s growth and would eventually lead to the improvement in the living conditions of the lower income groups (Ali 1983: 69). Irrespective of Papanek’s ‘rosy’ predictions, all through the 1960s retrenchment and dismissals were common tools for disciplining workers. An outburst of workers’ accumulated frustrations was evident in the March 1963 demonstration in the Sind Industrial Trading Estate (SITE) area under the Mazdoor Rabita Committee (Workers Coordinating Committee). The strikes led to police firing on demonstrating labourers; several people were killed. This incident led to an increased radicalisation among the workers that was in turn crushed

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by mass arrests of the mill level leadership. Industrialists, taking note of the state response, continued with their policy of dismissals and retrenchment. Usman Baluch, a trade union leader who lived through this and later labour struggles, represented the situation by stating that ‘the bureaucracy through the labour courts, the industrialists through their jobbers, masters and paid strong men and the police through violent suppression of demonstrations worked in unison to suppress the labour movement’.9 Between 1947–58 the economy had been sluggish in its growth (GNP 3.2 per cent); the largest employment was in the agricultural sector which contributed about 50 per cent of the output. However, manufacturing in this time period had a growth rate of 9.6 per cent. In contrast, during the entire Ayub era the GNP rates hovered around the 6 per cent mark and manufacturing still maintained a high 9.1 per cent growth. Even the agricultural sector grew at a rate of 4.1 per cent as huge subsidies were given to large landowners for mechanisation with additional public investments in irrigation and drainage works (see Husain 1999). By the mid-1960s, the industrial sector accounted for almost 20 per cent of the Gross Domestic Product (GDP) and about 18 per cent of the working population was involved in industrial labour. Pakistan was still primarily an agricultural economy with 40 per cent of the GDP and 61 per cent of the labour force tied to the agricultural sector. Yet the change was phenomenal in comparison to Pakistan of the 1950s. The heavy reliance on foreign capital for the industrialisation process faced a major setback when after the 1965 war with India World Bank funds were cut off and then resumed at much lower levels. As the entire structure was built on large inflow of foreign capital, the growth began to sputter. Bad harvests in 1965 and 1966 along with the demand of East Pakistan’s middle classes for a more equitable share of the spoils of development created a major political turmoil in the country (Alavi 1983). Ayub Khan’s much heralded ‘decade of development’ thus came to an abrupt end when in 1968–69 students, intellectuals, the urban poor and the working classes participated in a massive civil disobedience movement. Spearheaded by the PPP in the west and the Awami League in the eastern wing, this movement was not only against the political bankruptcy of the Ayub regime but also a protest against the deteriorating economic conditions and the increasing inequality in the distribution of wealth.10

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As a result of these disturbances, a new military regime came into power with the promise of social and political reform. One of the first tasks of this junta was to call a tripartite labour conference and work on a fresh labour ordinance. Due to the extreme pressure from the working class the new government in 1969 introduced an Industrial Relations Ordinance (IRO). The Ordinance was liberal democratic in orientation and favoured a trade union policy that relied on negotiation instead of confrontation as the main mode of communication between the labourers and industrialists. Registration of unions was made easier, and where there was more than one union in an industry, a system of election to choose Collective Bargaining Agents (CBAs) was devised. Rhetorically, the Ordinance’s language was critical of previous labour laws and those industrialists who used extra legal means to curtail trade unionism’s growth in the country.11 However, the regime remained committed to the prevention of strikes and lockouts that were undermining production goals in most industrial units. Within this context, legal proceedings in military courts and arrests of labour leaders, workers and other pro-democracy activists persisted unabated. Irrespective of the Ordinance, the military regime also gave industrialists virtual freedom in hiring and firing decisions. It is estimated that in Karachi alone, almost 45,000 workers were retrenched between 1969–1971.12 Yet the Ordinance, after decades of state repression, did bring a new energy into the labour movement. Taking advantage of the clauses for registration and constituting Collective Bargaining Agents (CBA), moribund and underground unions started coming to life. New alliances were made as communist groups and student activists assisted the working class leadership in reorganising their trade unions. Before long, in response to the sustained repression of its leaders, an alternate leadership started taking hold in many trade unions. Following the lead of the Bengali working class and peasant leader Maulana Abdul Hamid Bhashani,13 the labour groups, now under a more radicalised leadership, took to encirclements of industries (gherao). Using these new tactics the workers started to demand bonuses, better working conditions, back pay and, in some cases, protested the dismissal of their comrades.

Labour and Ethnicity The oldest unions in Karachi were the dock and port workers and they were dominated by the Makrani/Baluch14 workers of old Karachi.

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In immediate post-independence Pakistan (1947) the muhajirs (migrants from India, mainly Urdu-speaking), being more educated and having previous experience of industrial labour and urban life, soon became the majority of the rank and file industrial workers. They started to occupy leadership positions among the already volatile and diversified labour population.15 Subsequently, the muhajirdominated trade union leadership played an important role in its advocacy and struggle for labour rights in Karachi. The leadership may have also managed to contain, much to its advantage, the cultural and linguistic tensions between the higher skilled local workers (muhajir) and the less skilled up-country migrants (Pashtun/southern Punjabis) through a rhetoric of class solidarity and proletarian politics. By the late 1960s, the ethnic make-up of Karachi’s labour population had, however, changed considerably. Skilled muhajir workers mostly populated the industrial complexes and multinational firms, where working conditions were better. The textile mills, where working conditions were far worse, had up-country migrant labourers or Bengali workers. In the 1960s, jobbers, as agents of factory owners, recruited men from certain specific districts in the North West Frontier Province (NWFP) or southern Punjab and through economic and social coercion guaranteed a docile and disciplined workforce to specific factory management. The workers themselves resided in areas populated by a majority of people from their own region and linguistic groups. The radicalised left wing movement in 1968–69 sought to organise these workers who, till then, had mostly known management controlled union (popularly called pocket unions) into supporting more independent trade unions. The movement in this process also challenged complex set of ethnic differences and hierarchies in the workplace and in worker colonies. For example, the textile mills were mostly populated by Pashtun workers or workers from Swat and Hazara, also in NWFP. These workers had come to Karachi in the early 1960s and settled in vacant land at the edge of the industrial area. Worker neighbourhoods with names like Frontier Colony (NWFP is popularly called ‘Frontier’ by many) and Pathan Colony were created overnight — names that reflected the population shifts in the local ethnicity of the labour population. Muhajir workers also lived in these areas, but by the late 1960s many had more established their presence in Old Golimar (Bismillah Hotel), Bara Board, or in Nazimabad, all being middle to lower middle

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class neighbourhoods. The new immigrant colonies were, to a large extent, unplanned/non-regularised government land and, until the early 1970s, did not have direct water or electricity connections. In the streets one could regularly hear Pashto, Hindko (from Hazara), or Swati being spoken, making these areas somewhat distinct from the Urdu dominated culture of the larger city. To cater to the growing number of immigrants, a range of popular restaurants, workers’ hostels and bathhouses had started crowding the main thoroughfares of these areas. Gradually the labourers settled down and, in some cases, got married either in the city or brought their families from their villages and small towns to Karachi. These areas also had civic organisations that catered to specific ethnicities, sometimes to people from a particular district in NWFP or southern Punjab. These organisations were led by relatively influential men who at times were linked to factory managements and/or political parties and had the social and political power to mediate local disputes and conflicts. Keeping the above in perspective, a major problem faced by left groups was that although the labourers from different parts of the country were steeped in various traditions of constructing social relations, the Karachi-based left cadre was mostly urban, middle class, and Urdu-speaking. Hence those left wing activists, who belonged to the working class, were ethnically similar and had cultural affinity with different regional languages and cultures were the most successful in politically organising these workers.

The Event The industrial workers’ hopes were raised as Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto assumed control of the country after the creation of Bangladesh and the surrender of the Pakistan Army in East Pakistan.16 In their interviews with me, the workers and labour leaders from that era attested to the sense of elation in them as they were encouraged by the initial anti-industrialist rhetoric of the Pakistan People’s Party (PPP). Many had worked with the PPP and had suffered jail sentences to end martial law and bring about democratic rule in the country. During the election campaign, Bhutto had also promised to get those workers reinstated who had been dismissed by mill owners in the last several years. He had publicly warned the industrialists to bring back money that they had deposited in foreign banks and also threatened that their passports would be withdrawn making it difficult

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for them to travel. Such statements coupled with the anti-capitalist rhetoric of the government controlled media during the initial period of Bhutto’s rule raised hopes among the workers that Bhutto was on their side and would finally force the industrialists to accede to the labour’s demands.17 Labourers and working class leaders intensified their struggle and during the first six months of 1972, periodic lockouts and encirclements of industries continued in the two major industrial areas of Karachi.18 The workers insisted upon the reinstatement of those retrenched during the martial law years, the opening of those industries that the management had closed without notice or compensation, the distribution of bonuses, the payment of workers’ participatory funds, and demanded the pay that was their due in some cases. My informants told me that labourers belonging to different factories and sometimes rival unions would walk to other factories where there was a dispute to demonstrate in favour of the workers there. A vivid example of this solidarity was the spontaneous strike of 28 March 1972 when 200,000 workers stopped working, bringing the entire SITE area to a stand still in response to the continuing lockout by the industrialists at one of the textile mills (Zebtun). The mill owners had closed the factory and had laid off 2,000 workers for almost two months. An agreement had been reached between the management and the workers’ union that production would start on 24 March but the mill remained closed even on the morning of 28 March. The Zebtun workers went around to different mills and work stopped everywhere in solidarity.19 With the rising militancy, the provincial and central government responded by gradually taking a firmer stand on the labour issue. On the one hand, the government controlled press published reports that the industrialists were fomenting the labour unrest as a sign of their displeasure at the state’s recent nationalisation policy.20 On the other, Bhutto and his ministers also raised the spectre of the proverbial ‘foreign hand’ that was supposedly behind these occurrences and wanted to destabilise the popular government.21 Threats like the one voiced by Bhutto while announcing his labour policy were periodically made by his ministers and by his cousin, Mumtaz Ali Bhutto, the governor and later chief minister of the Sind province.22 Interestingly, in some cases industrialists were even asked by Bhutto’s ministers to provide a list of ‘undesirable’ workers who could then be dealt with by the state authorities.23

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There were, however, other voices within the government reflecting the PPP’s varied power base. The labour friendly left leaning PPP cadres, some of whom now held government ministries and offices,24 would periodically give pro-labour pronouncements and seek to work out a compromise between the state and the striking labour unions. For example, Mir Rasool Baksh Talpur, Senior Advisor to the Governor of Sind, and who later himself became governor, Talpur Mairaj Mohammad Khan, the President’s advisor on public affairs, and Abdul Sattar Gabol, the Provincial Labour Minister for Sind would regularly meet with labour leaders and workers. In their meetings, they would condemn police excesses against the workers and also promise the release of any industrial labourers that were arrested during the continuing disturbances. However, they would also request that instead of strikes and demonstration the workers should cooperate with the PPP government and consider it as their true representative and in this spirit help it solve the people’s problems.25 Simultaneously, others in the government and a section of the media had continuously called for industrial peace on the basis of the fact that that the country was going through difficult times, onehalf of the country had been lost and the economy was in shambles. By continuing their agitation the labourers, newspaper editorials argued, were halting the much needed production to stabilise inflation and export manufactured goods, both necessary to solve the financial problems the country faced.26 Going by such statements, it was clear to many in the labour movement that the government, irrespective of its pro-labour rhetoric, was seeking to reassert itself and would ultimately crack down on the labour on the premise of maintaining law and order.27 A response to the government’s hardening position was the formation of the Sind Workers’ Convention in the SITE area that brought together major labour federations of the province to effectively lead the labour movement in this moment of crisis. This unity was partially forced onto some of the labour federations as they were becoming isolated by the rising tide of labour militancy and their own rank and file was deserting them to form alliances with other groups. Hence the federations, whose primary task in the 1960s was to negotiate with the factory management and involve themselves in legal procedures to procure labour rights were forced to make changes in the way they worked due to pressure from below. The most powerful trade union federation in the SITE area was the Mutahida Mazdoor

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Federation (MMF, lit: United Worker’s Federation).28 Since the late 1960s this federation had maintained an independent policy towards most political parties, although its members had past and present linkages with many left formations in Karachi. It had, in the process, become a space where a range of disaffected cadres — bickering communist groups, radical students, mobilised workers, and liberal civil libertarians — had come together. Because of its radicalised stance on labour issues, the MMF had, within a couple of years, become immensely popular among the rank and file within the SITE area. The confrontation finally took place on 7 June 1972.29 It was payday at the Feroz Sultan textile mill in the SITE. The mill’s management refused to pay the labourers their back pay that had then been overdue for a month and also their portion of the workers’ participation fund30 due to unavailability of funds. Instead, the mill owners declared the mill closed — a lockout. This mill’s management, like several others, had a particularly confrontational relationship with its increasingly militant trade union. The workers, angry over the non-payment, encircled the mill and confined the management executives to their offices within the mill compound and started putting pressure on them to meet the workers’ terms. The management called the police and the latter used tear gas to disperse the workers. The police then locked the gates, confining a large number of workers inside the factory. It also arrested 14 persons for illegally confining the management staff. The workers regrouped and other labourers joined them from nearby factories and worker residential colonies. By late afternoon about 5,000 people had encircled the factory, demanding the release of their comrades and asking that the factory doors be opened so that the workers could come out. Some workers also started throwing stones at the police contingent present at the factory gates. The police then opened fire, claiming that the workers had fired first. Official reports accounted for three dead and scores injured, including three policemen.31 Two bodies were retrieved by the police, while the third was taken away by the retreating workers.32 The very next day the funeral procession of this worker was taken out from the labour colonies near Benaras Chowk (lit: roundabout/ circle), a thoroughfare in the western part of the city near the worker’s colonies. The police contingent waiting at the roundabout stopped the procession from proceeding further. The workers, in retaliation, started raising slogans. The police then fired tear gas shells to

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disperse the crowd. The crowd reacted by pelting stones at the police. The police force retreated, regrouped and then opened fire as the marchers walked onto the main road, killing 10 people and injuring dozens.33 Eyewitnesses told me of the total mayhem where people were running everywhere to avoid the barrage of bullets. According to estimates the firing went on for about half an hour.34 Two people I spoke to recalled seeing several bodies with their heads blown away, arguing that the police was not merely dispersing the crowd but had taken aim at people to kill. Another informant remembered counting seven dead bodies. This filled him with extreme rage and he wanted to continue walking with the funeral procession even though it meant that he could be injured and possibly killed.35 The English daily, Dawn, in its editorial condemned the incident by reporting that the firing was not only prolonged but also indiscriminate, as some people were killed and injured at a great distance from where the actual clash with the labourers had happened.36 A journalistic account from the Urdu press describes the immediate aftermath of the incident in the following terms: As the firing ended some of us reached Frontier colony where most of the deceased and injured lived. People were extremely angry — a middle-aged man, Saifur Rahman who also owns a hotel in Frontier Colony pleadingly asked us ‘was Pakistan created for this reason, so that the police could play with the lives of the poor?’ The children and relatives of the dead were uncontrolled in their grief and one only heard wailing and crying all over the colony.37

These two incidents on two consecutive days created a wildfire strike in all the labour areas of the city and industrial production in SITE and the Landhi–Korangi area came to a halt for 12 days. Over 900 hundred units were closed while workers wore black badges and red and black flags flew from nearly all factories in Karachi. The impact was felt all over the country — workers went on strike in many industrial units in Hyderabad, Sind and in other parts of the province. In Punjab, trade union leaders organised protest marches and their offices flew black flags to show their solidarity with their comrades in Karachi.38

The Post-Event Eight labour federation39 leaders along with eight workers’ representatives organised a Joint Action Committee to respond to the series

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of events that had occurred.40 The Committee held the police officers and district commissioner41 responsible for the killings and demanded their immediate suspension. In its negotiation with the Committee, the state was unwilling to discuss the issue of suspension of the officials. Some leaders complained about the state representatives dragging their feet. They would meet the Provincial Labour Minister, Abdus Sattar Gabol, on one day, the Governor of Sind, Mir Rasool Baksh Talpur, on the next and waited on the Chief Minister, Mumtaz Bhutto, on the third. In turn, all three government officials relayed their discussions to President Bhutto. In the meantime, the workers’ demands had also increased to include the release of all workers arrested after the killings and the withdrawal of the cases against them. The state partially agreed to these demands and said it would provide civic amenities in labour colonies, but would not agree on the issue of suspension of the responsible officials. After not meeting the labour leadership for two days, on 15 June, the Provincial Labour Minister unilaterally announced that an agreement had been reached. The government had decided to set up a one-member inquiry board headed by a High Court judge and decided that some officials would be transferred. There were other vague promises about the release of arrested workers from custody and about civic benefits for the striking workers. The government’s offer was contrary to the agreements that the labour leaders had earlier negotiated with the provincial government.42 The Joint Action Committee was caught by surprise. The government strategy was clearly to undermine their status and to portray them as incompetent in front of the workers. Some among the leadership, however, argued that to sustain the movement any longer would create economic hardships for the workers themselves and a more volatile situation could ensue. They suspected that the state, by extending the negotiation period, wanted precisely that to happen and expected the workers’ unity to unravel — some workers would return to work in desperation to feed their families. Fearing that prolonging the movement may aid the government’s plan to manipulate the situation to its own advantage, the Committee decided to accept the state’s demands. The leaders had met in a marathon session to weigh the pros and cons of the government’s offer and to assess their own strength. Some SITE leaders were in favour of prolonging the strike for a few more days to put more pressure on the government to accede to their demands. Others in the coalition did not feel

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confident that they could control the situation further and thought that the Landhi area may not be able to sustain the strike and hence the workers’ unity would be undermined. But prior to giving its reply to the government it sought to put the issue in front of a people’s court (avami adalat).43 On 16 June, labourers and their leaders met at an open rally near Benaras Chowk (the site of the earlier police firing). The leadership of different federations within the Committee had decided, by consensus, to persuade the workers to bring the strike to an end. However, when the leaders spoke, there was a total confusion of line and action. Some spoke to the emotional and angry crowd to accept the demands while others continued to shout for blood and created such fervour among the workers that the gathering was dispersed with a decision to continue the strike. A group of workers also raised slogans like ‘khun becha pani liya’ (exchanged water for our blood) against the negotiating team and accused them of betraying the workers as they had accepted the government’s false promises of civic benefits (for example, piped water connections) and had not demanded justice for the deaths of their fellow workers. Although the workers, by raising slogans, were clearly showing their extreme disappointment and rage at not receiving a just solution to their demands, some of the slogans and disruption at this event can be attributed to the rivalry among different left wing political groups vying for the workers’ support. The MMF, as mentioned previously, was the most organised and prominent group in the SITE area and its leadership (in particular Usman Baluch) had emerged as the leaders of the movement, yet there were other labour organisations that were jockeying for this position as well. The Labour Organising Committee (LOC), which had larger numerical strength in the Landhi–Korangi area, was affiliated to a pro-China communist group.44 This group was critical of the MMF for not providing a more revolutionary direction to the strike and also challenged the other labour federation leaders on their credentials to negotiate on behalf of the workers.45 Similarly, there were other political workers who were close to the pro-Moscow communist party that had its major influence in parts of Sind, especially Hyderabad. The following day, after a long procession, workers assembled at a city park.46 The leaders tried afresh to convince the workers to resume their duties. The workers remained vociferous in their opposition to the idea of ending the strike and asked the leaders not to compromise

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with the government. They kept raising slogans like ‘khun ka badla khun’ (blood for blood) and persisted with their defiant posture until a shop floor leader, Bawar Khan, took the microphone and finally succeeded in persuading the workers to end the strike.47

The Multiple Responses As much as the strike showed labour solidarity among various groups, it is also an interesting example that highlights the differences and competing politics among the movement’s leadership and their allied left wing political groups. The strike leaders, along with the striking workers, had participated in the pro-democracy movement of the late 1960s alongside some of the left elements in the PPP. They had struggled together against the bureaucracy and the army. In this regard the most outspoken of the PPP left leaders, Mairaj Mohammad Khan, was reported to have made a statement that if the Deputy Commissioner could not see the coffin of the workers when the firing started, he would soon see the coffins of major industrialists (reported in Pakistan Times, 13 June 1972).48 Khan, while speaking to me,49 reiterated that the police firing was purposefully encouraged by the bureaucracy and the industrialists themselves to undermine the pro-worker government and isolate the more radical cadres of the party.50 Leaders like Khan and others in the PPP left, however, also feared that by prolonging the strike, long-term political benefits could be lost as the party could take on a rigid position and become dominated by the more retrogressive forces within it. Other left leaning groups, like leaders of the pro-Peking Mazdoor Kissan Party (MKP)51 made statements about how Pashtuns (instead of the working poor) were being killed in Karachi.52 The pro-Peking National Awami Party (NAP),53 true to its Maoist line, also criticised the movement. In a statement, the party praised and honoured the sacrifices of the workers but called it a directionless movement that could not succeed in bringing about meaningful change unless the peasants were included in the struggle with a comprehensive programme for revolutionary transformation.54 As this strike progressed, a section of the middle-class muhajir population in Karachi was gearing up for another fight. The creation of Bangladesh and the dissolution of the one-unit system had opened up the long dormant language and ethnicity question in Pakistani politics.55 Within this context, as the labour struggle was continuing in

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Karachi, there was a corresponding move by the Sind government, as a response to sustained demands by the Sindhi people, to restore the original status of Sindhi as a compulsory second language in schools. The bill also favoured, without prejudice to the national language (Urdu), the gradual learning of Sindhi by all provincial government officials. This bill created a violent reaction by a large section of Karachi’s muhajir population that was closely aligned with the Urdu language and its constructed linkage with Muslim nationalism.56 As a result of the language conflict in Karachi, some non-muhajir trade union leaders with whom I spoke remember that the muhajir workers of larger industrial units did not participate as much in the 1972 movement as the Pashtun and up-country workers who dominated in the textile mills. This may be quite probable as working conditions in the non-textile heavy industry sector, where muhajirs were in majority as workers, was far better than the one prevalent in the textile mills. The situation reflected a hierarchy of labour positions, where those who were better off did not culturally or politically identify with the larger struggle. However, the comments by my informants may also represent a contemporary emphasis on identity politics in Pakistan and signify Karachi’s recent history of ethnic violence that has at times polarised the city.57 In contrast to these leaders, rank and file workers remembered the period as one in which ethnic difference did not play any role and muhajirs, Pashtuns and Punjabis, workers of all ethnicities, participated equally in the strike. Having said so, it has to be admitted that such formulations may represent a yearning for simpler times for these workers who in recent years have suffered much, economically and in some cases through loss of lives, due to the increase in ethnic conflict and violence in Karachi. As a response to civic unrest in the city, the government portrayed the situation as being manipulated by anti-state elements that were simultaneously creating language disturbances and labour problems.58 Anti-state, in this context, basically meant to be working for India or the Soviet Union. The PPP government invoked this anti-communist rhetoric to attack the National Awami Party (NAP), especially its proMoscow wing, along with other groups that remained a political threat from the left for the PPP.59 This inference was laced in the ethnic and political culture of Pakistani society. The pro-Moscow NAP had its power base in the North West Frontier Province (NWFP) and in Baluchistan (both provinces having large Pashtun populations), where it had won provincial elections and formed the state government

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(in NWFP as a coalition partner with Jamiat Ulema Islam (JUI)). By calling the predominantly Pashtun striking workers anti-state, the PPP leadership was seeking to discredit the NAP (pro-Moscow) by linking it to Pashtun nationalism and as a Soviet stooge within Pakistani politics. The NAP (pro-Moscow) was indeed nationalist in orientation with a broad progressive agenda, but had very little influence on the actual workers in Karachi during the strike that was being led to a large extent by the more locally-based MMF and its allied leadership. Bhutto personally, in a briefing to the press, however, sought to link the MMF with the NAP (pro-Moscow).60 Further, the Chief Minister of Sind, Mumtaz Ali Bhutto, who was the administrative head of the province, seldom met the labour leaders during the negotiations. He delegated this work to the governor who was a representative of the federal government. Yet Mumtaz Bhutto did meet some Pashtun civic leaders and asked for their help in restoring civic peace within the city. This gesture was clearly to inculcate an idea that the labour strike was not a class issue or one of law and order, but specifically a Pashtun problem.61 With such a move against the NAP and by playing the ethnic card, the PPP was also echoing a more deep-seated political rhetoric in Pakistan’s political history. Khan Abdul Wali Khan, President of the pro-Moscow NAP, was the son of Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the Pashtun nationalist leader.62 This family had historically been portrayed as anti-Pakistan by Pakistan’s political establishment due to Ghaffar Khan’s close association with the Indian National Congress in the years preceding the independence of Pakistan. Moreover, the pro-Moscow NAP was one of the few political parties in Pakistan that had not only condemned army action in East Pakistan (while the PPP left had supported it) but considered the Indian army’s involvement in the former eastern wing as a support to the liberation struggle of the Bengali people. The party had also called for Bangladesh’s recognition after its creation.63 It is hence conceivable that Bhutto wanted to paint the NAP (pro-Moscow) as anti-Pakistan early on in his tenure. This argument holds if we analyse the accusation that NAP was fomenting the labour struggle as creating a political space for the future dismissal of the NAP governments in Baluchistan and NWFP, which Bhutto eventually carried out in 1973. In addition to the ethnic card, the PPP government continuously tried to challenge the trade unions’ claims of representing the workers by evoking its own history of introducing labour friendly laws and

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representing the true aspirations of the working masses. The state periodically argued that a disciplined work force was important for production and if the workers behaved then the state would deliver on its promise of fending for their just rights.64 This paternalistic attitude toward the workers was surprisingly close to that of the trade unionist leadership. At the level of the trade union leadership, there was a genuine fear of the chaotic and anarchic potential of the workers themselves. The leaders, in interviews, continuously stressed that the movement was like an exploding volcano.65 They argued that workers were finally taking out their frustration after years of oppression by the previous regimes. In saying this, they emphasised the untrained nature of the labour force. They highlighted the lack of discipline that comes from not being part of organised trade unions that gives workers a sense of working within the decisions made by the trade union leadership and hence inculcates within them the understanding of when to go forward and when to stop. The mob-like character of the labour movement needed to be checked as it could set dangerous precedents for prolonged anarchic violence.66 The workers who had lived through the strikes, however, in speaking to me, painted a different picture of workers’ discipline and life during the struggle. Many with whom I spoke still remembered the strike in June 1972 as a pivotal moment in their lives. In comparison to the uncertainties that they faced in contemporary life, with little job security, contract labour and other social and economic difficulties, they recall their participation in the strikes for better pay and living conditions as an empowering phase in their lives. One of them said, ‘if such a movement begins today we shall be delivered benefits at home’. Clearly, they were proud of the fact that they controlled the SITE area and the government was forced to recognise their strength. They also explained that despite provocations in the form of police harassment and periodic arrests of labour activists, not a single untoward or violent act could be attributed to the labour movement, an example of their discipline and solidarity that was unprecedented. They spelt out in great detail how within the colonies people survived through mutual help and through the generosity of local shopkeepers who would provide food items and other essentials on loan to the families of the striking workers. They offered these stories as examples of how the workers’ just cause was appreciated and reciprocated in the community at large. This may be a romantic picture of their past, but it

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needs to be understood with reference to the precarious conditions of their present day life.

The Paternal Unions An understanding of Pakistani trade union leadership comes from a recent review of a book on the subcontinent’s trade union politics. In this review, the late sociologist Hamza Alavi67 argues that historically, Pakistani trade union leaders were primarily middlemen (labourlawyers) between the working masses and Pakistan’s government sponsored a highly bureaucratised system of labour arbitration. The government created institutions such as labour courts and tribunals, gave authority to officials in labour departments to mediate labour disputes, and created a maze of laws and procedures that made it virtually impossible for local factory based leadership to negotiate with the state. Professional trade union leadership consisting of the labour-lawyers, Alavi stresses, represented the labourers in government designated forums and had very little incentive to change this system of redress as it only strengthened their own position in relation to the rank and file workers. My own interviews with workers and left wing student leaders who were active during 1972 confirm the gap depicted by Alavi in this review. This form of leadership was not much different from the one discussed by Dipesh Chakrabarty (1989) in his text on jute workers in colonial Bengal. Chakrabarty shows how the relationship between the leadership and the workers was one that can be read within the idiom of babu-coolie, where the babus (trade union leaders) held office outside the factory, occasionally writing petitions or holding meetings at different venues (1989:154). He continues to argue that the Bengali left leadership remained entrenched in a paradox where they sought to radicalise the workers yet themselves were situated in a hierarchical relationship with the labouring poor. Similarly, in the 1972 movement, the trade unionists spoke of representing and leading the workers. Not unlike the state, the predominantly urban leadership sought to contain the chaotic potential that they saw in the workers. The majority of the non-Urdu speaking (muhajir) workers were considered bodies that needed to be tamed and organised. They were seen as newly urban people who had yet to shed their tribal culture steeped in hierarchical social relations. For that matter, they may have been conceived as peasants who could not represent themselves but needed to be educated into being a part

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of the trade union culture of discipline and constraint, giving them a distance from their non-egalitarian past towards an egalitarian membership into a democratic process.68 In this process, the trade union leaders always retained the onus of educating and guiding. In the 1972 movement, the example of this distance was evident when the shop floor leader Bawar Khan asked the workers to agree to the terms of ending the strike for the second day in a row. Even though multiple trade union leaders had implored with the workers to end the strike, they remained unconvinced and kept on raising slogans. Bawar Khan then took the microphone and made a very passionate speech for almost three quarters of an hour. Bawar was extremely popular among the workers and was famous for his integrity and honesty. He made appeals against disunity and warned the labourers that this is what the government was looking for. He asked the workers to use their brains instead of being emotional; in this he was echoing the words of Nabi Ahmed, the veteran trade unionist who had unsuccessfully sought to convince the workers on both days. He also swore on his children that he would never betray the labourers and would always work for their benefit. Finally, he used the example of the leadership as being generals who unlike the generals of the Pakistani Army would not let the jawans (foot-soldiers) down.69 By swearing on his children, Bawar Khan invoked an important cultural symbol. He asked the labourers to agree with the leaders and trust them on the decision of stopping the strikes, stressing that if there were to be an underhand deal with the government on this issue, then blight and ill-health may come on his own children. To invoke the supernatural and God’s wrath on his own kin was an idiom that was familiar to the majority of the participants, a somewhat unmodern belief within a gathering of the ‘vanguard proletariats’.70 The use of the language of generals and foot-soldiers, which finally convinced the workers to stop the strike, may have had multiple meanings for the workers as well. As mentioned, a majority of the workers were ethnically Pashtun. There is a tradition among the Pathans of avenging their dead and of safeguarding their honour (Pakhtunwali). Such histories were tempered by the participation of Pashtuns in India’s freedom struggle under the guidance of Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the Frontier Gandhi. Ghaffar Khan in the 1930s and 1940s, as Mukulika Banerjee (2000) describes, persuaded Pashtun tribes to end their internal feuding to discipline themselves into nonviolent

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nationalist political actors, the Khudai Khitmatgars. This transformation, as Guha (1994) also suggests, was by taming the more autonomous local sentiments into those of a controlled national movement that responded to their leaders. The Khudai Khitmatgars would have training camps and a hierarchy of officials who had titles of captain, major and general (Banerjee 2000). Some older workers may have participated in the nationalist movement themselves, others may have had fathers, uncles and elder brothers who were Khudai Khitmatgars. Among the workers there may have been a memory steeped in a construction of an officer corps that was far more egalitarian — where a person of low social position or social status could attain a high rank — than the regular Pakistan Army, where lineage, social status and wealth, to a large degree, determined a vast gulf between the commissioned officers and the rest of the men. Hence Bawar Khan’s use of the military metaphor, even though steeped in a language of hierarchy, may have resonated within the framework of an historical experience of the radicalised Pashtun workers. Yet, the appeal to the workers in a language of army generals and soldiers does not conform (Khudai Khitmatgars or otherwise) to the ideal of voluntary contractual relationship that is commonly linked with bourgeois and modern notions of a democratic trade union movement. Rather, it falls back on the imagery of the unquestioned trust and loyalty of a more hierarchical order. I argue that the trade union movement’s leadership at this juncture, irrespective of its rhetoric of radical change, did not want to go beyond pushing for liberal democratic rights of association, speech and state welfare. Understanding that the workers had not become disciplined and trained enough (they were still emotional: not using their brains) for the final transcendence beyond a capitalist bourgeois order. The halting of the strike needs to be, therefore, understood within such analytical parameters.

The Continuing Struggle While the crisis in the SITE area came to a somewhat unsure end, labour strife intensified in the Landhi–Korangi area. This was the newer of the two industrial areas and the labour federations were not as entrenched among the unions there. This area had almost 300 industrial units employing 80,000 workers. After the 1969 IRO, when CBAs were allowed to operate openly, young radicals who had come up from the shop floor and had connections with outside/underground

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communist groups started forming unions that in many industries defeated the older federations or management supported unions. During the ongoing struggle in the early 1970s, the workers had formed the Landhi–Korangi Labour Organising Committee (LOC) to press for demands that were similar to the ones in the SITE area. However, the radicalised nature of the workers in some mills led to the taking over of the mills rather than their mere encirclement, which was the favoured form of action in SITE. The workers occasionally took management officials hostage to stress their demands. In a case consisting of dismissals and arrests of union leaders in a governmentowned factory71 in September 1972, the LOC demanded their release and as a show of protest ordered a two-hour strike every day until the demands were met. Sirens would be heard from one factory to another and workers would bring production to a stop. To intensify their struggle, the workers organised a 60-hour strike in sympathy of the arrested workers. The workers raised their demands further and asked to be paid for the strike period along with the release of their fellow workers.72 This situation prevailed until early October when a faction of the workers decided to occupy two mills — Gul Ahmed Textiles and Dawood Cotton. As a response, large contingents of the provincial police and paramilitary forces were deployed by the state. The workers threatened to blow up the boiler of one of the mills if the police dared enter the premises. The police then cut off the power and gas supply of the mills. An attack on the workers inside these mills was imminent. The occupying labour leaders spurned mediations by leftleaning PPP leaders and other trade union leaders.73 They claimed that the SITE leadership had failed in pursuing the workers’ cause and had surrendered the momentum, gaining nothing in return from the state. It was the Muslim month of Ramadan and at dawn on 18 October 1972, while the workers were preparing for their breakfast, the police bulldozed the factory walls and entered the premises of the occupied mills. Official reports give an account of four dead and over 50 injured, while eyewitnesses claim that mortality rates were far higher. The leadership within the mills managed to flee and the next day regrouped on the hills adjacent to the industrial area. A few days later, another firing incident occurred in these hills; three more people were killed. The army, for the first time after its 1971 defeat, was eventually called in to control the situation and the workers were forced back to work under their supervision. This ended the confrontation of 1972.

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The extreme action by the state corresponded to the extreme position taken by the workers. Unlike the SITE area, the Landhi–Korangi trade unions were politically closer to the Labour Organising Committee, whose leadership, as mentioned above, was influenced by a pro-China communist group. The group itself had internal factions; Mairaj Mohammad Khan, the minister in the PPP government, was also a member of this group. While Khan sought to mediate between the government and the striking workers, other members of this proChina group — like Zainuddin Khan Lodhi and Rashid Hasan Khan, a charismatic student leader — were more militant in their approach toward the strike.74 These leaders, along with radical elements in other communist groups like the MKP, guided the workers. They believed that the state had become weak due to its defeat in East Pakistan/ Bangladesh and the workers had finally arisen from their slumber. This, according to them, was an insurrectionary moment much like 1917 in Russia. They argued that once the state violence against the working classes was exposed, the nation and all the progressive forces would rise in their support and sweep the state away. People I spoke to also attested to the fact that the LOC members had felt sidelined during the SITE upheaval earlier in the summer and had not agreed with the way the strike had ended. The Landhi strike was their response to the Bhutto government for its atrocities.75 It should be noted that although in the SITE area there was much worker anger against the industrialists, the strike itself was spontaneous and was a reaction to the killings on 7 and 8 June. In Landhi, the events that led to the confrontation were partly created by the workers and their leaders. How idealistic their non-compromising position was is an endless debate among left wing cadres to this day. Some argue against the workers’ position as having been evidence of left wing extremism and others say that the indisciplined workers did not know when to stop. What remains unanalysed in these debates are the points of view of the workers themselves. It is still an open question why so many participated and under what conditions and for what kinds of imaginary future were they willing to risk their lives. Much research needs to be done on this very crucial aspect of the 1972 struggle. Yet, the left debates echo the intellectual hierarchy and physical distance between those on the receiving end of state violence and those who made theoretical plans for this tragedy. By continuously reframing the events in terms of whether it was the correct moment to confront the state, such arguments reinsert and reduce the multiplicity and

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plurality of the struggle, merely subordinating these issues to a predetermined point of view of whether it was a progressive or a retrogressive move (see Ranciere 1983: 1–16).

The Aftermath In its effort to re-establish state authority after the debacle in Bangladesh, the Bhutto government not only crushed the radicalised movement, but sought to reconfigure the working class according to its own vision of clientilist politics. There was also severe repression, in the shape of arrests and dismissals, of any dissenting voice from within the working class. Bawar Khan, the working class leader, who, through his oratory, had convinced the workers to stop the strike, was arrested and tortured for several days soon after the strike ended. Economic and social pressures to feed his family forced him to take a job as a ship hand. He left the country for some years and never entered active labour politics again. Such examples made others uneasy about entering the arena of confrontational politics. Even PPP members and ministers like Mairaj Mohammad Khan were not spared. Khan resigned as Minister of State in protest against the October action in the Landhi area. In November 1973, he resigned from the basic membership of the party in opposition to the increasing undemocratic character of the Bhutto regime.76 He was also later arrested and tortured in prison on charges of aiding the popular insurrection in Baluchistan. There is no doubt that Bhutto’s labour laws gave workers unheard of benefits in Pakistan’s labour history. Allowances for inflation, social security benefits, old age pension, increased participation in management by workers, increase in the per centage of workers’ participatory fund from 2.5 per cent to 5 per cent and increase in gratuity funds are some of its salient features. However, the trade union movement also suffered immensely in this period. Labour laws were periodically announced without taking into account the labour’s point of view. Strikes were broken up through administrative and coercive means. There was a continuation of centralised and bureaucratised handling of industrial disputes as the state’s labour department and the newly formed Industrial Relations Commission became prominent in coercing or corrupting the labour leadership. In nationalised industries, people were given employment far beyond the maximum requirement, thus diluting the influence of the existing unions and helping in the formation of a PPP supportive union. Some prominent labour leaders were given material incentives

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to support the state machinery and a general corruption of values seeped into the movement. Through the introduction of the quota system, workers in most state industries were hired according to regional and ethnically fixed quotas. This move, while providing jobs to those who were earlier excluded on the basis of their ethnicity, also divided the working class according to ethnic criteria where vertical linkages became more important than horizontal solidarity. The collapse of the textile industry in the mid 1970s led to a largescale dislocation of textile workers. The immigration of Pakistani labour to the oil-rich Arab Gulf states also brought with it a qualitative change in the labour movement. In an ongoing saga of deprivation, Bhutto’s overthrow by another military regime intensified the brutality against labour organisations during General Zia ul-Haq’s tenure (1977–88). That untold history needs a detailed discussion in another or several other texts. Today the low level of unionisation, contract labour, flexible manufacturing regimes and the dominance of informal sector work creates new challenges for those involved in organising the workers. Bhutto’s government, inclusive of its populist rhetoric and attempts to institute reform in Pakistan’s cultural and political life, continued to harass and persecute any and all political opposition within and outside the party, from the left or from the right of the political spectrum. One of the most egregious acts was the dismissal of the Baluchistan NAP government in 1973 on the pretext that it was receiving arms shipments from Iraq and was involved in a conspiracy with the Soviet Union and Iraq to break up Pakistan and Iran. This dismissal led to the protest and the subsequent resignation of the NAP–JUI coalition government in NWFP. On a more serious note, it led to a popular armed insurgency in Baluchistan that was brutally crushed by the PPP government. Bhutto provided the Pakistan military a free reign in that province; enabling the military to return to public life after its defeat in East Pakistan and the creation of Bangladesh. This invigorated the military, which later, through a coup in 1977, forced Bhutto out of power.

Concluding Discussion The timing of the labour movement coincided with one of the most vulnerable periods in history of Pakistan. The division of the country and the overthrow of a dictatorial regime opened up a political space for radical change that was unprecedented in the nation’s life.

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It is argued by some (see Shaheed 1977; Ali 1983; Shaheed 1983) that during this movement the working class had, for the first time, shed its narrow economistic demands and confronted the state for broader political gains. This celebration of emancipation is prefigured in a move towards becoming a class unto itself and may reflect an analytical trope on historical writings on the working class. In a rethinking of this argument in this article, I suggest that the cleavages within the working class itself were just beneath the surface. Differences based on political affiliation, region, language and ethnicity were dividing the working class in this period as there were simultaneous efforts to consolidate a united front of working class rights by some trade union leaders and radical political activists. Following Dipesh Chakrabarty’s (1989) work on Bengali working class politics in the early twentieth century, I submit that class-based solidarities and alliances are created in specific moments of struggle for certain immediate goals and may coexist with other solidarities that may encompass differences in language, region and ethnicity. To question the dichotomy between the positivity of class alliances and the negativity of ‘earlier’ forms of identity formation is to rethink the teleology in which labour history may find itself and to rethink how in different geographies a history of emancipation and struggle may take varied forms. Further, I maintain a distance from those historical representations of struggle that tend to exclude force, uncertainty, domination, disdain and confusion by normalising the struggle, evacuating its messiness — making it part of a narrative of assured advance toward a specified outcome (Pandey 2001: 4–5). Rather than show a united labour movement, I have tried to show the different ways in which the left itself was divided and also the distance between the leadership and the workers themselves. In light of Ranajit Guha’s work (1994), I hence also show how the trade union leaders sought to discipline an undisciplined and autonomous subaltern collectivity that would respond to the desires of the leadership. Yet, the final word belongs to the workers themselves. In their interviews with me, some rank and file workers from the SITE area lamented how they only wanted those who had ordered the firing dismissed from their jobs. One said, ‘but the leaders told us to take two steps backwards, as Mao had proclaimed.77 We took two steps back and look at us now. We just have contractual jobs, if that, no unions and we are definitely worse off’.78 This criticism of their leaders

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is, however, less severe than the comments offered to me by some workers. The PPP government’s performance was always couched in terms of betrayal. For example, as one worker put it, …We were in the People’s Party, we went to jail for the PPP. All of us had a lot of expectations from them. We wanted change and our work should be worth something. But he (Bhutto) was a feudal, he was not sincere toward the workers and he crushed them.79

A similar sentiment is echoed in the interpretation of the PPP’s famous slogan ‘mang raha hai har insan, roti, kapra aur makan’ (every human is asking for food, clothes and shelter) that several workers offered me. The workers, even after more than 30 years, interpreted the slogan as follows: ‘Bhutto kept his promise…roti ki jagah goli mili, kapre ki jagah kafn aur makan ki jagah qabr’ (We received bullets in place of food, burial shrouds in place of clothing and graves were given to us as our shelter).

Notes ∗ Funding for this research was provided by a Mellon Faculty Grant from the Population Research Center, University of Texas, Austin, Summer Faculty Grant UT, Austin and by a fellowship at the International Institute of Asian Studies, Leiden. I thank the staff and archivist at the International Institute of Social History (IISH), Amsterdam, the National Archives, Washington D.C., Pakistan Institute of Labour, Education and Research (PILER), Karachi and the Dawn (newspaper) library, Karachi. Earlier versions of the article were presented at the IISH, Labour and History conference in Karachi (December 1999) and at the offices of the journal Irteqa (Karachi). I thank the organisers and participants of those events for their encouragement and comments. I sincerely thank Karamat Ali, Nawab Ali Zahid Hussein, Ahmed Kamran, Gail Minault, Ratna Saptari, Hameeda Sikander, Denise Spelberg, Razi ul Hasan and Marcel van der Linden for their support and critical input in the writing of this text. I would also like to thank Juan Cole and Alissa Surger along with the four anonymous reviewers of this article for the International Journal of Middle East Studies for their close reading and critical input. Finally, I remain indebted to my various informants who willingly shared the life histories with me. The responsibility for the final shape of the article rests with me. 1. The salient feature of the policy included participation of labour representatives in the management, more democratic grievance procedures, access to labour courts by either party, increase in profit sharing, non-payment of medical dues by workers with increased employer’s contribution and workmen compensation in case of death or injury.

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2. Address to the nation on 10 February 1972. 3. During the late 1960s, students and workers led movements in many parts of the world. The anti-war movement in the United States, the student protests in France, the Prague Spring and the Naxalite movement in India, to name a few. All had particular histories and need to be understood within their own context. 4. The Chauri Chaura incident of February 1922. 5. For example, major activist/leaders of the trade union movement and also members of various communist groups — Nayab Naqvi, Nazish and Zaki Hasan, among scores of others — have passed away in the last four years. 6. This argument was constantly repeated to me by many left wing intellectuals whom I interviewed. 7. ILO Report on the Pakistan Survey, 1953. Unpublished. 8. One of the major accomplishments of the state of Pakistan was to encourage the formation of the All Pakistan Confederation of Labour (APCOL) in the early 1950s as a counterweight to the communist supported labour federations, especially the Pakistan Trade Union Federation (PTUF). APCOL was affiliated to the International Confederation of Free Trade Unions (ICFTU), the major anti-communist international confederation of labour which had its headquarters in Belgium. See Anthony Carew (1996: 147–81), (1998: 25–42). 9. Interview with Usman Baluch, President of the Mutahida Mazdoor Federation in 1972 and one of the major leaders of the labour movement (Karachi, summer 1998). 10. Concentration of wealth in Pakistan by the end of the 1960s was argued by experts to be with 22 families that controlled 87 per cent of the banking and insurance and 66 per cent of the industrial wealth of the country. See Amjad, Industrial Concentration and Shahid Javed Burki (1988). An interesting analysis of this period is also given in Tariq Ali (1970). 11. Mohammad Ahmed in Dawn, 13 December 1970. ‘The New Labour Policy’. 12. Dawn, 16 January 1972. Shaheed (1983:280). 13. Maulana Bhashani was a leader of one section of the National Awami Party (NAP) that was pro-Peking in orientation. 14. Makranis (lit: belonging to the Makran coast of Baluchistan) are ethnically Baluch yet are descendants of the Indian Ocean slave trade from Africa. They, along with other Baluch workers, have been a part of Karachi’s fishing and seafaring industry since the nineteenth century. The Karachi Baluch were somewhat politically distinct from the nationalist Baluch of the Kalat state and other districts of Baluchistan proper. 15. This domination was also evident within the Communist Party of Pakistan (CPP). Since the Party’s inception during the Calcutta congress of Communist Party of India (CPI) in 1948, its leadership positions, in the early years at least, were primarily held by muhajirs. 16. After the surrender of the Pakistan Army to the Indian forces in the eastern sector (Bangladesh) on 16 December 1971, ceasefire negotiations intensified

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18.

19. 20.

21.

22. 23.

24.

25. 26.

27. 28.

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and eventually, the military regime was removed through an internal coup, Bhutto being named President in late December 1971. See Dawn, Karachi for the month of January 1972; especially see news item on the interview given by Mairaj Mohammad Khan, President’s Advisor for Public Affairs in Karachi (Dawn, 1 January 1972). Also this analysis is based on interviews with Usman Baluch (Karachi, summer 1998) and Nabi Ahmed (Karachi, summer 1998) who was the General Secretary of the Pakistan Workers Federation in 1972. Both were prominent leaders in the labour movement. At times, this led to forcibly confining the management of a factory to their offices until they agreed to the union’s demands. See news report in Business Recorder (Karachi English daily), 7 April 1972. See Dawn, 29 March 1972. One of the first actions by the Bhutto government was the nationalisation of 32 industries and 40 insurance companies and banks. See Shahid Javed Burki (1988). The ‘foreign hand’, in most cases, referred to groups that were ostensibly working for either India or the Soviet Union’s interests. My intention here is not to prove or disprove whether such assertions had any merit; rather, I seek to present the rhetoric used by Bhutto’s government. Dawn, 7 January 1972 and 19 May 1972. Minister of Labour in the Punjab government, Mian Afzal Wattoo, while addressing the Lahore Chamber of Commerce, asked the business leaders and industrialists to prepare lists of undesirable elements in their respective concerns and deliver these lists to him. See Business Recorder (Karachi English daily), 17 May 1972. One of the most prominent among them was Mairaj Mohammad Khan; a Karachi-based leftist student leader and also a member of one of the proPeking communist groups. This particular group had, since the late 1960s, agreed to work with the PPP and had allowed some of its most prominent young members, like Mairaj Mohammad Khan, to join it. In the initial phase of the Bhutto regime, Khan became the Minister of State for Public Affairs. He had not participated in the elections as the communist party (pro-Peking) had decided not to let its members participate in the general elections of December 1970. See news items in Dawn, 4 April 1972 and 31 May 1972. See editorials in Leader (Karachi, English evening daily), 7 January 1972, Morning News (Karachi, English daily), 2 February 1972, and Business Recorder (Karachi English daily), 25 February 1972. Interview with Usman Baluch (Summer 1998) The Pakistani labour movement consisted (and still does) of various labour federations that are a collection of unions from different factories and work sites. Different federations have historically retained influence in particular sectors of the economy, for example among workers in the petroleum industry or port workers or the textile industry, but this pattern was not generalised. See Rifaat Hussein (1995). The federations that formed the Sind Workers’

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30.

31.

32.

33.

34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

40.

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Convention were — Sind Federation of Trade Unions, Pakistan Workers’ Federation, Muttahida Mazdoor Federation, Pakistan Trade Union Federation, Mazdoor Rabita Council and Pakistan Textile Labour Unions Federation. The following analyses of the police firing of 7 and 8 June 1972 are based on interviews with workers and trade union leaders who participated in the events. It also draws on the press reports in Karachi newspapers during this period. The Workers’ Participation Fund was the workers’ share in profit in a given industry. It was raised from 2.5 per cent to 4 per cent in the new labour laws announced by Bhutto in February of 1972. Some workers with whom I spoke remembered two people dying from bullet wounds outside and two within the mill compound. One worker attested that when they returned to work after the two weeks of strike, there was still dried, unwashed blood within the factory area and the workers created a makeshift grave for their comrades at this site. One of the labourers whose body was in police custody was named Raza Khan, while Mohammad Shoaib’s body was taken away by the workers themselves. See Dawn, 8 June 1972. Some of the names of the dead were Mohammad Nazeer, Rahimzada, Mian Usman Shah, Rashid and Khasta Rehman; all were workers in various textile mills in the SITE area. Stray bullets (Dawn, 9 June 1972) also killed an infant, Amirzada, and his mother. It is interesting to note that the only woman who was killed in this firing remains nameless in the multiple newspaper reports that I read and the interviews that I conducted. She is referred to only as the mother of an infant child. How women get erased from histories of struggle and national histories or their representation is relegated to the domestic domain is an important feature of my ongoing research and future work. See Joan Scott (1988) for a critical review of the issue. Huriyet (Urdu daily), 10 June 1972. These eyewitness accounts are based on interviews conducted in the summer of 2003. Editorial, Dawn, 10 June 1972. News report, Huriyet (Urdu daily), 10 June 1972. My translation. News report, Sun (Karachi English daily), 12 June 1972. A West Pakistan Joint Labour Council was already working at the national level since 1969. Its representatives were West Pakistan Federation of Trade Unions, West Pakistan Federation of Labour, Pakistan National Federation of Trade Unions, Pakistan Mazdoor Federation and West Pakistan Workers Federation (press release, West Pakistan Joint Labour Council; ISSH, ICFTU Files on Pakistan). The Action Committee included some of the same actors, but also some new, more radicalised groups such as the Mutahida Mazdoor Federation. Again, there was intense demand from the workers who insisted that shopfloor labourers be included in the Action Committee. This was a clear sign of mistrust of their own leadership in this process.

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41. Kanwar Idrees, the then Deputy Commissioner of Karachi (the most important civil administrative officer in the district), went on to have a very productive career in Pakistan’s elite civil service. 42. Dawn, 16 June 1972. 43. This summary is based on interviews with Usman Baluch and Nabi Ahmed (Karachi, summer 1998). 44. The Communist Party of Pakistan (CPP) was officially banned in 1954. It suffered its first setback when the CPP was accused of supporting a coup attempt being organised by some in the military (Zaheer 1998). The underground party survived as functioning body until the early 1960s, when it split due to ideological reasons into pro-Moscow and Pro-Peking factions. By the late 1960s these formations, especially the pro-Peking groups, had divided further into smaller groups. 45. These processes remain an immensely complicated topic in the history of the Pakistani left. It should also be mentioned that in some circles the Karachi labour struggle was being conceived as a competition between two PPP ministers, Mairaj Mohammad Khan and Abdul Hafeez Prizada (PPP Federal Minister who had won his parliamentary seat from Karachi), for the control of labour. Mairaj was supposedly favouring Usman Baluch, the MMF leader and Pirzada was favouring Tufail Abbas (General Secretary of the pro-Peking communist group and veteran trade union leader in the airline industry). (See ‘Pakistan Internal Political Situation,’confidential airgram from American Embassy in Islamabad, 13 October 1972. National Archives Pol-13 Pak, Box 2525). If this is accurate then it would interestingly show the cleavage within the pro-Peking communist group, as Khan would not be supporting the General Secretary of his own underground communist group. Khan, speaking to me (summer 2003), vehemently denied this analysis and formulation. 46. Nishtar Park in Central Karachi. It is historically famous for political rallies. 47. Dawn, 18 June 1972. 48. Khan, in an interview with me (summer 2003), did not dispute the thrust of the statement, yet argued that it was misreported. 49. Summer 2003. 50. Also see his statement in Dawn, 8 June 1972. 51. Disaffected members of the National Awami Party formed the Mazdoor Kisaan Party in the 1968. It was the first socialist/communist party in Pakistan that took the issue of working among the peasantry seriously and was successful in launching a peasant movement in the NWFP in 1970. 52. Dawn, 10 June 1972. 53. NAP had two factions — one was pro-Moscow and the other pro-China. These connections were made on the basis of the links these parties had with the banned underground communist parties that themselves were identified as either in the Soviet camp or with the Maoists. 54. News report, Dawn, 10 June 1972. 55. In 1955, the state of Pakistan had organised Pakistan into two provinces — West and East Pakistan (one-unit) — with total disregard to the various ethnic,

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57.

58. 59. 60.

61. 62. 63.

64.

65. 66. 67. 68.

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cultural, and linguistic histories and experiences of its people. The military government of General Yahya Khan (1968–71) finally dissolved the one-unit in 1970, creating the five provinces of Sind, Baluchistan, Punjab, NWFP, and Bengal, prior to the general elections in December. Urdu’s state-sponsored domination of high literary forms and the media has been at the expense of the systematic exclusion of other Pakistani languages and their cultural production from national life. For an analysis of this period see Feroz Ahmed (1998: 115). It is also important to state that these very same leaders in newspaper interviews given in 1972 stress class solidarity and how for the first time the worker had organised on the basis of their class affiliation without recourse to any other category of recognition. See Sun (Karachi daily), 2 September 1972. Dawn, 10 June 1972. There are numerous other news reports in the English and Urdu press during the period of the strike that attest to this position. I base the following paragraphs on NAP–PPP relations on interviews with political activists and on the work of Iqbal Leghari (1979). This was denied by Usman Baluch, President of the MMF, who, in a statement, said that the NAP accused them of siding with the PPP while the PPP linked them to the NAP. He stressed that the MMF was not connected to any political party. See Dawn, 12 June 1972. Editorial, Huriyet (Urdu daily), 17 June 1972. Also known as Badshah Khan or Bacha Khan (in Pushto). In this context, it is important to note that the NAP (pro-Moscow), under Wali Khan’s leadership, was itself going through an internal debate on the vital issue of provincial autonomy. Some within the party advocated a more forceful confrontation with the Bhutto government on the national question and push for the liberation of the NWFP (Sarhad) and Baluchistan, following the recent example of Bangladesh. Others, like the Baluch leader and governor of Baluchistan, Ghaus Bux Bizenjo, were more cautious and argued that the constitutional accord accepted by all political parties in early 1972 had settled the provincial autonomy issue and hence the party should oppose or support Bhutto on the merit of the issue. See ‘Baluchistan Governor Comments on Recent Political Development’, confidential airgram, Department of State, American Embassy, Islamabad, 29 September 1972; and National Archives, Pol 13-Pak, Box number: 2525. Also see PhD thesis, Iqbal Leghari (1979). This argument is best represented in an op-ed piece by Mohammad Hanif, the Federal Minister for Labour. See Morning News (Karachi English daily), 1 May 1972. Interview with Usman Baluch (Summer 1998). A theme echoed in mostly all newspaper editorials and also in interviews with various trade union leaders that were active at the time. Hamza Alavi, Review of Labour Legislation and Trade Unions in India and Pakistan by Ali Amjad (unpublished manuscript, 2002). I base this analysis on several interviews that I had with the trade union leaders who were active in 1972, and also with some underground communist

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71. 72.

73.

74.

75. 76. 77. 78. 79.

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activists of the time. I refrain to use their names due to sensitive political reasons. This paragraph is based on interviews with workers, trade union leaders, and on the reports in Dawn, 18 June 1972 and Huriyet (Urdu daily), 19 June 1972. This is historically not uncommon in South Asian politics. See Ranajit Guha in Chatterjee and Pandey (1994), on how Hindu caste notions of purity were used as forms of social coercion during the Swadeshi movement in early 20th century. Pakistan machine tool factory. Interviews with Aziz-ul-Hasan, union representative and activist during the Landhi struggle and Zahid Hussein (journalist) student and left wing activist during the 1972 movement (Karachi, summer 1998). The narrative in this section is based on a reconstruction of events from these interviews and newspaper reports. Mairaj Mohammad Khan (summer 2003) told me that he had met with the workers within the occupied mills and informed them that although the industrialist were agreeable to a compromise the provincial government, especially the Chief Minister, was interested in teaching the workers a lesson. Aziz-ul Hasan, one of the leaders of the occupation, had already mentioned this to me in an earlier interview (summer 1998). In interviews, some cadres who were politically active in 1972 told me that there was a major fascination with the ultra-left Naxalite movement in India among the leaders of the underground communist groups. Interview with workers active during 1972 within the LOC (summer 2003). I refrain from using their names due to sensitive political reasons. See Daily News (English daily) of 14 November 1973 for the full text of the resignation letter. The tract ‘One Step Forward, Two Step Backwards’ is by Lenin. Interview with Mohammad Khan, textile worker in 1972 (summer 2003). Interview with Mohammad Khan, textile worker in 1972 (summer 2003).

8

Jama’at-e-Islami Pakistan: Learning from the Left∗ Humeira Iqtidar Introduction Scholars of Islamist1 politics have long indicated that many Islamist parties cut their political teeth in combating the strength of leftist secular forces in countries as diverse as Egypt and Indonesia.2 While much has been written about the impact the Islamists have had on leftist and secular forces, there is very little understanding of how this engagement impacted the Islamists. The actual processes and details of this conflict-ridden interaction have not been explored enough to understand the influence it had on the Islamists in terms of their strategies, operations and policies. This article looks at the changes in Jama’at-e-Islami (JI) Pakistan’s stances and policies on feudalism since the early 1950s. In so doing it provides insights into the categories ‘religious right’ and ‘secular left’ which are used frequently in contemporary political discourse and scholarly analysis relating to Pakistan but which first congealed over the course of events from half a century ago. The term ‘feudalism’ has received much academic criticism over the last four decades. In the case of Pakistan, some have made the case that feudalism does not exist except in small pockets and that the agricultural economy has been deeply enmeshed in capitalist production since colonial times.3 In large part this view depends on a view derived from a definition of feudalism based on the European experience. My intention here is not to provide an analysis of the kind of feudalism present in Pakistan, but to point out how a party that came to be interpellated as the ‘religious right’ in collusion with the ruling powers also came to espouse a moral critique of feudalism and to uphold, however partially, the rights of workers and peasants. At the same time it is important to keep in mind that the term jagirdari nizam, which is a rough translation of feudalism, remains important in Pakistani colloquial use to denote a broad experience and understanding of

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severely unequal land holdings and the social and political relations that surround such unequal distribution. In other words, the JI did not so much attack feudalism as capitalise upon a widespread discontent based on the perception of deep inequality to extend its grassroots organisation. Consider a current event that suggests how JI has succeeded in monopolising the terms of discourse and the field of politics usually reserved for the left. When the Okara4 peasant movement, a cause celebre among liberal/left circles in Pakistan, began in mid 2000, the movement’s leaders originally approached the Kissan (Farmer) Board in their area. The Kissan Board, a non-governmental body, is closely associated with the Jama’at-e-Islami that famously opposed land reforms in the 1950s on the grounds that they were un-Islamic. The Okara movement started when the military agencies, which own close to 70,000 acres of land in Central Punjab, attempted to introduce a contract system rather than the traditional batai (sharecropping) system that has been in place for more than a century. Peasants working on these military lands rebelled against the contract system, protesting that this was the first step in a plan to eventually evict them and pave the way for corporate farming. That the Kissan Board was their first choice for highlighting their predicament implied a continuous relationship between the Board and the small farmers and peasants — critics of the Kissan Board and JI have admitted as much.5 The Board helped organise the initial protests — to which the military responded as militaries do! So far six peasants have been killed, dozens injured and the leaders of the movement have been jailed several times. The peasant movement has now split along issues of tactics and leadership, some elements remaining close to the Kissan Board and others moving closer to NGOs. The Kissan Board’s role in the Okara uprising remains controversial, as does the role of other players. Critics claim that the Kissan Board was too conciliatory towards the military, as well as too opportunistic in its zealous proselytising missions among the peasants, more than 80 percent of whom are Christians. Nevertheless, it is important to realise that no other national political party in Pakistan has institutional links, however tenuous, with peasants or small farmers — the movement’s other choice for an alliance were NGOs.6 No other national political party in Pakistan currently raises the issue of feudalism in its rallies except the JI.7 How did the Jama’at-e-Islami, a party whose ideology focused on transforming the muasir tabqa (the influential class) to change the state, develop linkages with the small farmers and the peasants

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of Okara? 8 To understand the JI today we need to understand the dynamics of its opposition to the ‘left’ in Pakistan. The Jama’at’s oppositional engagement with the ‘left’ had a deep impact on its strategies, constituencies and, ultimately, its stances on various issues — as a result, the JI extended its operations and interacted with segments of Pakistani society it would not have otherwise. This involvement was particularly intense during the late 1960s; in fact this period was important because, as I have said above, it was during this period that the categories of the ‘secular left’ and the ‘religious right’, the ‘modern’ and the ‘anti-modern’ were sharply delineated. The social and political characteristics attributed to members of each of these groups were demarcated then and it is these characteristics upon which policy-making and academic analysis rely even today. Two decades (1960s and 1970s) of often violent and certainly rancorous confrontations between the left and the Jama’at often ob-scure the fact that it was only after the mid 1960s that the Jama’at began to define itself almost exclusively in opposition to socialism. Maulana Syed Abul Ala Maududi’s earlier writings and the Jama’at’s work prior to this period had been premised on a critique of modernity and the West in general, of colonialism and its impact on Muslim societies, without any particular emphasis on communism and socialism.9 The confrontational engagement with the left during the 1960s shaped the Jama’at in important ways. The Jama’at learnt critical lessons about its own organisational capabilities and limitations, picked up strategies and issues and entered or extended its operations among groups like student and labour unions — a continued engagement which distinguishes it from other political parties in Pakistan today. All of these have, over time and in combination with other factors such as changes in the international political order10 and changes in JI leaders and their aspirations, led to significant modification in the Jama’at’s stance on various issues including democracy, feudalism, and women’s rights. Here, I have highlighted the alterations in the Jama’at’s stance on ‘feudalism’ by focussing on the Kissan Conference in Toba Tek Singh and the JI’s retaliatory Yaum-e-Shaukat-e-Islam (Day of Glory of Islam) to outline the process through which this shift occurred. There can be little doubt that the ‘left’ in Pakistan was not well entrenched in the wider society. Moreover, its intellectual leadership was part of the educated elite.11 However, the mobilisations of the 1960s and 1970s — generally conceived of as ‘leftist’ — with all

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their limitations, had a significant impact on the state and society in Pakistan and remain a key milestone in the country’s political history. The Jama’at’s contentious engagement with the left was a response in many ways to the potential inherent in these mobilisations, involving, as they did, a broader crosssection of Pakistani urban and rural society than ever before (Weinbaum 1996: 639–54). The impact of the left mobilisations of late 1960s and early 1970s has been immense, not just in the formation of various institutions and changes to the laws, but also significantly in signalling a shift in political and social relations. This shift had an impact not just on the expectations of the public but also defined the limits of government actions in some cases and certainly prescribed the context in which government actions had to be justified. What Bhutto called the ‘awamification’12 of Pakistan was not, as has been suggested, only the result of People’s Party of Pakistan policies, but part of a larger change that was sweeping through the country as a result of these mobilisations. This analysis is based on research in Punjab and focuses primarily on the interaction between the ‘left’ and the JI in this province. Punjab, provides an interesting and largely unexplored venue for an understanding of the dynamics of contemporary religious forces in Pakistan. Punjab’s domination of politics in Pakistan has been a source of tension with the other provinces and an area of some study.13 While many analysts have focussed on Sarhad14 and Balochistan15 — explicitly or implicitly — to understand Islamisation in Pakistan, there is very little work explaining the rise of Islamist groups in contemporary urban Punjab.16 Lahore, once an important centre of left mobilisations, has now emerged as a hub of religious mobilisations, hosting the head offices of some of the most important religious groups including Jama’at-e-Islami, Tablighi Jama’at and Jama’atud-Da’awa.

The Left and the Jama’at Before the 1960s The acrimonious and contentious relationship between the left groups, the ‘progressives’, and the Jama’at, ‘the fundamentalists’, so defined during the late 1960s and sharpened during the 1970s and 1980s, obscures a period when the differences were not so intense so as to prevent a coming together by some groups for specific aims. Ironically perhaps, given the sharp dichotomy between the ‘secular’ left and the ‘religious’ right personified for many by the JI, the earliest Muslim Communists in Punjab were in fact members of the religious

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Hijrat Movement. After the defeat of the Ottoman Khilafat by the British, these Muslims declared India Dar-al-Harb (Abode of War) and decided to move to the Muslim state of Afghanistan to be able to live their lives in close accordance to Islamic principles.17 The Afghan government was suspicious of their motives and the group moved to Tashkent where they were welcomed by the Soviet Union. However, fearing that they may be forced ‘to become atheists or to eat pigs’, the group moved on to Turkey where they were arrested by the Republic’s army. They were then ‘rescued’ by the Red Army and some among them joined the famous Indian communist M. N. Roy’s training camp in Tashkent; 28 of the group went to the University of Eastern Toilers. Some of them returned during the 1920s to set up and expand the Communist Party in India. Prominent Lahore communists from this group include Ferozeuddin Mansoor, Fazal Elahi Qurban, Abdul Majid and Akbar Khan.18 The role of the Communist Party of India (CPI) in the formation of Pakistan remains controversial. Pakistan, a state founded on the basis of religion, would seem the anti-thesis of the ‘secular’ leftist ideology that the JI would focus on in later years. Nevertheless, there seems to be significant evidence that points towards some level of collaboration between the Muslim League and the Communist Party in Punjab. Punjab was an extremely important province for Muslim League leadership, most of whom hailed from areas that are now in India. The dream of a Pakistan, whether as a separate geographical entity, a bargaining chip or a constitutional entity within a federated India, needed the support of the Punjabi Muslims. Up until the 1937 elections, the Punjabis rejected the Muslim League. In 1943, the CPI, in a thesis proposed by P. C. Joshi, the new party secretary, supported the Pakistan nationalist movement as the right of minority self determination (Zaigham 2004: 15). Some communists in Punjab worked very closely with the Muslim League after 1940.19 During the 1945–46 elections the communists arranged rallies and meetings for the Muslim League leadership, particularly among the rural communities. They helped the ML leaders with their speech writings and also delivered speeches at the League rallies.20 Danyal Latifi, a member of CPI, who worked very closely with Mumtaz Daultana, wrote the Punjab Muslim League Manifesto.21 This manifesto supported full employment, nationalisation of key industries, graduated taxation on land holdings and state land for landless peasants. It seems that

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the mass mobilisation that took place in Punjab, particularly rural Punjab, for the idea of Pakistan just before partition was given a major boost by the inclusion of communists in the campaign.22 In M. Maududi’s writings in the specific context of the Jama’at — in the various issues of Tarjuman ul Quran and in important essays such as ‘Musalman aur Maujooda Siyasi Kashmakash’ (Muslims and the Current Political Struggle) — we see that the menace of socialism is not separated from the overarching threat of Western modernity during the early period of the JI stretching up to the mid 1950s. Maududi’s earlier writings built a critique of modernity and Westernisation in general, not focussing exclusively on socialism or communism. Nasr (1996: 25) argues that Maududi’s own view against communism was crystallised during his stay in Hyderabad where the largely Hindu peasantry was challenging the Muslim Nizam’s rule during the Telangana Movement (Nasr 1996). Maududi viewed communism through the lens of communalism, seeing in it the seeds of the destruction of a Muslim ruler and a Muslim way of life. The main focus of his writings and activism remained the impact of colonialism, modernity and non-Muslim cultural influence, Western and Hindu. It was not until a direct political confrontation with ‘socialism’ was forced upon Maududi by the strength of leftist mobilisations in Pakistan during the 1960s that he engaged with it intellectually and politically in any sustained manner. In fact, Nasr (1996: 40–42) contends that Maududi viewed the Muslim League as his main competitor before partition and into Pakistan’s first decade as a country. Maududi also saw Mohammed Ali Jinnah as his nemesis in providing leadership to the Muslims of India.23 Soon after the formation of Pakistan, the JI saw the Communist Party of Pakistan as a tactical ally against its main enemy, the Muslim League. C. R. Aslam, a veteran left leader in Pakistani Punjab, recalls: After the partition, Muslim Leaguers would not allow anyone else to hold a rally or a demonstration. Jama’at Islami’s Maulana Maududi was also very annoyed with this situation. He said to me, ‘think of something’. I spoke to Ferozeuddin Mansoor and then the first demonstration we held in 1948 was in Mochi Gate. This rally was a joint Jama’at and Com-munist Party of Pakistan rally. On the stage, Ferozeuddin Mansoor and Maulana Maududi sat together.24

However, by the end of the 1960s such collaboration, albeit tactical, between the Jama’at-e-Islami and the left groups would

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become unthinkable. By this time the Jama’at began to define itself almost exclusively in opposition to socialism. The Toba Tek Singh Kissan Conference and the Shaukat-e-Islam demonstrations in its response serve as useful illustration of the Jama’at tailoring its responses to the strategies of the left.

Toba Tek Singh Kissan Conference and Yaum-e-Shaukat-e-Islam The Toba Tek Singh Conference epitomises, in some ways, the peak of broad multi-party leftist political mobilisation in Pakistan. Soon afterwards, the PPP became the political platform for most leftist mobilisations in West Pakistan, so that the PPP and the left became synonymous for many of the activists and their opponents. The eventual disillusionment with the PPP because of Bhutto’s authoritarian style and the persecution of PPP activists under Zia’s regime had a significant impact on leftist mobilisations in the country. The conference was organised at a time when the possibility of elections after 11 years of martial rule under General Ayub Khan (1958–69) had invigorated political energies. The National Awami Party, a key sponsor of the Toba Tek Singh Conference hoped to influence the contours of the election campaign through this conference. That the JI organised the Jalsa Shaukat-e-Islam in direct response to the Kissan Conference provides some insight into the way the JI was increasingly defining itself primarily in opposition to the left. A joint history of the Toba Tek Singh Conference and Jalsa Shaukat-e-Islam is also useful to highlight the different slogans of the time and to trace changes in the JI position since then. Toba Tek Singh is a small town, a qasba,25 close to the border of India in Pakistani Punjab. There were important symbolic and practical reasons for holding the conference there. Saadat Hasan Manto, onetime member of the Progressive Writers Association, had immortalised the name Toba Tek Singh through his eponymous masterpiece.26 Criticism of religion-based nationalism in that particular story, combined with Manto’s body of work defying social structures and his association with the Progressive Writers’ Association, came together to endow Toba Tek Singh with great symbolic resonance for left activists. The Toba and its surrounding areas had also been home to some of the key communist leaders of pre-partition Punjab including Sohan Singh Josh.27 Toba Tek Singh comprised primarily of small landholding peasant farmers but lay close to the periphery of large

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feudal lands of Jhang. The inhabitants of the town were relatively well off and educated. All of these factors had probably contributed to a higher than average level of political organisation and awareness in the qasba. As many a writer in left leaning magazines like Al-Fatah and Lail-o-nahar reminded readers, Toba Tek Singh was the only qasbah in Punjab in which Ayub Khan had only two more votes than Fatima Jinnah.28 Much before the Kissan Conference was held there, it was known as Pakistan’s own Leningrad.29 Hajra Masroor30 writing in Al-fatah, (September–October 1970: 13) notes that: Since the Kissan conference was held in this qasba, Toba Tek Singh’s name has certainly reached the nation’s newspaper readers. According to our newspapers the mentioned conference was a huge failure. Nevertheless all the leaders of our time have started to believe it is essential that they give a speech in Toba Tek Singh.

This gives some indication of the strength of reaction to the conference that was held from 23–25 March 1970. The decision to hold the Kissan conference was taken in 1969 and hectic mobilisations in Punjab (primarily Faisalabad, Jhang, Sargodha, Multan, Khanewal, Dera Ismail Khan and Sahiwal) laid the foundation of the conference.31 There was significant contention regarding the number of people who attended the conference, the organisers claiming close to 200,000 and the opponents as low as 75,000.32 Nevertheless the conference was important enough to receive continuous coverage on the front page of national dailies like Dawn and Pakistan Times33 for a few days. Maulana Bhashani, the Bengali leader of the National Awami Party (NAP), which was a key party in organising the Kissan conference, travelled in a special train from Lahore that also carried students, labourers, unionists and other activists. While NAP was the sponsor of the conference, Pakistan People’s Party (PPP), Labour Party, Islam League, Khaksars, Jamiat Ulama Pakistan, Pakistan Trade Union Federation (PTUF), Sind Hari Committee, National Students Federation (NSF), Awami Fikri Mahaz and West Pakistan Students Union were among the more prominent participating organisations. A large number of journalists both local and foreign were also present to cover the event.34 The train, covered in red banners and flags, stopped at various stations enroute including Sheikhupura, Sangla, Chak Jhumra and Gojra; Maulana Bhashani addressed the crowds gathered at each of the stations briefly. At Toba Tek Singh, the conference organisers had

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set up tents for the participants but many of the houses in the qasba were also open to conference attendees. The main conference area was a converted playground that the organisers claimed could seat approximately 150,000 people.35 The conference was meant to be a show of strength as well as a platform for articulating demands by the various left groups for the then eagerly anticipated general elections. The interim military regime of General Yahya Khan had not announced a date for elections at the time the conference was being held. Nevertheless, there was great optimism and expectation that the military would not be able to avoid holding elections after the successful toppling of General Ayub’s regime through popular pressure in 1969. Elections were expected earlier in the year, although eventually they were held in December 1970. The slogans and the demands raised at the conference reflected local concerns enthused by an international context of leftist and nationalist struggle in China and Vietnam in particular. Maulana Bhashani demanded that the government hold a referendum to ask if the people wanted ‘Islamic Socialism’. If the military regime failed to do that, he claimed, ‘we might have to resort to guerrilla warfare’.36 Bhashani pointed out that the Ayub government had alleged that 30,000 guerillas were operating in East Pakistan; questioning those numbers, he nevertheless insisted that if the government failed to hold the referendum on Islamic Socialism there would be many more guerrillas. This threat combined with another leader Masih ur Rehman’s passionate cry at the podium that ‘Yahya Khan is a traitor to the country’ became the most cited quotes from the conference, particularly in all of Jama’at and government sympathetic newspapers and journals. As a consequence, the key demands raised by the conference received much less media attention. The primary demand highlighted by almost all the speakers was for the restructuring of National Assembly representation on class basis.37 Land redistribution and changes in the system of batai, or division of produce, were important demands in keeping with the theme of the conference, was focussed on the peasants and farmers of Pakistan. The cry that emanated most frequently from the crowd was ‘Jera wahway, oho hi khaway’ (he who tills, should be the one who eats). The 80-year-old Bhashani’s formulation of ‘Islamic Socialism’ was a combination of religious symbols with socialist demands. At the conference Bhashani claimed that NAP was not a communist

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organisation but that ‘my party wants to nationalise the means of production in the name of God Almighty, because God is the real owner of everything in the world’.38 Claiming that it was the order of Allah to fight for rights, Bhashani declared war against the ‘30 monopolists and 5000 feudals’ who controlled Pakistan. In fact, Bhashani said that he believed Pakistan was ready for Islamic socialism and it could be imposed within two years, stating, ‘No power on earth can prevent the establishment of Hakumat-i-Rabbani (Government of God)’. Continuing the use of Islamic imagery, Bhashani presented jihad as a struggle against injustice and pointed out that the red cap was not the monopoly of China or Russia but was a symbol of jihad against all injustices. Bhashani’s use of Islamic symbols and the participation of some groups of ulama like the JUP’s (Jamiat Ulama Pakistan) Maulana Hazarwi and the Jama’at’s own dissident Maulana Kausar Niazi were a clear threat to the Jama’at’s attempts to create its hegemony over religious discourse in the country — a threat that JI was quick to perceive and react to. There can be little doubt that all the participants, the ‘leaders’ and the ‘followers’, the intellectuals and the farmers, were not always talking about the same things. The gap between the farmers and the middle and upper class speakers could be immense. One participant recalled, ‘As Faiz (Ahmed Faiz, renowned Pakistani poet) read his Persian laden poem at the Kissan conference, there was a part in his poem which went something like “tum hi Nazeer bhi aur Basheer bhi”.39 The farmer sitting next to me asked what is he talking about? Who is Nazeer and which one is Basheer?’ At the political level, while NAP was a major organiser of this conference, the PPP emerged as the more organised and vocal political party. PPP banners, flags and activists were present in sufficient numbers and with ample enthusiasm to leave many journalists with the impression that the PPP had the most representation at the conference. Bhutto did not attend the conference, not wanting to be associated too closely with a movement demanding an immediate end to feudalism, but he sent a delegation of various PPP leaders including Malik Miraj Khalid. Nevertheless, the Kissan Conference was a remarkable achievement in bringing together many different elements of the left and articulating a common programme of demands. Ultimately, it does seem to have become a campaign in which, as members of the Kissan Committee claimed, the other left and liberal democrat groups could not afford to not participate. For many of the younger left activists

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like those involved with the Professor’s Group40 and the Pakistan Youth Forum41 (both based in Lahore) this also presented the first opportunity for mass mobilisation and contact. This coming together of the left parties, however momentary, was not lost on the Jama’at-e-Islami. When Maulana Maududi announced that the Islam Pasand (Islam loving) forces in the country would give an answer to the Kissan Conference on 31 May in Shaukat-e-Islam rallies across the country, with a major one in Lahore, Jama’at activists went to work to portray this movement as larger than the Jama’at’s own political agenda would have it be. The editorial in Zindagi42 asked, Why is it that a small minority [the left] is able to succeed in its plans? In our view, the answer is clear, and it is that although the socialist elements are divided in many groups and fronts, they come together for common aims…. When, on March 23rd the Toba Tek Singh Kissan Conference was held, none of the socialist fronts and parties refused to join it by saying that it is a show of power by M. Bhashani, making it successful would establish the greatness of Bhashani…. The reaction of some Islamic circles to celebrating 31st March as Yaum-i-Shaukat e Islam indicates that they are deluded into thinking that a show of power by the Islamic forces of Pakistan will provide the credit to a particular person or party (1 June 1970).

This editorial highlights the predicament that the leftist mobilisations had placed the JI in. Not only were they losing control over Islamist discourse to the left, given Maulana Bhashani’s and increasingly also Bhutto’s43 populist formulation of Islamic socialism, they were facing intense competition from within the ranks of the other Islamic parties, particularly ulama parties.44 Ultimately, the JI was able to organise a fairly large demonstration in Lahore45 and Multan. Publicity for the jalsa was aided by sympathetic newspapers like Nawa-i-Waqt and Chatan. Of more critical help were the local mosque custodians and maulvis who were provided the text of their Friday sermon to rouse public opinion and participation. The jalsa was held on a Friday, timed to coincide with the end of Friday prayers to increase participation. In Lahore, a procession winding its way through different parts of city’s main financial area culminated in speeches at the Mall Road, which ‘highlighted the dangers of socialism to Pakistan’.46 The official JI reason for holding Shaukat-e-Islam was explained by Saleem Ahmed Salimi, a long-standing member of the Jama’at.

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We organized Shaukat-e-Islam to highlight the bankruptcy of social-ism to the people. We undertook a campaign in mosques and in neighbourhoods, through pamphlets and articles, to tell people that there were no mosques any more in Russia.47

Information about the closure of mosques in the USSR had been filtering into Pakistan since the early 1960s. As a policy it was only undertaken in the USSR towards the mid 1950s.48 It is interesting to note that even as the JI focussed most of its attention in discrediting the revolution in Russia, it was actually the Chinese experience that had galvanised much of the second wave of leftist mobilisation in the late 1960s. The first wave of Russian influenced mobilisation, particularly under the Communist Party Pakistan, had petered out by the late 1950s. After the 1965 war, Chinese support for Pakistan in this war against India had paved the way for public affection and official leniency towards the influx of Chinese literature in Pakistan.49 Significantly, leftist influence in the cultural arena and in centres of higher learning, universities and colleges was felt much more acutely by the JI than any other religious group because of the JI’s reliance on universities and colleges for membership, expansion and influence in the absence of its own madrasa network. This focus on ‘secular’ universities and colleges was not incidental to the JI’s strategy. The Jama’at’s focus on creating a vanguard organisation meant that the JI was heavily dependant upon colleges and universities — where the ‘leaders of tomorrow’ where being educated — for its membership and activism. The strength of left mobilisations in the centres of higher education was a serious threat to the JI and the first site of its engagement with the left in the early 1960s.50 Ch. Rehmat Ali,51 a key member of the JI shura (council) and naib amir (deputy commander) at that time insists, Yes, we [the JI] had focused on working against socialism at that time…you have to think of it from our perspective then. We were truly worried…there was a real danger from the socialists, with the international environment as it was, and Russia so close by. In universities and colleges you would find students and teachers wearing Mao badges. It might not be something that seems very important today, but at that time we were really worried.

While pitting the ‘secularism’ and ‘atheism’ of socialism against the JI’s Islamic programme — that is, portraying the debate as one about

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religion — the campaign was nevertheless rooted in the political situation of the country. Party-based national level elections had not been held in the country since the beginning of Ayub’s martial law regime and the JI hoped to participate in the forthcoming elections — planned for later in the same year. Leftist parties like the NAP and PPP were providing a greater challenge than the JI had contended with before. Indeed, it seems that the JI leaders and activists, buoyed by their success as a pressure group over the last two decades, had overestimated their electoral strength.52 In part due to this expectation of their popular appeal, as yet untested, the JI had fielded the second highest number of candidates (151 candidates for 300 National Assembly seats) of all the political parties that contested the 1970s elections. The JI’s dismal performance in the elections was a shock to the organisation, with important implications for the leadership that I discuss later. As much as the slogan of the Kissan Conference was ‘jera wahway oho hi khaway’ (he who tills should be the one who eats), the slogan of the Shaukat-e-Islam was ‘socialism ka qabristan — Pakistan, Pakistan’ (Pakistan — the graveyard of socialism). It was the lack of an alternative plan, this resort to ‘Islam as a complete way of life’ and the negativity of the Jama’at campaign that led to allegations of it being the establishment’s arm. Many within the left also claimed that the JI was funded by the US to obstruct the path of ‘progress’ in Pakistan and to them the lack of a clear programme other than its opposition to socialism was proof of this.53

Ideological Commitments, Practical Challenges Even as the Jama’at continued to publicly decry socialism, internal discussion and debate was influenced by the demands raised by the left activists. It is no coincidence that the Jama’at manifesto passed by shura (consultation) in 1969 and published in 1970, incorporated a stance — however weak by left standards — on land redistribution. This manifesto passed by the Markazi Majlis-e-Shura (Central Consultative Committee) on 20 December 1969 made some concessions to socio-economic realities by noting: Due to the imposition of a wrong system of agricultural ownership for a long time, many inequalities may arise. To end those we should act on the shariat’s principle that unusual measures (tadabir) that do not clash with the principles of Islam can be adopted in unusual circumstances.

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This was a significant change in JI policy keeping in mind that Maududi had publicly opposed the land reform by Prime Minister Liaqut Ali Khan in Punjab during the 1950s. Maududi had justified large land holdings in Islamic law and claimed that land reform would pervert the establishment of an Islamic state in Pakistan (Binder 1961: 211). Thus, when the 1969 manifesto recommended ‘ending all those new and old properties that have been accumulated through wrongful means during any government’, it was a radical departure from the JI’s established stance. However, its emulation of leftist strategies had its limits. The JI manifesto suggested that ‘traditional ownership’ be limited in West Pakistan to 100–200 acres and accordingly where production was low due to the condition of the land, more land than what was prescribed should be bought on fair (munsifana) terms by the government. Finally, this innovation had to be seen as a temporary measure only. It could not be given a permanent position because constant innovation/application would clash with not just Islamic law of inheritance but also various other sharia laws. The list of caveats to the proposal of land redistribution highlights the JI leadership’s reluctance at having to address the issue at all and the pressure exerted by the competition with leftist mobilisations. In a move to infiltrate the opposition, the JI made some organisational extensions into the very heart of leftist mobilisation — among the students, labour unions, and among peasants through the Kissan Board. In relation to its stance on feudalism it is useful to trace the origins of the Jama’at sponsored Kissan Board. Since the 1965 war in which China had assisted Pakistan against India, the rise of Maoist literature and influence had been significant, resulting in immense gains in popular support. Left mobilisations were not limited to cities and industrial workers but were also beginning to have an impact on rural areas. The Jama’at organised the Kissan Board in 1976 to deal with the concerns of the peasants and the small farmers but specifically in response to the leftist mobilisations in this field. The scope of its work among peasants had remained limited but over the years it has formed strong links with small farmers in certain areas, particularly of the Punjab. The Kissan Board had been one of the key bodies representing farmers at various local, national and international fora.

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Leadership Styles; Political Opportunities The JI’s turn towards populism is reflected by Qazi Hussain Ahmed, the third amir.54 Qazi Hussain Ahmed, son of a Jamiat Ulama Hind alim (scholar) from Sarhad, may have carried over some of the JUH’s (Jamiat Ulama Hind) nationalist zeal to the JI.55 With an MA in geography from the Peshawar University, he started out as an academic, lecturing at the university for three years. Nevertheless, his association with the JI was long-standing even by then, as he had been associated with the Islami Jamiat Tulaba (IJT) since his school days. At the end of Mian Tufayl’s tenure, who was the second amir of JI Pakistan and one of Maududi’s trusted lieutenants, the JI arakeen (lit. pillars)56 could choose between Professor Khurshid Ahmed, a JI ideologue, Jan Mohammed Abbasi, amir (commander) of Sindh and the then relatively youthful and more populist Qazi Hussain Ahmed (Nasr 1994: 54). His election signalled a desire for change among the JI members, a move away from the style and politics of Maududi. Maududi had resolutely refused to engage with socio-economic issues, seeing Western dominance and threat primarily in cultural terms. Even when the vigour of leftist mobilisations during the 1960s forced Maududi to engage with leftist analysis,57 he remained unwilling to place the economic before the cultural. With regard to feudalism in particular, the JI under Maududi was unable to adequately reflect the aspirations of its social base. The muhajir 58 community that formed the bulk of the JI members in its early years was resolutely antifeudalism. The US intelligence personnel in Pakistan suspected several JI leaders, such as Maulana Islahi, of communist sympathies but Islahi and others who supported him were purged in a leadership battle early on in the Jama’at’s career in Pakistan.59 Ultimately this inability to represent the muhajir interests cost the JI dearly when the Muhajir Qaumi Movement (MQM), formed in 1983, was able to woo away a large segment of the JI’s supporters in urban Sind. Within Punjab the JI’s initial support base comprised primarily of petty government officers, small shopkeepers, small farmers and local intellectuals — school and college teachers. In Lahore its members were mostly new arrivals in the city from Punjab’s smaller cities and rural areas — by and large all excluded from Pakistan’s feudal dominated political system. Although anti-feudalism was a natural cause for the JI to pursue, it was never taken up under Maududi who had initially envisioned the JI as an elite group of accomplished and pious Muslims. The JI’s crushing defeat

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in the 1971 elections seem to have led to some soul searching both within the party ranks and by Maududi himself. Tarjuman-ul-Quran, the party organ, printed several letters suggesting the reorganisation the party and also proposing Maududi’s substitution by a younger amir.60 Such pressures, combined with Maududi’s own apparent regret at the politicisation of the JI in the preceding years,61 eventually led him to step down as amir in 1972.62 The JI under Mian Tufayl (1978–87), a trusted Maududi aide and follower, was, by internal accounts, an organisation in crisis.63 This crisis is explained as having been brought on by the Jama’at being fooled initially by Zia’s pious behaviour. In this version, the JI agitated against martial law soon after it became clear that Zia had no intention of reinstating democracy and its relationship with the military dictator soon turned confrontational. It would seem that the crisis was, in fact, deeper than this. The JI’s close relationship with the army — although denied by most JI leaders now and at best a confusing episode for the middle level activists — created unprecedented opportunities for organisational reach and personal gain for members at almost all levels of the party. The opportunities for corruption, at a personal and organisational level, alarmed many and those within the shura motivated by ideals and differing political interests (e.g. the Karachi Jama’at which turned against Zia due to his role in the creation of MQM) argued against continued co-operation with Zia.64 Nevertheless, many JI leaders and some of its various affiliated bodies like the IJT, NLF (National Labour Federation) and Anjuman Usatiza (University and College Teachers’ Association) worked closely with the regime and grew in importance during Zia’s tenure. The balance between ideology and personal gain — precariously poised in an ‘ideological political party’ that the JI claimed to be — tilted more heavily towards personal gain during Zia’s regime, leading some members to worry about the survival and purpose of the organisation. Mian Tufayl, to some extent, embodied this close relationship with the military. He hailed from Jallundhur, as did Zia and seemed to have enjoyed a close personal relationship with him, taking pride in Zia consulting with him and the JI. He was not known for doctrinal insights and organisational skill — his claim to leadership may have been mediated by his close relationship with both Maududi and Zia. Ultimately, it was the structure of the party — codified and institutionalised during the Maududi years — the presence of many with varying political interests and a tightly knit social fabric of activists inhibiting blatant personal

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opportunism that prevented the JI from complete capitulation into Zia’s arms.65 Qazi Hussain Ahmed had also grown in importance during Zia’s regime, when he acted as the JI’s contact for the Afghan jihad. After being elected as amir Qazi Hussain Ahmed instituted some of the most far reaching organisational changes in the party’s history. Resolving, in a way, the long-standing debate within the JI about the indeterminately long and arduous selection process for becoming a rukn (lit. pillar),66 Ahmed created a new category of ‘member’ to cater to the JI’s political aspirations. With a target of 5 million members Pakistan wide, along with the current approximately 20,000 arakan, this was meant to greatly extend the reach of the JI. The end of the Afghan jihad, the harsh realities of changed policy priorities of the JI’s onetime ally in Afghanistan and the introduction of a form of democracy in Pakistan allowed, or perhaps forced, Ahmed to expand on his populist tendencies and explore the grass roots links that the JI had made in response to the leftist mobilisations of the late 1960s and 1970s. Today the JI’s stance on feudalism is almost indistinguishable from the slogans raised at the Toba Tek Singh Conference. The Muttahida Majlis-e-Amal (MMA), a coalition of religious parties established in Pakistan in 2002, in which the JI plays a prominent role, provides in its manifesto for ‘the abolishment of all chronic and new feudal systems with forfeiture of illegal wealth and its distribution among poor; and to provide lands to peasants and farmers for their livelihood; and guarantee reasonable prices for their produce’.67 Hussain Ahmed frequently speaks against feudalism in his jalsa speeches.68 The JI party literature and activists are increasingly touching upon it in education and training sessions.69 The 2006 shura resolution notes that the general public is suffering from …growing curse of price hike, unemployment, inflation, social disparity and disappearing purchasing power, while on the other hand the tillers, labour and government employees are being deprived of their due rights…. The worst kind of western capitalist system has been practically imposed on the country, while the [sic] corruption has reached to its peak.70

Conclusion The JI’s members and activists are anti-feudal in sentiment. Previously they were upwardly mobile, when upward mobility in Pakistan was more common given the expansion in employment and economy.

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They are now struggling to preserve their lifestyles in the face of increasing economic polarisation in Pakistan.71 Thus, despite their anti-feudal rhetoric they are not trained nor inclined to bring about a revolution. JI literature, activists and leaders use the term ‘inquilab’ (revolution) often, but what they actually mean is evolution in the political context72 and a revolution, if at all, at the personal level.73 A share of the political pie, changes in laws and constitutions, instigating social change and ultimately transforming the individual are JI’s main aims — conceived of within the existing electoral structure. The Jama’at-e-Islami Pakistan’s presence in labour, student, and professional unions74 and women and peasant groups is of particular interest because it demonstrates sharply both the impact of leftist mobilisations on JI strategies as also the fluidity of Islamist politics. In particular we see its ability to tap into widespread discontent over inequality and growing impoverishment without a significant shift in their ideological horizons. The JI India expressly decided against a move to build a presence in unions,75 even as the JI Pakistan started several initiatives in that direction. The recent changes in US policies after the events of 9/11 have placed Islamist groups under domestic and international pressure. These have forced JI leaders to explore the links with the lower and lower middle class that they had formed in response to the pressures of leftist mobilisations during the 1960s and 1970s. This exploration has led the JI leadership to discover a source of strength in their political ambitions: the potential for independent popular support. JI leadership seems to be increasingly more aware of the potential of populist themes and is in closer and more systematic contact with various sections of those popularly termed ‘the grass roots’, including small farmers through the Kissan Board, than any of the other national political parties. However, their inexperience in mass representation and the political opportunism of some leaders who rose to prominence particularly during Zia’s regime, is not easily overcome.

Notes ∗ I am grateful to Naveeda Khan, Akbar Zaidi and Magnus Marsden for their thoughtful comments on this article. I benefited immensely from the comments and questions raised by the other participants at the workshop on Pakistan held at Johns Hopkins University in 2005. 1. The Islamists are distinguished from the other ‘Muslim fundamentalists’ by their insistence in engagement with the political structures and state apparatus as a means of establishing a Muslim society. Others like the pietists,

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traditionalists and the militants do not share this emphasis on political engagement. See, for instance Esposito (1999: 657). Also various contributions to Benin and Stork (1997); and Burke and Lapidus (1988). Akbar Zaidi provides a very good overview of these debates in the Pakistani context, while building a case for the view that Pakistan is not a feudal country. See the chapter “Is Pakistan Feudal?” in Zaidi (1999: 12–22). Okara district in Central Punjab close to the Eastern Indo-Pak border lies between River Ravi on the west and the now dry River Beas on the east. Interview, Farooq Tariq, General Secretary, Labour Party Pakistan, March 2004. Conversations with leaders of Communist Mazdoor Kissan Party (Communist Labourer and Worker Party) and Awami Tehreek (Popular Movement). The left groups supporting the Okara movement like Labour Party Pakistan, National Workers Party and Communist Party Pakistan often operate with or through NGOs, even when they claim to be political parties. Most operate with foreign and local aid, have very limited spheres of influences, and an almost negligible presence in national or regional electoral politics. It is useful to note the strength of the JI’s national reach as compared to regional parties that may have been more resolutely and explicitly anti-feudalism. For instance, the Mohajir Qaumi Movement certainly has espoused an explicit anti-feudal stance since its very inception. However, the MQM is a regional party limited to urban Sindh. The success of its recent moves at building a national presence remains to be seen. The Jama’at was conceived of and organised by Maududi as a ‘vanguard’ party, aimed at attracting the educated Muslim (Syed Vali Reza Nasr 1994). See Syed Vali Reza Nasr (1996) for a comprehensive analysis of Maulana Maududi’s writings. See ‘Introduction’ to Muhammad Qasim Zaman (2002) for a succinct overview of the impact of colonialism on Muslim thought. The Jama’at-e-Islami’s opposition to leftist ideas and influences in the context of the Cold War has led many to speculate that it was funded and aided by the US intelligence services. There seems to be significant evidence to suggest that the US agencies funded the JI indirectly through buying their publications (I discuss this later in the article), and providing support for training of Jamaat mujahidin for the Afghan war. It is also useful to remember that some within the Jamaat saw the US as a tactical ally against a more immediate and dominant threat. Nevertheless, that relationship has come under severe strain after the US policy imperatives changed and the mujahidin and freedom fighters of yesterday became the ‘terrorists’ of today. Benin and Stork (1997: 15) point out the vacuum created by the collapse of the Soviet Union for ‘policy intellectuals’ as well as for the military budgets, and the threat posed by Iran as the context in which Islamic fundamentalism emerged as a ‘serviceable contender’ for the role of a policy touchstone. I am mindful of the danger of generalised use of categories of class grounded in a particular historical context, as highlighted by Stedman Jones (1983),

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and Rajnarayan Chandavarkar (1998). Typically those identifying themselves as ‘leftists’ in Pakistan, including the educated elite, focused on issues of broader representation and access for the middle and lower classes, premised on a class-based analysis. ‘Awamification’ derives from the word awam, meaning the people or masses. It was a term used frequently by Bhutto and the PPP in the 1970s to refer to an increase in the rights of the masses. See, for instance Tahir Amin (1988); Yunus Samad, “Pakistan or Punjabistan: Crisis of National Identity” in Singh and Talbot (1996); and Ian Talbot, “The Punjabization of Pakistan: Myth or Reality?” in Jaffrelot (2002). I have chosen to use the term sarhad to refer to what is often called the NorthWestern Frontier Province. While the term ‘sarhad’ also refers to a boundary or border, it sounds marginally less bureaucratic than the alternative established by the colonial administration. It is also closer to local ways of referring to the province. Indeed, often, when many Western analysts like Olivier Roy, “The Taliban: A Strategic Tool for Pakistan” in Jaffrelot (2002); and John Esposito (2002) and Giles Kepel (2002) refer to Pakistan, it is in primarily in the context of the two provinces of Sarhad and Baluchistan. David Gilmartin (1979) and (1998) provides a good base for understanding the role of religious groups in Punjab politics. Most of the work on religious groups in the context of urban Punjab has focused on sectarian clashes and violence, for instance Mariam Abou Zahab, “The Regional Dimension of Sectarian Conflicts in Pakistan” in Jaffrelot (2002); Syed Vali Reja Nasr (2000: 139–80); and Mohammed Qasim Zaman (1998: 689–716). Maududi too was involved in the earlier stages of the Hijrat Movement but moved away from it after disputes with its leaders, apparently because of his insistence that the strategies and goals be planned and realistic. See Khurshid Ahmed and Zafar Ishaq Ansari (1979: 361). See Iqbal Leghari, unpublished dissertation (1979: 24–25); also see Abdullah Malik (1985) for more details. The more prominent among these included Danyal Latifi, Ataullah Jahania, Abdulla Malik, Chaudhry Rahmatullah, Anis Hashmi and Ghulam Nabi Bhullar. According to the CPI journal’s reporter, the communists organised meetings for ML leaders with approximately two hundred thousand people for a tour lasting over one and half months. ‘the League’s leaders lashed the unionist party for its black rule and its adherence with imperialism and demanded release of Congress detenues. They put forward the demands of kissans and workers as enunciated in the manifesto recently brought out by the Punjab League and received tremendous response from the peasants who gathered at the meetings in thousands, despite threats of unionist minded officers in the districts. (“Punjab League Leaders Tour”, People’s War, Bombay, 25 February 1945, p. 4, quoted in Leghari 1979: 28) Sibtul Hasan Zaigham (2005: 15) claims that Danyal Latifi was so disgusted by the changes that Mumtaz Daultana made to the manifesto after the formation

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23.

24. 25. 26.

27. 28.

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of Pakistan that he decided to move to India and remained associated with the Communist Party of India Marxist (CPI [M]) until his death. Mumtaz Daultana was known as the ‘Red’ Muslim Leaguer in his early days. Even prior to the Communist Party’s 1943 resolution to support Pakistan, nationalist communists had started working more closely with the nationalist parties. It has been argued that the CPI’s blind following of the Stalinist two stage theory that supported British rule in India alienated the nationalist freedom fighters. This stance resulted in a gain for the nationalist parties like the Congress and the Muslim League. (In the case of Punjab see Farooq Sulehria, ‘History of the Left in Pakistan’, pamphlet published by Pakistan Labour Party, n.d.) Syed Vali Reza Nasr (1996: 41) suggests that Maududi was drawn into politics by Jinnah’s example. ‘Mawdudi believed that Jinnah’s popularity emanated from his appeal to Islamic symbols. If a secular Muslim could sway the masses in the name of Islam, surely Mawdudi could, and ought to, do better’. Interview, C. R. Aslam (2005: 22). Qasbah, larger than villages, smaller than towns, combine interesting dynamics of urban and rural mobilisation. See Mushirul Hasan (2004). The story is a commentary on the madness of Indian partition. Set in a lunatic asylum it juxtaposes the ‘rationality’ of the political leaders with the ‘irrationality’ of those in the asylum. To me the most memorable lines of the play remain the main protagonist’s oft repeated question, ‘Is Toba Tek Singh in Pakistan or Hindustan?’, bringing into sharp focus the difficulty, as well as the absurdity, of allocating a shared history and way of life to either one or the other state. Ahmed Bashir, ‘Toba Tek Singh Kissan Conference’ (1971: 25). Sohan Singh Josh was one of the founders of Kirti Kissan Communist Party in Punjab. Fatima Jinnah was the sister of Mohammed Ali Jinnah. A coalition of political parties had convinced her to stand in the presidential election against General Ayub Khan. As the sister of Quaid-e-Azam she emerged as the only candidate acceptable to a coalition of very different political parties, including many leftist elements as well as the Jama’at-e-Islami. See, for instance Zindagi, Nidai-Millat, Aain (January–April 1970). Another well-known member of the Progressive Writer’s Association. Interview conducted with Abid Hassan Manto, member Kissan Committee 1969 (2005). Shafqat Tanvir Mirza, ‘Kissan conference aur humaray akhbar’ in weekly Nusrat (1970: 13–16) provides an interesting comparison of the various aspects of the conference reported by the Jamaat’s own or Jamaat sympathetic magazines like Aain, Zindagi, Asia and Nida-i-Millat and the left-leaning newspapers and magazines. See Dawn, 22–25 March 1970 and Pakistan Times, 22–25 March 1970, front page. Pakistan Times, 23 March 1970, p. 9. Dawn, 23 March 1970, p. 1. Pakistan Times, 25 March 1970, front page and p. 10.

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37. Interviews — Manto, Aziz ud din Ahmed, Tahira Mazhar Ali, and Pervaiz Inayat Malik (2005). Details of the various speeches made were included in the back pages of some newspaper reports including Dawn and Pakistan Times of March 25 1970, with Pakistan Times providing more coverage, in keeping with its ‘left’ leanings. In addition, magazines like Asia, Zindagi, Nusrat, Al-Fatah and Lailo-nahar printed detailed accounts and lengthy quotes from some speeches. 38. Pakistan Times, 25 March 1970, p. 10. 39. Interview with Prof. Aziz ud din Ahmed, Lahore, April 2005. Nazeer and Basheer are common Muslim names. In Persian they mean ‘one without parallel’ (Nazeer) and ‘one who carries good news’ (Basheer). Faiz’s verse being referred to is suitable enough to the conference’s theme in its content, if not in his choice of language. The couplet being referred to is ‘Sunno kay hum baizaban au baikas, Basheer bi hain, aur nazeer bhi’. (And hear, we who are voiceless and powerless/are also the bearers of both good news and warnings.) 40. Professor’s Group was a group formed by like-minded lecturers in Punjab University and National College of Arts in Lahore. The group worked amongst students, university and college teachers, as well as labour unions and peasants. 41. Pakistan Youth Forum was another left-leaning group formed by a university lecturer. The group worked primarily on a cultural front amongst college and university students. 42. Asia and Tarjuman-ul-Quran are magazines published by the Jama’at-e-Islami. Zindagi was oriented towards a wider readership and was less specialized than the other two, while maintaining clear JI sympathies. As many JI members remarked to me during the course of my fieldwork, it was also one of ‘their own’. 43. Kalim Bahadur (1977: 121) notes that it is pointless to try to determine whether Bhashani or Bhutto coined the term, but it is relevant to assert that, ‘both Bhutto and Bhashani had hardly ever subscribed to the philosophy of scientific socialism’. 44. Maulana Hazarwi (JUP), Maulana Mufti (JUP), and Maulana Kausar Niayzi (formerly of JI) were among the prominent ulama who lent their support to left causes and later to the PPP government. Syed Vali Reza Nasr (1996: 120) argues that the politicisation of Islam by the JI had politicised ulama parties who once in the political arena became its competitors. This view is quite sympathetic to the JI’s version. JUI and JUP both had inherited traditions of political involvement from the JUH (Jamiat Ulama Hind), and it is possible to argue that rather than the JI’s political activity, it was the heightened politicisation through leftist mobilisations that provided the impetus for these ulama organisations to get involved in electoral campaigns. 45. JI sources were generally vague about numbers, claiming often that it was ‘an immense outpouring of support for Islam’. Newspapers of the time have also not given any numbers, although close to a 100,000 in Lahore is the highest estimate. 46. Interview, Salim Ahmed Salimi.

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47. Member of central committee JI and JI rukn since 1963. Interview conducted at Idara Ma’arfat I Islam, Lahore, 29 November 2005. 48. Alexei V. Malashenko, ‘Islam Versus Communism; The Experience of Coexistence’, in Eickelman (1993: 65). 49. Elsewhere, I have looked at the difference between the Russian leftist literature and its influence, and the Chinese one in Pakistan. Here it is pertinent to note, following Susan Bayly (2000), that literature from China built on a specific conception of revolution that differed in important ways from the Russian literature. 50. I have looked at this in more detail in ‘Radical Times: Student Politics in the 1960s’, in At the Crossroads: Research, Policy and Development in a Globalised World (2006). 51. Interview, Ch. Rehmat Ilahi, Mansoorah, Lahore, 22 November 2005. 52. A number of senior JI members discussed this during our interviews. Moreover, the shock of losing is evident also from the various self-critical articles and letters in Zindagi, Asia and Tarjuman ul Quran in the months following the elections. 53. One commonly believed channel of the US subsidy to the JI was the buying of JI pamphlets. Union activists joked that there ‘was more Islam in the sea around Pakistan than on land, because the US would buy truckloads of JI pamphlets and then would have to throw them in the sea…nobody wanted to read them’ (interview, Rana Abdul Rehman, Union leader and organiser, Lahore, May 2005). 54. Within the Jama’at’s hierarchy, the amir is the putative head of the party. Elections for the amir’s position have been held regularly since the party was formed, but since there is no limit to the number of terms an amir can serve. There have been three amirs of the party since 1941 — Maulana Maududi, Mian Tufayl, and Qazi Hussain Ahmed. 55. Many ulama within the Jamiat Ulama Hind supported the nationalist struggle against British rule, and argued for working with other non-Muslims to further this cause. The Deobandi ulama in particular were largely supportive of anticolonial movements. Maulana Hassan Ahmed Madani, for instance argued that while faith was universal and could not be contained within national boundaries, nationality was a matter of geography and Muslims were bound to the nation of their birth along with their non-Muslim fellow countrymen. See Hamza Alavi (1988: 83). 56. Sing. rukn. member. The hierarchy of JI membership is hami/mutafiq (supporter), umeed war rukn (candidate member) and rukn (member). 57. This is not to suggest that Maududi was not familiar with Marxist writings before this period. Maududi was familiar with not just Marxist writings (Nasr 1996: 146), but had also come in contact with Muslim socialists in Delhi in his youth, most notably the Khairi brothers. See K. K. Aziz (1987: 88–92). 58. ‘Muhajir’ literally means one who undertakes hijrat or migration. The term refers to the mostly north India Muslims who migrated from India to Pakistan during or after partition, settling in large numbers in Karachi and Hyderabad.

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59. Details of the Machchi Goth affair where this purge took place are succinctly covered by Syed Vali Reza Nasr (1994: 31–41), but others like Maulana Kausar Niazi (1973) have also written about it. 60. See, for instance Tarjuman-ul-Quran, vol. 4 (6). 61. Syed Vali Reza Nasr (1996: 45) suggests that after the 1970 elections, Maududi proposed that the Jamaat-e-Islami should stay away from electoral politics and rethink its strategy. He felt that many of Jamaat’s moral stances had been compromised, while the party had not made any significant electoral gains. In 1975, he suggested to the shura that the party should withdraw from politics. However, Jamaat members did not support his proposition, as they were too involved in electoral politics to turn back. 62. He took over again as amir in 1977, during the anti-Bhutto Nizam-i-Mustafa campaign. Mian Tufayl served as amir from 1972-1977. 63. Interviews and conversations (April–December 2005). 64. Interviews with various shura members, particularly Salim Ahmed Saleemi, Ch. Rehmat Ilahi, Liaqut Baloch, and Hafiz Salman Butt. 65. Many of these constraining factors did not exist for front organizations like the IJT, which turned to violent tactics to assert their will in campuses most notably in Punjab University. 66. See, for instance Khurram Ja Murad in Syed and Khalid (1999: 30). Murad argues for a more transparent and quick process. 67. MMA 15 point Manifesto, 2001. Later on (point no. 14), the manifesto also declares the aspiration to ‘rid the country and people of influence of imperialist forces and their local agents’. 68. See, for instance Dawn interview quoted in “MMA Vows to Carry out Land Reforms”, http://www.mma.org.pk/news/2002/10/mma.ows.carry.out.land. reforms.shtml. One of the motivations highlighted by the MMA for its largely successful million man march against American war on Iraq was to ‘pack up secularism and feudalism from Pakistan’ (Pakistan Tribune, 29 March 2002). 69. In the training sessions and pre-election (local bodies, Lahore) meetings I attended from July–August 2005, slogans against feudalism were raised in almost all the events, but were often not accompanied by detailed analysis. 70. ‘2006 Shoora Resolution on Political Situation’, http://www.jamaat.org/ news/2006/jan/03/1001.html. 71. Close to 38 per cent of Pakistan’s population is believed to be living at or below the poverty line (World Bank 2002). 72. Interviews and observations 2005. Syed Vali Reza Nasr (1994: 71) believes that Maududi used the word to harness the positive connotations of its use at the time. 73. See, for instance Khurram Ja Murad (1988) and also Tarjuman-ul-Quran editorial, January 1996. Murad was a key JI writer and ideologue, although not an alim. 74. Currently, JI has affiliated unions working among different professional groups including college and university lecturers, doctors, homeopathic doctors, lawyers, agri-scientists and the business community.

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75. I am grateful to Irfan Ahmed for sharing his conversation with some JI India elders who claimed that the move to organize around professions was un-Islamic, arguing that the Prophet (PBUH) could have, but did not, use this tactic. See also his From Islamism to Post-Islamism: The Transformation of the Jama‘at-e-Islami in North India, (PhD dissertation, University of Amsterdam, 2005) for a detailed recounting of the very different route taken by the Jama‘at-e-Islami India after partition. The very different political choices made by the two wings of the Jama’at allow us a glimpse into the dynamism exhibited by Islamist groups in different contexts.

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Part III Foreignness Within

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9

The Paradoxes of Ahmadiyya Identity: Legal Appropriation of Muslim-ness and the Construction of Ahmadiyya Difference Asad A. Ahmed Introduction In contemporary Pakistan the Ahmadiyya, a late nineteenth century Punjab-based ‘Muslim’ reformist and revivalist movement, live a furtive religious existence. Debarred by law from publicly identifying themselves as Muslims, prohibited from calling the azan (call to prayer), naming their place of worship a masjid (mosque) and curtailed from constructing mosques in a recognisably Muslim manner, they have been excluded from the signs and semiotics of public Muslimness. Through legislative processes, executive ordinances and judicial decisions mostly against their will, the Ahmadis have gone from being a Muslim minority to becoming a reluctant and recalcitrant nonMuslim religious minority. The Ahmadiyya have long been engaged in religious controversies and polemical encounters, primarily with other Muslim groups, but also during the colonial period with Christian missionaries and Hindu groups such as the Arya Samaj. The key theological difference between Ahmadis and the wider Muslim community is over the question of the finality of Muhammed’s prophethood. This arises from differing interpretations of the Quranic verse describing the Prophet Muhammed as the ‘seal’ of prophets. The orthodox Muslim position has long held that revelation ceased with the Prophet of Islam who was both the seal and the terminus of prophecy, a position expressed in the theological doctrine of Khatm-e Nabuwaat (Finality of Prophecy). Ahmadis, however, have argued that the founder of their community, Ghulam Mirza Ahmed (d. 1908), had prophetic qualities in that he was privy to divine communication. They qualify that Mirza Ahmed was a derivative prophet in the sense that his prophetic attributes were derived from the Prophet Muhammad.1 Nonetheless, a broad range

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of Muslim opinion, from Muslim modernists such as Mohammed Iqbal to Islamists such as Abul Ala Maududi, as well as the ulama, the custodians of tradition, were not prepared to countenance such claims (Iqbal 1948; Maududi 1979). There were several attempts to have them designated as non-Muslims during the colonial period as well as in the early post-independence years.2 It is important, therefore, to recognise that the Ahmadi–Muslim controversy was shaped under colonial conditions, during periods of religious reform and the articulation of nationalist projects. This article, however, restricts its focus to legislative acts and judicial decisions over a 19-year period, 1974–93, that is, from the effective declaration of the Ahmadis as non-Muslims by Pakistan’s legislature to a Supreme Court ruling whereby prohibitions on the public dimensions of their Muslim-ness were confirmed. By focusing on the law, I do not intend to suggest that the law is autonomous and outside of politics. The judicial decisions I discuss were shaped and circumscribed by the shifting legislative, administrative and political context of this period. It was a time of significant political turbulence, marked principally by the shift from Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto’s democratic but authoritarian populism to Zia ul-Haq’s dictatorship and policy of Islamisation. This shift in policy was paralleled by a shift in political authority from parliament to an enhanced executive, most obviously reflected in the passage of the eighth constitutional amendment (1985), which indemnified Zia’s various executive orders and enabled the president to dismiss the elected prime minister.3 In focusing on legal and particularly juridical discourse, I risk the danger of minimising the social, economic and political context. I suggest, however, that greater attention to legal and juridical discourse is warranted, given the tendency in Pakistan to view important judicial decisions as subservient to, and reflective of, the exercise of political power. In short, far from seeing the judiciary as autonomous, it is commonly viewed as too politicised. More than this, I argue that legal discourse has the capacity to frame reality without being fully closed to social and political considerations. Thus what is lost in narrowing our focus to the law is countered by a sharpening of attention to the constitutive powers of judicial texts and the legal reasonings that they employ. A close reading serves to illuminate how the law, in what is essentially a liberal legal system, was mobilised to effect what were ostensibly regarded as illiberal outcomes. In particular, I have examined the paradoxical implications for Ahmadi

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and Muslim identity, in law and social life, that stemmed from the 1974 parliamentary decision to declare the Ahmadis as non-Muslims. I have subsequently tracked the legal controversies and court cases that resulted from this decision in order to understand how 19 years later, in 1993, Pakistan’s Supreme Court, by accepting a lower court ruling, effectively accepted that the Ahmadis were potential ‘blasphemers’. In analysing this set of cases, I aim to highlight how the legal system was mobilised to confirm, consolidate and further the exclusion of the Ahmadis from Muslim identity. Liberals, within and outside Pakistan, popularly understand these cases as instances of religious persecution. Legal scholarship also positions the judgments as capitulations to the forces of religious fundamentalism (T. Mahmud 1995), the indulgence of religious sentiments (Lau 1994), and in contravention of international human rights law (A.Khan 2003). While it would be hard to deny that intense religious feelings, popular demonstrations and visceral dislike for the Ahmadis had an impact on these decisions, I am concerned that such analytics, which foreground fundamentalism and fanaticism, effectively foreclose the centrality of liberal law to this transformative process. By contrast, I seek to highlight how the Ahmadi exclusion from Muslim identity was structured and operationalised through legal procedures, categories and forms of argumentation integral to the functioning of liberal law. This is not to argue that alternative outcomes favourable to the Ahmadis were impossible within liberal law. One of the judgments considered and several minority opinions supported them.4 There is no singular inevitable logic at work here but a range of possibilities embedded within the law itself. However, in order to fully grasp the colonial legal legacy and its postcolonial reworkings, it is, as a first step, critical to understand that Ahmadi exclusion occurred within a liberal–legal arena, that is, it is fully within the capacity of the law to undertake acts that would appear to be aberrant to a liberal sensibility. In other words, it is not a politically captive law but the very enactment of liberal law that actualises Ahmadi exclusion. I argue that in the legal shift of the Ahmadis status from Muslims to religious minority and then to potential blasphemers there were two key moments. The first was the climatic but inconclusive moment in 1974 when the National Assembly and Prime Minister Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto’s government declared the Ahmadis as non-Muslims for purposes of ‘Constitution and law’.5 This was climatic because the

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decision was seen as a vindication by a majority of the ulama, who had consistently argued that the Ahmadiyya were heretics and apostates.6 But it was inconclusive because, despite the redefinition of Muslim identity to exclude the Ahmadis, the Assembly had not enacted any measures through which this decision could be enforced. The Ahmadis continued to understand themselves to be, and lived as, practicing Muslims. That is, parliament created a paradoxical situation whereby the Ahmadis were officially (legally) non-Muslims but in their self-understanding, social experience and religious practices continued to be, and were recognisable, as Muslims. The second critical moment occurred in 1993 when the Supreme Court brought the 19-year process of legal argument over the Ahmadis paradoxical identity to its conclusion. This judgment prohibited the Ahmadis from public use of Muslim terminology and performance of key ritual practices, and thus their ability to be Muslim, or communicate, their Muslim-ness. The Court further argued that the Ahmadis, in pronouncing the Muslim confession of faith, the Kalyma Shahada (hereafter shortened to Kalyma), were in fact disingenuously referring to their founder, Mirza Ghulam Ahmed, rather than the Holy Prophet and were therefore potentially blasphemers.7 Despite the seemingly theological nature of some of the arguments, I will outline how the Supreme Court decision was grounded within liberal legal discourse.

Liberal Erasures and the Narrative of Religious Intolerance On 7 September 1974, some nine weeks after it was convened to discuss the Ahmadi question, the National Assembly unanimously passed a bill declaring that those who did not subscribe to the ‘absolute and unqualified finality’ of the prophethood of Muhammed were non-Muslims ‘for the purposes of Constitution or law’. This exclusion, incorporated as the second constitutional amendment, was enabled by declaring that a key tenet of Ahmadiyya faith was heterodox, viz. their belief that Ghulam Mirza Ahmed had prophetic attributes. The amendment has often been described by Pakistani liberals as ‘excommunication by the state’, the phrase pithily revealing an illegitimate relation between religion and politics in the secular and liberal imagination. Indeed, they often regard this measure as the fateful first step in the departure from liberal secular principles, one that facilitated the burgeoning of religious fundamentalism in

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state and society. In order to mark the contrast with liberal secular principles they will then quote from Muhammad Ali Jinnah’s inaugural address to the Constituent Assembly of Pakistan, on 11 August 1947, in which he said, ‘You are free. You are free to go to your temples. You are free to go to your mosques or to any other places of worship in this State of Pakistan. You may belong to any religion or caste or creed — that has nothing to do with the business of the State’.8 As an expression of secular–liberal principles and policy with respect to religion, this is inspirational and concise. Earlier in the same address, Jinnah had lamented the history of communal divisions and the politics of majority and minority. The bitter history of communal antagonism, he urged the delegates, had to be transcended. This was only possible through an active forgetting of the past and by welcoming the equality conferred through political citizenship. Now if we want to make this great state of Pakistan happy and prosperous we should wholly and solely concentrate on the well-being of the people, and specially the masses and the poor. If you will work in co-operation, forgetting the past, burying the hatchet, you are bound to succeed. If you change your past and work together in a spirit that every one of you, no matter to what community he belongs, no matter what relations he had with you in the past, no matter what is his color, caste or creed, is first, second and last a citizen of the State with equal rights, privileges and obligations, there will be no end to the progress you will make (Jinnah 1996: 2604–45).

Colour, caste and creed. Jinnah wanted to consign to the past the racial and religious constituents of difference that were the legacies of colonial governance. Contemporary liberals have taken his exhortation to heart. They have actively forgotten the past, forgotten the historical constitution of religious communities as political communities, of the inextricable and intractable links between religion, community and politics as constituted within colonial structures of governance (Kelly and Kaplan 2001). In their view, liberalism is an ahistorical political philosophy with universal aspirations that transcend time and place. However, Jinnah’s, and by extension liberal, hopes that democratic citizenship would obliterate political, legal and bureaucratically inscribed divisions has not been realised. His call for a monumental act of historical amnesia could be regarded as admirable (if somewhat naïve) in the first flush of independence, in that moment of vision, when a future free of communal attachments and antagonisms could

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be imagined. However, it seems negligent of contemporary liberals to cite Jinnah anachronistically, by way of explanation. That is, while contemporary liberals emphasise that affective attachments and antagonisms have, contrary to Jinnah’s call, continued, they neglect the political structures and legal methods, the various legacies of colonialism where religion, politics and law were interlinked. As a result, acts such as the Ahmadi exclusion can be singularly explained away as religious intolerance, that is, as the result of fundamentalism and fanaticism, thereby obscuring the political and legal bases that make such policies conceivable.9 The ‘Ahmadi problem’, so called in political and popular discourse, reveals a more complex story than contemporary liberal descriptions allow. In the latter’s accounts, the Ahmadi figures as the exemplary instance of the perils of religious fundamentalism and intolerance. Indeed, for many it is a key moment in the fitful but continuing abnegation, by the state, of liberal political principles to the forces of religious obscurantism. This formulation enables a political liberalism emptied of history and specificity to continue to posit itself as the antagonist to, and panacea from, religious fundamentalism. But this ignores the very entanglements of religion and liberalism in the colonial context, entanglements that continue to inform — and have been revitalised in — the post-colonial period. A focus on ideal typic liberal secular principles disassociates, and recuperates liberalism, from its more convoluted, complex and uneven past. Further, it obscures tensions within liberalism that allow for the enactment and defence of practices that are ostensibly in contradiction of its political philosophy (Mehta 1999).10 The court cases through which Ahmadiyya exclusion was confirmed and their religious freedoms restricted were conducted, with arguably one exception, within liberal legal discourse. To understand the historical process that forged this entanglement of liberal and Muslim law, I briefly rehearse the scholarship on the colonial appropriation and transformation of the sharia.

Colonial and Post-Colonial State Appropriations of the Sharia Although the legal history of colonial India is complex and varied, and has to be summarily reduced here, there is a consensus among critical scholars, to paraphrase Bernard Cohn, that the invasion of India was not merely territorial but epistemological (1996: 53). 10 The colonial project of applying Hindu and Muslim law to the respective

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communities led to a search for legal authorities and the translation of sacred and legal texts.11 These were selectively translated and rearranged in order to provide the information most relevant to the company’s primary concerns: tax, property, inheritance, etc.12 There were subsequent acts of erasure as well; for example, the sections on Islamic public law in Hamilton’s translation of Al-Hedaya (the Guidance) were excised from subsequent editions (Strawson 1999: 114). In effect, the sharia was increasingly restricted in scope to the familial domain, a process that continued throughout the colonial period. The resulting construct, Muslim personal law, that emerged from the attempt to apply Islamic law to Muslims was, however, a body of law that increasingly departed from the traditional procedures, methodologies and to some extent the substance of classical Islamic law as applied in India. Colonial legal scholars, recognising the magnitude of the transformation, eventually designated the new system of personal law as ‘Anglo-Muhammadan’ law. Despite this shift away from the protocols, procedures and personnel of classical Muslim law, the new legal construct gradually became central to an emergent national Muslim community. Recent scholars of colonial law, and particularly Muslim law, in South Asia have stressed the importance of the colonial administration of personal law in constituting public religious communities (Anderson 1993; Kozlowski 1985). Struggles over interpretations of Islamic law in the case of waqf (religious endowment) and the applicability of Islamic law to Muslim communities who followed customary law became central to imagining, mobilising and representing the Muslim community.13 In important ways, the practice of the colonial courts was constitutive of the imagination of a unified Muslim community where all members were subject to a single system of personal law, understood to be consistent with the sharia.14 This assumption suited the increasingly bureaucratic and centralising colonial state, although it was belied in practice, where Muslim solidarity was organised in myriad, predominately familial and local congregations.15 However, as numerous scholars have persuasively argued, the classical sharia was neither unified, systematic, singular nor confined to the private domain.16 Yet after a century and a half of the colonial administration of Muslim law the sharia, for the Muslim modernist intelligentsia, and subsequently for the state of Pakistan, was largely understood as a system of divinely inspired and immutable laws unwavering in their

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uniformity and applicability to all Muslims — in short, as a code (Kozlowski 1985: 98; Anderson 1993: 184; Kugle 2001: 258–59).17 The state of Pakistan has had a complex and uneven relationship to sharia law. In appropriating the sharia, it has continued the colonial project of translating and transforming Islamic law — one that attempts to make it methodologically and epistemologically consistent with liberal Anglo-Saxon law. It is important to distinguish between the state’s appropriation of the sharia as a source of legal rules from the classical sharia, or, more precisely the Hanafi fiqh (school of jurisprudence), which is the dominant school of law amongst the majority Sunni Muslims of Pakistan. That is, there are two separate discursive traditions that claim the label of sharia law. One is predominately liberal, modernist, and statist, which to differentiate I will refer to as state-sharia, while the other, grounded within traditional Muslim jurisprudence, is the preserve of the ulama.18 Despite the traffickings and translations between these two traditions that enable points of mutuality to be articulated and convergences to be made they are, nonetheless, epistemologically and historically different.19 Processes of translation thus operate not just to make equivalences, but can also highlight points of irreducible difference. Given Pakistan’s complicated legal history it is necessary to outline the post-colonial legal administration. Until 1980 Pakistan had a fairly standard judicial system composed of trial courts, appellate High Courts at the provincial level, and one super-appellate Supreme Court at the federal level. In 1980 General Zia established a new court, the Federal Shariat Court (FSC).20 It was principally constituted to determine whether any existing laws should be struck down as repugnant to Islam. In addition, it acts as an appeal court with limited jurisdiction in cases involving adultery and unlawful sexual intercourse (zina). The FSC did not have jurisdiction over Muslim personal law, constitutional law or fiscal law, although it has since attempted to encroach on these domains. Nor does it have jurisdiction in cases involving offences against religion. Further, its decisions are not final but can be appealed in the Shariat Appellate Bench of the Supreme Court. In structure and method the FSC is modeled on Anglo-Saxon judicial procedures and was therefore initially staffed by four High Court and one Supreme Court judge. Only later, after protests, were a number of ulama judges appointed, but governments have ensured they remain a minority on the bench (Amin 1989: 71).

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During the 1980s and 1990s, state agencies such as the Federal Shariat Court and the Council of Islamic Ideology scrutinised all existing laws to see whether they were consistent with, or repugnant to, Islam. All laws considered repugnant were either amended and brought in line with Islamic provisions or replaced by suitable Islamic alternatives. In addition, during General Zia’s regime, Muslim legal rules were most strikingly brought into the public domain through the selective appropriation and application of Islamic criminal law.21 At the conclusion of this project, the states’ legal functionaries claimed that Pakistani law was now in accordance with the sharia. This contention has, however, been for the most part disputed by the ulama. As custodians of Islamic jurisprudence, they regard the sharia as their exclusive preserve. These two legal discourses, that of the state and of the ulama, while both proclaiming fidelity to the sharia, have divergent interpretations on a number of issues, most especially with regard to divorce laws and criminal laws regarding rape.22 Disputes on these issues have been acute, if periodic.

Recognising Muslims: Competing Claims between Sharia and State Law The Ahmadiyya cases, of which all except one were presented before the mainstream judicial system, illuminates one fissure between state-sharia and the ulama’s understanding. A consideration of these cases reveals the emergence of differential emphases between the state’s and the ulama’s jurisprudential traditions regarding the significance of religious beliefs and practices in constituting a Muslim subject. They, therefore, have disparate methods of recognising such a subject and his legal status or identity. Liberal legal discourse in South Asia, as a result of legal decisions by the colonial state, has emphasised belief as the principal criterion for determining whether one belongs to a particular religious group.23 These colonial precedents emphasising the voluntary confession of belief to one’s faith as the key criteria in determining religious identity emerged as a result of courts trying to adjudicate cases of ambiguous religiosity. In the case of Muslims, the affirmation of the Kalyma was indicative of one’s religious identity. The rule was formulated in Abraham v Abraham, a dispute between the brother and the widow of a native Christian over inheritance.24 Although the Abraham case was not concerned with Muslims, the rule that profession of faith indexed religious identity was accepted as a principle

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being frequently cited in subsequent Muslim cases.25 Furthermore, this criterion of proving one’s membership of the Muslim community is a minimal one, thereby allowing maximal numbers of diverse Muslims to formally claim Muslim identity. Ritual, as the manifestation of Muslim practices and differences, was given minimal weight in judicial considerations as it threatened to upset the administrative stability of the Muslim population. The relegation of ritual practice enabled the courts to ignore religious differences among Muslims while the insistence on ‘belief’ as indexing identity sustained an imagination of a unified Muslim community. Thus ‘identity’ — a formal politico-legal category associated with the modern state and derived from colonial forms of governance — was privileged by state law. My use of ‘identity’ differs from its usage in identity politics. That is, I do not use the term solely to refer to the expression of individuals and groups who assert their identity claims in relation to political authority. Rather, I understand identity to refer to the myriad practices of institutional authority that identify, classify, categorise and help construct the ontological experience of identity (Cohn 1996: Introduction; Dirks 2001; Cooper and Brubaker 2005; Torpey and Caplan 2001). The Hanafi fiqh, however, historically does not seem to have been concerned with legal identity but with subjectivity or what I shall interchangeably refer to as ontic identity.26 The Muslim position on this question is complex. Johansen notes that the juristic position, with its methodological focus on a subject’s exterior and observable acts, eschews ‘belief’. In this it differs from some Muslim theological positions, where common ‘belief’ can be considered the basis of the community (Johansen 1999: 19–37). Further, within Muslim theology, there are different positions. Some hold that the confession of Muslim faith, that is belief as expressed by the Kalyma, is sufficient in itself. The alternative view argues that practices and liturgical acts are a constituent part of belief. The juristic position, however, differs from these theological positions as it is concerned with observable acts and does not enquire into beliefs, which remain inaccessible. Johansen says, ‘They do not treat the testimony of belief (shahada) as an object of legal norms’ (1999: 35). Hanafi jurisprudence is seemingly more open to diverse readings in its assessment of Muslim status. From the theological perspective, the anti-Ahmadi ulama emphasised the heterodox nature of Ahmadi belief as the basis for their exclusion. The Ahmadis, by contrast, having failed to persuade both the National

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Assembly and orthodox ulama that their belief in Ghulam Mirza’s Ahmeds’ prophetic attributes was theologically justifiable, attempted to argue that they could still juristically be considered Muslims under sharia law, and that their continuing engagement in Muslim ritual practices was sufficient to mark them as Muslim subjects. The existence of this alternative legal discourse was crucial to the Ahmadis, for it enabled a different understanding of what constituted Muslim subjectivity and arguments for Muslim legal status. They interpreted Islamic jurisprudence as recognising a subject as Muslim on the basis of their performance of Muslim practices as well as affirmations of faith. In court the Ahmadis argued that as lawabiding citizens of the state, they were obliged to accept their ‘nonMuslim’ designation under the positive law of Pakistan. As such, they were ‘official non-Muslims’. However, in their self-understanding, living an experiential life under the higher, divine authority of the sharia, allowed them to remain Muslims. This argument made the fissures between the state’s legal discourse and the sharia evident. That is, after the constitutional redefinition, one had to subscribe to the belief in the finality of Muhammad’s prophethood to be recognised as a Muslim. However, the Ahmadis’ ontic identity, as opposed to their legal identity, remained Muslim. The amendment had legal force insofar as the state regulates policy on the basis of identity, for example concerning electoral representation for minorities. However, the state failed to enact any measure to prevent Ahmadis from being Muslims in their everyday life. This neglect soon led to considerable anxiety amongst the ulama, for as long as the Ahmadis continued to engage in Muslim practices, they could be read, from the perspective of the sharia, as semiotically signifying their Muslim legal and ontic status. As a consequence of the fissures between state sharia and Islamic jurisprudence the Ahmadis were ambiguous and ambivalent persons: Muslims in practice, even if non-Muslims in law. This paradoxical condition ensured that the Ahmadis marked a site of moral and social danger. The Ahmadis continued insistence on Muslim ‘identity’ meant that they inhabited an ambivalent and contradictory ‘Muslim’ existence. Their continued prostelysing, and the sect’s conviction that they in fact were the true representatives of Islam, was regarded as intolerable by the ulama (Lavan 1974: 107, 186–95; Friedmann 1989: 160–61). The latter regarded Ahmadi missionary activity as propagating dissension, unbelief, and hypocrisy (fitna, kufr and munafikat). The Ahmadis were therefore characterised

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by the ulama as duplicitous, dissimulative and a danger to the ummah (moral community), and to the nation insofar as the nation and umma are conceived as coterminus. Ultimately the ulama saw their antagonist’s recourse to the sharia as undermining both the ulama’s consensus on the Ahmadis’ non-Muslim status and their recent success in mobilising state law to establish doctrinal orthodoxy. In order to remove the uncertainty and anxiety occasioned by the Ahmadi, the ulama filed cases in an attempt to enforce the constitutional amendment so that Ahmadis were non-Muslims in both an ontic and legal sense. They sought to eliminate the rupture occasioned by the ‘disingenuous’ practices of the Ahmadiyya, whose signifying activity was at odds with their designated status. The legal process whereby Ahmadis were recognised first as nonMuslims and then as potential blasphemers was varied, contested and complex. It began with civil law cases and involved an argument over Muslim-ness. It was then relocated to criminal law, for the Ahmadis using Muslim practices were regarded as deceiving and ‘outraging the sentiments’ of Muslims. Eventually, the arguments made in these distinct legal sites coalesced and overlapped in a constitutional case, which determined that Muslims have rights over Muslim-ness and that any Ahmadi appropriation of Muslim-ness was construed as blasphemous.

Outlawing the Ahmadiyya 1974–78 Constitutionalising Heterodoxy The Second Constitutional Amendment that outlawed the Ahmadis from Muslim legal status by altering the membership criteria for inclusion into Muslim identity did so by adding the following clause to Article 260 of the Constitution: (3) A person who does not believe in the absolute and unqualified finality of the Prophethood of Muhammad (peace be upon him) the last of the prophets or claims to be a prophet, in any sense of the word or any description whatsoever, after Muhammed (peace be upon him), or recognizes such a claimant as a prophet or a religious reformer, is not a Muslim for the purposes of the Constitution or law.27

This definitional article did not explicitly name the Ahmadis as a group or community.28 To this extent it was consistent with liberal

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legal and political theory, predicated on the abstract individual as a member of a legal and political community in which citizenship is the critical feature of membership. As a definitional article, it delimited membership criteria to a group, in this case the religious group of ‘Muslims’, through an emphasis on individual belief. In redefining the legal criteria of who would be recognised as a Muslim subject by the state, the law’s emphasis on belief and neglect of practice is indicative of a cognitive conception of religion and language, one privileged in liberal legal tradition. Legally, an individual has to affirm or choose belief by exercising his or her reason and to communicate this information or belief, which is understood to index a state of mind, to state authorities. By assenting or refusing the constitutional proposition, one communicates one’s religious status.29 This emphasis on belief may explain why the legislators ignored the fact that the Ahmadis, through their performance of religious practices and their lived experience, were historically, socially and discursively Muslims. For the purposes of the ‘constitution and law’, they were not.30 In stipulating new criteria for defining Muslim identity and orthodoxy, the law theoretically conceptualised an arena of heterodoxy. Article 260 (3) of the amendment ensured that any claim to prophecy was heterodox. The Ahmadis, as a community, were understood to be marked by this specific non-normative belief and thus were potentially deviant. Simultaneously, the Ahmadis were registered as a ‘religious minority’ by altering Article 106 of the Constitution. This article grants minorities political representation through reserved seats in Pakistan’s various provincial assemblies and was amended to include the Ahmadis as a newly marked non-Muslim minority.31 This reservation of seats continued the colonial logic of electoral representation on the basis of communal affiliation. These two provisions, Articles 260 and 106, can be understood as registering and accommodating competing discourses of citizenship and communal identities, of citizen and subject — a historical legacy of colonialism in South Asia. A series of legal and logical ambiguities resulted from this dialectic of exclusion and inclusion — of the negation of Ahmadi status/identity as Muslim subjects and the affirmation of their full membership of a political community as citizens, albeit as a religious minority, with constitutionally guaranteed rights. In this context, the discourse of liberal law under post-colonial conditions structured and regimented the field of legal contestation and argument.

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For their part, the Ahmadis, who emphasised that they were lawabiding citizens of the state, had no option but to accept their official ‘non-Muslim’ status. However, they were relieved that it did not affect their ability to lead their lives as Muslims. That is, the constitutional provisions did not impinge on their identity in the ontic sense. By insisting on continuing to live and practice as Muslims the Ahmadiyya resisted and refused to be non-Muslims — except in name. This brought out the incompleteness of the force of law, as the second amendment effected a prohibition but lacked a corollary sanction. In so doing, the law’s deficiency, its inability to police a domain of transgression that it had demarcated, ensured that it constituted the Ahmadi as a site of moral and social danger. Ulama anxiety over the Ahmadis continued practice as, and resemblance to, Muslims led to the initiation of cases by activist religious groups, such as the Khatme-Nabuwaat (Finality of Prophethood Movement), that attempted to prevent them from inhabiting Muslim-ness. Ultimately, as a result of these legal actions, the state was forced to confront the question of the Ahmadis’ ontological status. A second ambiguity arose from the incompleteness of the authority of the constitutional amendment: the legislative designation of the Ahmadis as non-Muslim under positive law did not exhaust the legal possibilities of being Muslim. Non-state Muslim discourses, in particular the tradition of Hanafi jurisprudence, continued to exist through which the Ahmadis could claim authorisation to substantiate their self-understanding as Muslim. This rendered the state’s legitimacy as interpreter of the sharia contestable and tenuous, and to some, illegitimate. The subsequent history of Ahmadi/Muslim cases has to be read against these two central themes of the force and authority of law. How could the declaration be enforced? And did the National Assembly have the authority to outlaw an avowedly Muslim sect from the ummah? Or, to put it another way, was the National Assembly’s authority, the authority of positive law, co-extensive with the authority of sharia law?

Disjuncture and Difference in the Legal Ecumene Not much changed in Ahmadi practice after the constitutional redefinition of a Muslim. Ulama groups, after their initial euphoria, realised that no legal mechanism existed to prevent the Ahmadis being Muslim. The Ahmadis continued to call the faithful through azan (call to prayer) to the masjid (place of worship) for prayer, and those who

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heeded the call said their prayers in a recognisably Muslim fashion. In these critical acts of religious practice and piety, there was little or no distinction between Ahmadis and Muslims; they were, as they argued, non-Muslims only in name. This insistence on Muslim identity further fueled demands by the ulama that the Ahmadis be differentiated, separated and constituted as other. They argued that the Ahmadis had always regarded themselves as a separate community, one that practiced endogamous marriage and refused to say prayers behind or attend the funerals of, non-Ahmadi Muslims. It was alleged that the Ahmadis regarded themselves as the authentic Muslim community and non-Ahmadi Muslims as kafirs (infidels).32 The ulama understood the continued anomalous state of Ahmadi identity as dangerous and harmful to the Muslim community and to the state. It was harmful to society as their heterodox beliefs destabilised the fundamentals of faith and created uncertainty in the Muslim community, and harmful to the state insofar as they undermined its authority to pronounce authoritatively on Islam. I argue that this danger was reformulated, regimented and reconfigured by the legal system in terms that were meaningful and actionable in law. ‘Danger’ was legally understood as ‘harm’ and, therefore, registered by different legal sections of the civil, criminal and administrative codes. In civil law it was conceptualised within a discourse of rights, where the Ahmadi appropriation of Muslim identity was regarded as harming the legal status and property of Muslims. Property in that legal identity was argued to be attached to specific qualities and practices, namely Muslim-ness, that belonged exclusively to Muslims. Under criminal law it was figured as an offence to the sentiments, for it ‘outraged’ the feelings of the Muslim community. Further, the tension between Ahmadis and Muslims often led to violence and thus the state could argue that it had the right to ban Ahmadi events and practices which posed a threat to public order and morality. I now track the process through which this alleged social harm was adjudicated. Chronologically, the saga begins with civil cases, but subsequently criminal cases and administrative actions were also undertaken. The Ahmadis principally argued that the various attempts to bring their ontic identity into consonance with their non-Muslim legal status, by banning or preventing them from Muslim religious practice, would contravene their fundamental rights as guaranteed by Article 20 of the Constitution, which states:

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Article 20: Subject to law, public order and morality (a) every citizen shall have the right to profess, practice and propagate his religion; and (b) every religious denomination and every sect thereof shall have the right to establish, maintain and manage its religious institutions.

In one of the first such civil cases initiated in 1975, a year after the constitutional amendment, the ulama-plaintiffs’ argument centred on the location and practice of prayer amongst the Ahmadis. They sought a permanent injunction preventing the Ahmadis from referring to their place of worship as a masjid, from calling the faithful to prayer through azan, and from performing prayer in the Muslim fashion, salat.33 Their counsel had argued in the trial court that these were distinctive Sha’ir-e-Islam (signs of Islam) and exclusive to Muslims. This focus on the masjid and the performance of prayer is significant, for it is through this sequence of the call to prayer and the act of prayer in the sacred space of the masjid that a Muslim subject, and community, is individually and collectively constituted.34 This understanding of the constitution of Muslim subjectivity through ritual practice was shared both by the Ahmadis and their ulama antagonists. However, for the suit to succeed in the courts, it had to be formulated in the language of rights. Accordingly, the plaintiffs argued that the Ahmadis, as non-Muslims, had no right to the use of Muslim ritual terminology and practices. The Ahmadi defense was three-fold. First, they asserted that they were Muslims. Second, they argued that the suit concerned a question of abstract rights and as such did not involve issues of concrete and material harm that could be redressed by law. Therefore, they contended, there was no basis for legal action and consequently the suit was not admissible under existing legal provisions. Third, they submitted that they could not be barred from these practices for it would contravene Article 20 of the Constitution, which guaranteed the fundamental right to profess, practice, and propagate one’s religion. The lower court, however, accepted the ulama-plaintiff’s argument that these terms and practices were exclusive to Islam and issued a temporary injunction prohibiting the Ahmadis from engaging in them. Dismissing the Ahmadi argument that the suit contravened the constitutional right to profess, practice and propagate one’s religion, the trial judge accepted that this right was ‘subject to law’. The judge interpreted the word ‘law’ in Article 20 of the Constitution to include

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Islamic law, arguing that constitutional rights were limited if they conflicted with the ‘Injunctions of Islam’. The lower court thus ignored the Ahmadi argument, and more problematically, a Supreme Court decision that ‘law’ referred only to positive law (Brigadier F. B. Ali v The State. PLD 1975 SC).35 The Ahmadi appeal against this decision and a number of other similar civil suits was heard by the Lahore High Court in the case of Abdur Rehman Mubashir v Syed Amir Ali Shah in 1978.36 Here, the court had to determine a number of distinct but related questions. Were the Ahmadis Muslims? Had Muslim rights been infringed by the Ahmadis’ continued usage of Muslim ritual practices, language and signs? Were these distinctive signs and practices exclusive to Islam? Had the lower court’s injunction disbarring Ahmadis violated constitutional protections of fundamental rights? If not, did the sharia support the ulama’s arguments? These questions can be reduced to two problematics that faced the court. First, what were the respective rights of Muslims and Ahmadis under positive law? Second, what was the relationship of divine and positive law, the sharia and the Constitution? Were they in conflict or in consonance? And which was superior? Apart from having to determine the court’s jurisdiction and the suits admissibility, the court was faced with the more problematic and far-reaching question of the contentious relation between positive and divine law. This issue had largely arisen from the lower courts’ attempt to resolve the disjuncture between positive and sharia law, a disjuncture that had been made evident by Ahmadi legal argumentation. Recall that the Ahmadis had relied on the supremacy of constitutional rights and positive law to ensure that they could continue with the disputed practices that signified Muslim-ness. However, this reliance on positive law was belied by their refusal to accept that it had the authority to pronounce them as non-Muslims in domains of life outside the ambit of constitutional law and political life. As self-consciously law-abiding citizens of the state they were obliged to accept their designation, under positive law, as ‘official non-Muslims’. However, they continued to insist that under the divine authority of the sharia they remained Muslims. The lower court had resolved this paradox by subordinating positive law to sharia law and interpreting the latter as facilitating an injunction preventing Ahmadi usage of Muslim signs and practices. In refusing to allow them to engage in these constitutive ritual practices, the lower court had sought to eliminate the split between their ontic and legal identities. However, this ruling breached judicial precedents and

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the High Court was forced to re-examine the relationship between positive law and sharia in light of the Ahmadi challenge. The problem facing the High Court judges was to formulate an alternative response that would close the disjunction between positive and sharia law, but in a manner consistent with judicial precedent, and thus with positive law. That is, they had to find a way to incorporate the sharia into constitutional positive law and to ensure that the judiciary and not the ulama remained the legitimate and authorised interpreters of the sharia.

Fundamental Rights v. ‘Muslim’ Rights over Identity The ulama-plaintiffs argued that their rights were being infringed upon by the Ahmadi appropriation of Muslim ritual terminology and practices. They submitted that identity per se — in legal terminology, ‘legal status’ — was protected under civil law because properties and rights were attached to it. That is, they argued that ‘Muslim’ was a legal status/identity protected under law and the Ahmadi appropriation of this status/identity constituted an infringement on the exclusive rights of Muslims to this status.37 Further, the ulama’s counsel attempted to strengthen the case that Muslim-ness was the exclusive property of Muslims alone by arguing that certain Muslim terminology was analogous to copyright or trademarks. The use of such terms by non-Muslims, he argued, constituted harm and amounted to an infringement on the rights of Muslims. The judge, however, ruled that it was not the ulama’s proprietal rights that had been denied by the Ahmadiyya’s continued Muslim practices, but that on the contrary, it was the ulama that were attempting to deprive the Ahmadiyya of their rights. Legally, he found the argument specious as no material losses to the plaintiff arose from Ahmadi usage of Muslim signs and practices.38 The ulama-plaintiffs had attempted to foreclose liberal and Ahmadi objections that the courts lacked jurisdiction in religious cases by relying on Section 9 of the Civil Procedure Code. This provision gives civil courts jurisdiction in matters of religion when civil rights are involved.39 However, the judge held that this only enabled the courts to pronounce on civil rights with respect to religious issues insofar as the dispute related to questions of ‘office or property’. Indeed, the ulama-plaintiffs’ attempt to equate the distinctive rituals and signs of Islam with trademarks and copyright appear to have been an attempt to argue that the Sha’ir-e-Islam be conceived as religious property. The judge, however, summarily

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dismissed this proposition, observing that rights over trademarks could not be regarded as divesting the constitutionally guaranteed right to the freedom of religion. Rights in trademarks or copyrights are matters, which are the concern of statutory law. There is no positive law investing the plaintiffs with any such right to debar the defendants from freedom of conscience, worship, or from calling their place of worship by any name they like. (Abdur Rehman:139)

Without material damage or loss, the plaintiffs’ case was, he decided, at best ‘hypothetical’. Nor did he accept matters of religion as within the court’s jurisdiction, unless they were linked to questions of ‘office or property’. The judge concluded that the basis of the suit was the aggrieved feelings of the Muslim community. While acknowledging the force of such sentiments, he did not consider them legally relevant. This distinction between questions of sentiment and property is a central theme in the judgment. Only property, or more precisely ‘harm’ or ‘damage’ to property, could be redressed by the courts. The argument that Muslims had exclusive property rights over Muslimness as ritual terminology, practices and performances were analogous to trademarks and copyrights was dismissed. However, the judge accepted the proposition that Muslims had legal status/identity and that certain signs and practices were indeed distinctive, if not exclusive, to Islam. As far as positive law was concerned, he concluded, the case had no merits. This led the ulama-plaintiffs to shift their argument from positive to sharia law by contending that the reference to ‘law’ in the constitutional amendment and Article 20 of the Constitution should be understood as including sharia law. Not surprisingly, the Ahmadi legal strategy contested this expansive reading of the word ‘law’. They argued that ‘law’ should be interpreted to mean and be restricted to positive law. This was complicated, however, by their strategy of mobilising the fissures between sharia and positive law in order to argue that they remained Muslims under the former, if not the latter. Their insistence on this point irked the judge, who was reluctantly forced to address the question of their ambivalent Muslim status. Thus, in spite of their different reasons and opposing legal strategies, both the ulama-plaintiffs and their Ahmadi opponents shared the conviction that sharia was superior to positive law. The plaintiffs made

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this argument directly by positing that divine law subsumed positive law. The Ahmadis were more indirect in that they contended that at most the constitutional amendment made them ‘official’ non-Muslims for the purposes of ‘Constitution and law’ only. It was imperative for the court to delineate the relationship between positive and sharia law in order to respond to the combined ulema and Ahmadi invocation of the supremacy of sharia. The court’s conundrum was that if the ulama position was upheld, then the judiciaries’ authority would be seriously weakened and numerous challenges to their interpretation of Islamic law would be raised. Nor could the Ahmadi argument be sustained, for then they would simultaneously be Muslim and non-Muslim — a condition the judge found to be legally anomalous and absurd. A final question was whether the Ahmadis, as non-Muslims, could be prevented from using Islamic terminology under sharia law. With respect to the Ahmadi insistence on their Muslim identity, the judge avoided theological issues and instead grounded the Ahmadis’ non-Muslims status as legitimately and conclusively determined by the constitutional amendment. Nor did he support the Ahmadis’ distinction between being a non-Muslim according to the Constitution and law and Muslim for other purposes. The fact that the constitutionally declared religion of the state was Islam and the Constitution mandated that all laws should conform to the injunctions of Islam ruled out any possibility of dual status for Ahmadis. It was therefore ‘not possible to declare the Ahmadis as non-Muslims for certain purposes and to let them remain as Muslims for others. This error, which would render the Legislature as an object of ridicule, cannot be attributed to them’ (Abdur Rehman: 154). The judge was very careful to explicitly ground this clarification of the Ahmadis’ non-Muslim status on the Constitution rather than the sharia. He avoided any reasoning that could be interpreted as enabling the subordination of positive to sharia law. The next issue was the plaintiffs’ contention that the sharia subsumed positive law. The judge observed that the plaintiffs’ resort to the sharia was a result of their lack of legal right under positive law. The lower courts had accepted their argument, he argued, because the trial judge had neglected important legal issues and ignored higher court rulings where ‘law’ had been determined to mean only positive law (Abdur Rehman: 131). These precedent establishing decisions had held that sharia law was not included within the

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word ‘law’ except where it had been incorporated as substantive codified law by legislative acts. The judge dismissed the plaintiff’s argument that Islamic law should supersede codified law if the two were in conflict. Consequently, he found that the lower courts had acted ‘illegally and with material irregularity’ in the exercise of their jurisdiction. Reiterating earlier Supreme Court decisions, he held that sharia law was only applicable insofar as it was already part of substantive positive law. After subordinating the sharia to positive law, however, he nevertheless accommodated the constitutional recognition, and increasing importance, of the sharia as a source of law by making it equivalent with, and analogous to, the principle of ‘justice, equity and good conscience’ — an established principle of Anglo-Saxon jurisprudence. As such, the sharia could cover omissions in the law by the judiciary and consequently had a more dynamic role than reliance on codified law allowed for. However, he was careful to limit this by noting that equity only supplements the law. Thus, the expanded role of sharia law did not help the ulama’s case because he had already found the brief wanting under positive law. Consequently, the sharia, conceived as equity, was technically not relevant. Nonetheless, in seeking to re-establish judicial interpretive authority over the sharia, the judge decided to determine whether the plaintiffs’ case had any merits under sharia law. It was in the course of these arguments over the interpretation of sharia law that the differential criteria under which a subject is recognised as Muslim by liberal law and by local understandings of Islamic jurisprudence became increasingly evident. It is clear, from the judge’s restatement of the discussion, that the plaintiffs’ objections to non-Muslims utilising the azan and salat was premised on their understanding that the performance of these practices is constitutive of subjectivity and identity — in both the legal and ontic sense. On the question of whether zimmis (non-Muslim people of the book) were allowed to call the azan, both ulama and Ahmadi counsel referred to the Al-Behr-ul-Ra’iq, a classical compendium of Hanafi law primarily used in South Asia, to support the argument that the habitual practice of calling the azan by a non-believer enabled the process of conversion to Islam (Ibrahim 1983). The Ahmadi counsel argued that since the Ahmadis called the azan, as prescribed, they were therefore Muslims. This confirmed the rationale behind the plaintiffs’ objection to the Ahmadis continuation of this practice and the logic behind the suit. This inference occasioned some anxiety for

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the judge — an anxiety that could not entirely be resolved — for it turned precisely on a disjuncture where Islamic and liberal law could not be made commensurable. It is therefore not surprising that the judge simply ruled that that the Ahmadi counsel’s inference was not relevant. I suggest that it could not be considered ‘relevant’ because this would re-enact the double bind of accepting that Ahmadis were potentially Muslims under Islamic jurisprudence and simultaneously acknowledging the force of the ulama’s theological arguments for issuing an injunction disbarring the Ahmadis from Muslim ritual practices. The judge ignored the contending counsels’ emphasis on habitual practice and focused instead on whether calling the azan by a kafir was proscribed by Islamic jurisprudence. He argued that there was no such proscription. Non-Muslims were not prohibited from calling azan for it was a practice through which unbelievers could convert to Islam. The ulama counsel objected to this interpretation and insisted that the Al-Behr-ul-Ra’iq should be interpreted as meaning that ‘only a Muslim can call the azan’. The judge’s gloss on the text, however, was that it only meant that Muslims ‘should respond only to the call of azan by a Muslim and they should not set up a kafir for calling azan in their mosques. But this does not lay down a proposition prohibitory of the non-Muslims to call it’ (Abdur Rehman: 181). The protagonists took similar positions with respect to salat. Citing an Islamic tradition from the Mishkat-ul-Masabih, the ulama-plaintiffs argued that salat is constitutive of subjectivity insofar as it ‘intervenes between Kufr and Islam’.40 Again the Ahmadis concurred. The judge, once again, disagreed with both parties arguing that: ‘Like the azan of a non-Muslim, salat of a non-Muslim is not salat in the eyes of a Muslim. The tradition does not convey any prohibition against the non-Muslims saying salat if they so like’ (emphasis added) (Abdur Rehman: 181). With respect to both azan and salat, the ulama and their Ahmadi opponents understood these practices, within classical jurisprudence, as constitutive of and signifying Muslim-ness. However, the judge ignored this. Instead, he imagined a Muslim spectator whose acknowledgment and recognition were the critical factors in determining whether the subject who performs these practices was recognised as Muslim. This Muslim spectator was understood as equivalent to the disinterested judge of classical liberal legal theory. The judge was also consistent in his deployment of liberal legal methodology so that if no evidence or rule was cited from classical Islamic sources to prove that any practice was prohibited, then as far as

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the law was concerned it was permissible. This inability to understand practice as constitutive of being is characteristic of liberal legalism, which understands ontic identity as a pre-constituted natural fact that the law merely recognises (Collier et al. 1995; Markell 2003: Ch. 2). By contrast, Islamic jurisprudence gives scope to practice and therefore recognises a potentially substantive relationship between ontic and legal identity. By emphasising the lack of proscriptive rules against non-Muslim use of Islamic ritual and language, the judge decided that the Ahmadis’ non-Muslim status does not prohibit them from using the distinctive signs and practices of Islam. It is one thing to establish that all these institutions originated with Islam but it is altogether a different proposition that Islam made these things so exclusive that no non-Muslim, even though a believer in the Holy Quran or traditions of the Holy Prophet, may utilize them as a means of spiritual advancement. (Abdur Rehman: 170)

The ulama-plaintiff’s case, he concluded, was neither competent under positive law nor had merit under sharia law. Indeed, they had not cited any evidence in the form of Quranic injunctions, traditions, or legal opinions of the various schools of fiqh that non-Muslims were prohibited from constructing their place of worship in any manner resembling mosque or referring to it as a ‘masjid’. The judge emphasised the lack of any prohibitory rule in the sharia that could support any such exclusion from these practices. Nonetheless, he had little option but to maintain the legislature’s decision that Ahmadis were non-Muslim solely on the basis of their heterodox belief with respect to the finality of prophethood. Otherwise, he accepted that they believed in the mission of Prophet Muhammad, the Holy Quran, and the Sunnah, and were entitled to name their place of worship a masjid, call the azan and perform prayers in the Muslim manner.41 The plaintiffs’ attempt to bar them ‘amount[ed] to interfering with their religion, which Islam, the religion of tolerance, does not allow. On the other hand, Islam leaves the non-Muslims free to profess and practice their religion’ (Abdur Rehman: 188). Constitutional articles that protected freedom of religion, he stated, was in all respects consonant with Islam. With respect to the critical feature of the case, the plaintiffs’ attempt to ban the Ahmadis from Muslim ritual practices, the judge accepted that such practices, signs and the manner of performance were distinctive to Islam. However, this did not mean that the engagement of Muslim practices by non-Muslims amounted either to

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interference or appropriation of Islam. The judge was able to affirm the Ahmadis fundamental religious rights, even though they entailed engaging in Muslim religious language and ritual, because identity in this formulation is prior to the law. In elaborating this case in some detail, I aimed to explicate the potential fissures between positive law and sharia law in terms of the criteria that determine recognition. Second, I have outlined how the plaintiffs argued that identity should be interpreted as conferring property rights and the judge’s ruling that this was irrelevant, as no material loss had occurred. However, in accepting that ‘Muslims’ had legal status/identity that was intelligible through distinctive practices and signs, his ruling did not fully exclude the possibility of further argument that Muslims could potentially have ownership of Muslim characteristics. This lacuna, as I will demonstrate, had important ramifications. Finally, I suggest that the judge’s attempt to claim authority over the interpretation of the sharia was not entirely successful in this particular case. His decision, which allowed the Ahmadis to engage in the disputed practices and Sha’ir-e-Islam, ensured that the ambivalence between ontic and legal identity remained unresolved. The Ahmadis continued to inhabit the contradictory location whereby they were always potentially, if contested, Muslims, signifying the distinctive attributes of Muslim-ness and yet not officially recognised as such by the state. Consequently, they remained ambiguous and dangerous social subjects caught in an enduring tension of being and identity.

Securing the Signs of Muslimness, 1983–94 Ordinance XX: The Anti-Ahmadi Ordinance In the early 1980s, renewed agitations against the Ahmadis led General Zia, in 1984, to introduce Ordinance XX to satisfy ulama demands of legal prohibitions on the Ahmadi usage of Muslim terminology and ritual practice.42 The Ordinance added two new sections to Chapter XV (Of Offences against Religion) of the Pakistan Penal Code. The first section, 298-B, criminalised Ahmadi usage of epithets, descriptions and titles reserved for Muslim holy personages and from naming their place of worship a masjid. The second clause initially prohibited them from referring to their call to prayers as azan. To this point, the section was explicit and consistent in designating the common linguistic referents for key Muslim practices as proscribed to Ahmadis. However, with respect to azan, it then further proscribed the Ahmadis from the actual practice of calling the azan.

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Ordinance XX Section 298 B (2) Any person of the Qadiani group or the Lahori group (who call themselves ‘Ahmadis’ or by any other name) who by words, either spoken or written, or by visible representations, refers to the mode or form of call to prayers followed by his faith as ‘Azan’, or recites Azan as used by the Muslims, shall be punished with imprisonment of either description for a term which may extend to three years and shall also be liable to fine. (Emphasis added.)

The second section of Ordinance XX, 298-C, was even wider in scope. It prohibited the Ahmadis from ‘posing’ as Muslims and preaching and propagating as such. Section 298-C: Any person of the Qadiani group or the Lahori group (who call themselves ‘Ahmadis’ or by any other name), who directly or indirectly, poses himself as Muslim, or calls, or refers to, his faith as Islam, or preaches or propagates his faith, or invites others to accept his faith, by words, either spoken or written, or by visible representations or in any manner whatsoever outrages the religious feelings of Muslims, shall be punished with imprisonment of either description for a term which may extend to three years and shall also be liable to fine.

The criminalisation of these practices reflected a new emphasis on proprietorial control over linguistic reference and critical ritual practices. Further, Section 298-C expanded the domain of hurt sentiments as the cause for criminal complaints and actions. In this, it was typologically and terminologically consistent with the original provisions of the chapter dealing with religious offences of the colonial era Indian Penal Code. The ‘wounding [of] religious feelings’ was a criminal offence under Section 298.43 One could argue that in targeting a specific community as the object of criminal action, Sections 298-B and C are inconsistent with liberal legal systems, which emphasise individual transgression. From a theoretical perspective this is undoubtedly true, but as I have argued, liberal legalism develops in historical contexts. Legal rights, obligations and characteristics were, as a result of colonial legal process, attached to collective identities. This is clear in the realm of personal religious law, but also in the arena of criminal law, where membership of ‘criminal communities’ such as dacoits or thuggees was sufficient to initiate a criminal prosecution (Singha 2000: 168–220). Thus, this post-colonial innovation had colonial precedents. This is not to argue that Zia’s additions are

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reducible to a colonial legacy; it would be fallacious to collapse two distinct historical moments to a single legal logic. However, the colonial genealogy of these laws is important, for it illuminates the conditions of possibility that frame post-colonial elaborations. Ordinance XX was clearly pernicious in that it curtailed the breadth of Ahmadi religious freedom conferred by the decision in Abdur Rehman Mubashir v Syed Amir Ali Shah and led to a number of criminal actions against Ahmadis for ‘posing’ as Muslims and propagating their religion as Islam. Further, in 1989, the District Magistrate of Jhang issued an administrative order banning the Ahmadi centenary celebrations on the grounds that they posed a threat to public peace. The order also warned that any Ahmadi who claimed to be Muslim and propagated his faith as such would be liable to prosecution for ‘posing’ as Muslims under Section 298-C. The prevention of their centenary celebrations and the ramifications of Ordinance XX led the Ahmadis to file a number of criminal appeals and constitutional challenges. These appeals and petitions were consolidated and adjudicated in three cases: Mujibur Rahman v Federal Government of Pakistan (1985), Zaheer-ud-din v The State (1988), and Mirza Khurshid Ahmed v Government of Punjab (1992).44 Common to all of these appeals was the question of whether Ordinance XX, and therefore Sections 298-B and C of the Penal Code, were ultra vires of the Constitution — specifically of those articles which guaranteed the rights to freedom of speech (Article 19), freedom to profess, practice and propagate one’s religion (Article 20) and freedom of equality before the law (Article 25). The first challenge, in the case Mujibur Rahman v Federal Government of Pakistan, was made in the Federal Shariat Court (FSC), since) martial law was still in effect and the Constitution in abeyance (Rehman 2002: 19). The FSC was principally constituted to determine whether any existing laws should be struck down as repugnant to Islam. Consequently, the Ahmadis did not argue the constitutional illegitimacy of Ordinance XX, as this was outside the purview of the FSC. Instead, they argued that it was repugnant to Islam, violated the sharia, and should therefore be rescinded. In the course of the arguments, the court, exercising judicial remit to pronounce on the sharia, felt authorised to conclusively determine whether the Ahmadis qualified as Muslims under the sharia. Accordingly it entered into protracted theological discussions, which are beyond the scope of this article. However, the court took the opportunity afforded by this theological excursus to pronounce that

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the Ahmadis and Muslims in fact constituted two separate ummahs. It did so by employing the point of contention between the two communities, the Ahmadis’ founder’s claim to prophetic status, as the basis for constructing a prophetic model of religion. The court reasoned that the Ahmadi claim of Ghulam Mirza Ahmed’s prophetic status and their belief in the unity of Allah indicated that they were a monotheistic community. However, because of their refusal to accept the finality of Muhammed’s prophethood, they could not be considered part of the Muslim ummah. The persistence of their belief in Ghulam Mirza Ahmed was evidence that he had inaugurated a new and distinct religious community on the basis of divine revelation. The fact that the Ahmadis practiced endogamous marriage, constructed their own mosques and refused to pray behind non-Ahmadi Muslims reinforced the court’s understanding that they constituted a separate, distinctive and non-Muslim ummah. Consequently, the court upheld the ordinance’s prohibition on the Ahmadis’ use of Muslim terminology and practices. It argued these were distinctive signs of Muslims. It further held that propagating Ahmadism was not permissible because it involved the dissemination of heresy. On the question of whether the calling of azan signified a Muslim subject, the court agreed that Muslim jurists had held that whosoever called the azan should be treated as a Muslim. However, it argued that this practice was not conclusive of Muslim identity but open to rebuttal if that subject’s ‘beliefs’ proved that he was not a Muslim. Consequently, the court declared that Ordinance XX was not repugnant to Islam but in fact protected Islam and the Islamic community, from those who sought to transgress upon or illegitimately appropriate it.

The Ahmadis as Imposters and Frauds The prohibitions effected by Sections 298-B and C led to a number of arrests. In one case, five Ahmadis were charged and convicted under Section 298-C for ‘posing’ as Muslims. They had been caught wearing badges with the Muslim profession of faith (Kalyma) printed on them. Their appeal to the Balochistan High Court is chronicled in Zaheer-uddin v The State (1988). The accused argued that since Ordinance XX had not specifically made the recital or display of the Kalyma an offense, it was unjustified that the law be interpreted to infer such an offence. The court, however, cited the Federal Shariat Courts ruling in Mujibur

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Rahman — which it considered as binding on the High Court — and said that the Sha’ir-e-Islam was not common to Ahmadis and Muslims.45 Indeed, given that the affirmation of faith was one of the five pillars of Islam, the court argued that in displaying or enunciating the Kalyma, Ahmadis would clearly be ‘posing’ as Muslims. Such an action, the court held, fell within the scope of Section 298-C, irrespective of the fact it had not been specified as an offence.46 In the next case of consequence, Mirza Khurshid Ahmed v Government of Punjab, the Ahmadis filed a constitutional petition in the Lahore High Court against Ordinance XX, and particularly Section 298-C, for violating the fundamental rights of assembly, freedom of speech and religion as guaranteed by Articles 16, 19 and 20 of the Constitution. They also challenged the order of the District Magistrate of Jhang for banning their centenary celebrations. The Ahmadis followed their earlier legal strategy of asking the courts to restrict their focus to the question of constitutional rights and not to enter into discussions of religious beliefs. However, the court accepted the government counsel’s argument that it was impossible to decide the validity of the district magistrates’ ban unless one recognised the rationale behind the order. Thus, it was necessary to refer to Ahmadi beliefs insofar as they were relevant to determining whether they outraged the religious feelings of Muslims, and were actionable under Section 298-C and consequently the legitimacy of the administrative ban that sought to ensure public peace. The judge, in essence, argued that Ordinance XX did not violate fundamental rights to religion because these rights were subject to other provisions of the Constitution, specifically to ‘law, public order, and morality’. The Ordinance, he reasoned, was issued precisely because of Ahmadi persistence in claiming Muslim identity and their flouting of the Constitution. It was not only consistent with the second amendment, which had declared the Ahmadis non-Muslims; it was its logical culmination for it gave force to the law. The judge relied on the Federal Shariat Court’s ruling that Muslims and Ahmadis constituted separate ummahs, concluding that any Ahmadi appropriation of Muslim terminology, epithets and practices prohibited by law was indeed a criminal offence. With respect to the ban on the centenary celebrations, the judge made a distinction between the right to profess and practice one’s religion and the right to propagate it.47 He did not see how these ‘public’ celebrations were fundamental and integral aspects of religion.

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Centenary celebrations, he argued, did not amount to professing and practicing one’s faith. On the contrary, he found that they amounted to propagating one’s faith, an offence under Section 298-C. Furthermore, he argued that even if propagation had not been criminalised, there were still sufficient legal justifications, given apprehensions about public disturbances, to ban the celebrations on the basis of maintaining public order. The judge argued that Ahmadis have the right to profess and practice their faith but the problem was that they identified it with Islam. They should, he said, differentiate themselves from Islam and cease engaging in prohibited Muslim practices. Otherwise, he warned, they would fall within the ambit of the Ordinance and become liable to criminal prosecution. The judge then attempted to determine what the Ahmadis meant when they uttered the Kalyma. He interpreted Ahmadi texts that argued for the various resemblances between Ghulam Mirza Ahmed and the Holy Prophet as equivalent to the concept of reincarnation, which he explicitly linked to Hinduism and thus foreign to Islamic tradition.48 The Ahmadis, he argued, believed that Mirza Ahmed and the Prophet were one and the same. He therefore accepted the ulama counsel’s argument that whenever the Ahmadis said the Kalyma they were referring to Mirza Ahmed rather than the Holy Prophet.49 This, he stated, amounted to defiling the Holy Prophet Muhammed and fell within the ambit of yet another criminal provision introduced by General Zia, Section 295-C of the PPC.50 This section, popularly known as the blasphemy law, criminalised any perceived insult to the Prophet Muhammad as punishable either by life imprisonment or capital punishment. The judge argued: In view of the specific claim of Ghulam Mirza Ahmed, it is apparent that belief of Ahmadis is that Mirza Sahib is Prophet Muhammad and so use of the words (Muhammed, Messenger of God) in the banners or badge worn by any Ahmadi would at his own peril as it amounts to defiling the sacred name of the Holy Prophet (peace be upon him) and such act certainly fall within the purview of section 295-C, PPC. (Mirza Khurshid Ahmed v. Government of Punjab, PLD Lahore 1: 32)

This interpretation was facilitated by the Federal Shariat Court decision that constituted the Ahmadis and Muslims as separate but structurally similar monotheistic and prophetic communities. Both were held to believe in the unity of Allah and both were communities founded by charismatic prophets, the critical difference being that

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the Federal Shariat Court, unlike the Lahore High Court in Abdur Rehman Mubashir, severed the Ahmadis’ connection to the Prophet Muhammad. The judge accepted this interpretation although the Ahmadi witnesses explicitly denied that they were referring to Ghulam Mirza Ahmed. The judge simply refused to believe them. Once the two communities had been demarcated as structurally similar but parallel communities, the Ahmadi’s insistence on Muslim identity led the court to understand that on each occasion they said the Kalyma, they were refusing this constitutionally mandated demarcation. In this the judge understood the Ahmadi pronouncement of the Kalyma as effectively asserting the two communities as one. Further, given Ghulam Mirza Ahmed’s pronouncements of his closeness to the Prophet of Islam and the Ahmadis continued identity with Muslims, the judge concluded that the Ahmadis were referring to both the Holy Prophet and Ghulam Mirza Ahmed simultaneously. This referential identity between the two prophetic founders and thus the two communities, between the sacred and the profane, showed that the Ahmadis were ‘posing’ as Muslims, which the judge found to be blasphemous and thus subject to Section 295-C. The Qadianis [i.e. Ahmadis]51 continue to profess and practice their faith and enjoy all the freedom like Hindus, Sikhs, Parsees and other religious minorities but a difficult situation is created by their own conduct of passing off as Muslims and use of Sha’ir-e-Islam or Kalyma(sic) which are one of the fundamentals of Islam. No untoward situation or incident will arise in case the constitutional mandate is adhered to by Qadianis and they treat themselves as a community different and distinct from Muslims — which is their own case … Their loyalty to the country, Constitution and their separate entity would ensure their safety and well-being. Why should they be allowed to hijack Islam? They are welcome to have any faith but why should they insist to impurify the faith of Muslims. Any act of Muslims taken for safeguarding the purity of their faith should not disturb the Qadianis or should give them no cause of grievance. (32)

The cumulative logic of legal reasoning through which the Ahmadis were differentiated from Muslims made the Kalyma the crucial site for the contestation of identity and difference. The contest over its pronouncement encapsulated the Ahmadi insistence on their Muslim identity and the Court’s constitution of their difference. Consequently, the judge read the Ahmadis not merely to be ‘posing’ as Muslims but, by invoking an identity between Ghulam Mirza Ahmed and the Holy

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Prophet, engaging in a blasphemous transgression. In arguing that this specific representation of Muslim-ness fell under the ambit of Section 295-C, the court ratcheted up the seriousness of the offence, potentially making Ahmadis who invoked the Muslim profession of faith liable to capital punishment.

Regulating Religious Practice Property and Public Order Rationales The Ahmadis appealed all of these decisions, and thus the legality of Ordinance XX with respect to fundamental rights, before the Supreme Court in Zaheer-ud-din v The State.52 Although the Court delivered a split decision, the majority endorsed the reasoning in Mirza Khurshid Ahmed and decided against the Ahmadis.53 However, the Supreme Court for the most part eschewed discussions on theological questions. The majority opinion returned to the question of whether Muslim terminology could be restricted by law arguing that Section 298-B (clause 1), which prevented the Ahmadis from using epithets associated with the Holy Prophet Muhammad, his family and his companions for Ghulam Mirza Ahmed, his family and his companions was appropriate. The use of these expressions by Ahmadis, the court reasoned, amounted to deception, for it would designate that Ghulam Mirza Ahmed, his companions and family either as reincarnations of the Holy Prophet, etc. — a theological impossibility — or as dissimulators, imposters and frauds who were substituting themselves for real Muslims and declaring the majority of Muslims to be kafirs. Noting that linguistic expressions and words have been restricted by various company laws and trade acts, and further, that the state also restricts names such as ‘Government’, ‘Crown’, ‘Commonwealth’, etc. for its own exclusive use, the court concluded: It is thus clear that intentionally using trade names, trademarks, property marks or descriptions of others in order to make believe others that they belong to the user thereof amounts to an offence and not only the perpetrator can be imprisoned and fined but damages can be recovered and injunction to restrain him issued. This is true of goods of even very small value. For example, the Coca Cola Company will not permit anyone to sell, even a few ounces of his own product in bottles or other receptacles marked Coca Cola … the principles involved are; do not deceive and do not violate the property rights of others (emphasis added). (SCMR 1993: 1753–54)

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The argument that Sha’ir-e-Islam were analogous to trademarks had been rejected by the Lahore High Court in Abdur Rehman Mubashir, discussed above. There, the judge decided that the argument was only relevant in civil cases if material losses had been incurred. However, this reasoning was now disregarded and the signs and semiotics of Muslim-ness were conceptualised as exclusive religious property. This movement, whereby a religious or cultural identity recognised by law can potentially confer exclusive proprietorial rights, has become increasingly evident in the past few decades as a result of the neoliberal emphasis on intellectual property rights (Comaroff and 2005; Brown 1998). Indeed, this alchemy, where particular characteristics and attributes can be objectified and made the basis of claims to cultural and religious property, seems to be a structural feature of liberal law. Identity is conceived of as reified status that has specific characteristics, which can then confer property rights (Radin 1993). The court’s recourse to trademark law is an example of how language is also a potential commodity in liberal law (Macleod 2001; Coombe 1998).54 The court realised the potential property characteristics of legal identity, in this case of Muslims, by arguing that certain signs were not just distinctive characteristics and practices but the exclusive property of Islam. As to whether the Ahmadis’ fundamental constitutional rights had been infringed, especially the right to freedom of religion, the court argued that freedom is not absolute but subject to a number of limitations. First, it is subject to law, public order and morality. Second, it is subject to limitations that are reasonably necessary for the protection of the community as a whole. Third, only those religious practices that are essential and integral parts of a religion are free from legal regulation.55 The ban on the Ahmaddiya centenary celebration was justified, the court reasoned, because the celebrations were not essential and integral to the Ahmadi ‘religion’. Further, the celebrations would have created a law and order problem and endangered public safety as the Ahmadis, in celebrating their founder’s prophetic status and simultaneously utilising Muslim terminology reserved for the Holy Prophet, were in effect defiling Prophet Muhammad. The Ahmadi use of the Kalyma was considered particularly pernicious for it attested to Ghulam Mirza Ahmed’s prophethood rather than the Holy Prophet’s. This was simultaneously blasphemy and deception and would have led to public disturbances and danger to life. Again, this reasoning is consistent with liberal legal regimes that restrict the exercise of rights in the interests of order and security.

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To support its ruling, the Court took care to cite precedents for these restrictions from cases in secular countries such as the UK, Australia, the USA and India (SCMR 1993:1758–65). The court held that by appropriating Muslim-ness, the Ahmadis were infringing on the rights of Muslims and threatening the integrity of the community. Consequently, the decision held that Ordinance XX was not ultra vires of the Constitution.56 Indeed, the court affirmed the Ahmadis’ freedom to profess their religion as long as such religious practice did not include the distinctive features of Islam, which has been denied by both positive and sharia law: The Ahmadis like other minorities are free to profess their religion in this country and no one can take that right away either by legislation or by executive order. They must, however, honor the Constitution and the law and should neither desecrate or defile the pious personage of any other religion including Islam, nor should they use the exclusive epithets, descriptions and titles and also avoid using the exclusive names like mosque and practice like ‘Azan’, so that the feelings of the Muslim community are not injured and the people are not misled or deceived as regards the faith. (SCMR 1993: 1778)

And the court concluded: ‘We also do not think that the Ahmadis will face any difficulty in coining new names, epithets, titles and descriptions for their personages, places and practices’.

Conclusion The legal arguments and judgments that I have discussed were varying strategies and responses to the paradox posed by the split between the Ahmadiyya’s legal and ontic identities. The ‘anomalous’ position the Ahmadis inhabited as a result of the legislative separation of their legal identity from their subjective experience and social life revealed a number of disjunctures — as well as potential equivalences — in the continuing state project to appropriate the sharia within what is epistemologically and procedurally a liberal legal system. Statesharia, as I have argued, differed primarily from the Hanafi tradition of Muslim jurisprudence in which the performance of Muslim rituals and practices was understood to be constitutive of a Muslim subject and to public recognition of that status. Both the Ahmadis and their ulama opponents shared this view but differed in the implications of their assessments. The Ahmadis emphasised Hanafi juristic arguments that supported their contention that irrespective of the state’s legal

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pronouncements they remained Muslims. The ulama, by contrast, drew from Muslim theological arguments that the Ahmadis were heretics given their untenable beliefs and that state power should therefore outlaw them from the ummah. The state concurred with this argument by passing the second constitutional amendment in 1974. However, the Ahmadis continuing identification as Muslims led the ulama to push for the their prohibition from the signs and semiotics of Muslimness. This demand presented a dilemma for the judiciary. The Lahore High Court’s solution in Abdur Rehman Mubashir was to demonstrate that neither the sharia nor positive law differed in that both allowed non-Muslims to engage with Muslim language and practice. Working within a liberal–legal paradigm, the judge decided that freedom of religion could not be circumscribed, in the absence of material damage, on the basis of the aggrieved sentiments of the majority Muslim community alone. An alternative and final position, expressed in subsequent higher court decisions emphasised arguments within liberal law that allow for the regulation and limitation of religious freedom. The courts justified prohibitions through a three-fold argument that fundamental and constitutional rights to freedom of religion could be curtailed by 1. public order considerations; 2. that only those freedoms that were essential to religion were protected; and 3. that religious signs, linguistic terms and ritual practices were covered by property and trademark laws and hence were the exclusive property of Muslims alone. In recuperating and emphasising the liberal means of Ahmadi exclusion, I have sought to provide a more complex narrative than the standard liberal account, where the Ahmadi exclusion from Islam is seen as ‘excommunication’ by the state and is framed within a narrative of fundamentalism and fanaticism. This liberal–secular narrative frames religion as solely responsible for illiberal policies by conveniently distinguishing liberal principles that espouse human emancipation from liberal policies and methods that can and have been mobilised to restrict and limit those freedoms. I am not trying to insist that there is a singular legal logic, but only that the Ahmadis’ exclusion was possible within liberal–legal thought and practice. Further, the colonial project of constructing and defining communities in law and endowing them with legal rights enabled the transformation of identity and its attributes, in this case Muslimness, into property, something that could be owned, possessed and bounded off from others who have no claim or right over it.

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Further, I have argued that the courts failed to recognise the role of legal power in shaping understandings of Muslim and Ahmadi religion and identity. In the process of separating and constructing the Ahmadis as different, as a distinct non-Muslim community, the courts systematically refused to acknowledge the law’s performative power. Instead, to use the language of the law, they ‘found’, as a ‘matter of fact’, that the Ahmadis were non-Muslims and that they therefore had to be something else. When faced with the question of what this something else might be, the courts configured or interpellated them into the position of potential ‘blasphemers’ — a subject position intelligible within legal discourse. However, this was only a contingent identity, for if the Ahmadis ‘voluntarily’ divested themselves of the Sha’ir-e-Islam and differentiated practices such as the calling of azan, which publicly signalled their Muslim-ness, they would cease to be ‘frauds’ and ‘imposters’ who ‘posed’ as Muslims. This is why the court suggested that in order to be Ahmadis, as opposed to blasphemers, they coin ‘new names, epithets, titles and description for their personages, places and practices’. This formulation is also indicative of the limits of liberal intervention, for while it can suggest the invention of linguistic terms to distinguish Ahmadis from the public signs of Muslim-ness, it cannot compel the Ahmadis to either engage in religious practice or to construct alternative religious practices. This liberal aporia with respect to the significance of practice in the constitution of identity can be enabling as well as disabling. But it is, I suggest, very liberal.

Cases Cited AIR FSC IA ILR MIA PLD PLJ SCMR

All India Reporter Federal Shariat Court Indian appeals Indian Law Reports Moore’s Indian Appeals Pakistan Legal Decisions Patna Law Journal Supreme Court Monthly Review

Abdul Razack v Aga Mahomed, (1894) 21 IA 56. Abdur Rehman Mubashir v Syed Amir Ali Shah PLD 1978 Lahore 113. Abraham v Abraham (1863) 9 MIA 195. Brigadier F. B. Ali v the State PLD 1975 SC 506.

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Hakim Khalil Ahmed v Malik Israfi (1917) 2 Patna Law Journal 108. Hakim Khan v Government of Pakistan. PLD 1992 SC 595. Mirza Khurshid Ahmed v Government of Punjab PLD 1992 Lahore 1. Muhammad Ashraf v Mst Niamet Bibi PLD 1981 Lahore 520. Mujibur Rehman v Federal Government of Pakistan PLD 1985 FSC 8. Narantakath Avullah v Parakkal Mammu (1922) ILR 45 Madras 986. Rajah Deedar Hossein v Ranee Zuhoor-oor Nissa (1841) 2 MIA 441 Sifat Ali Khan v Ali Mian AIR (1933) Allahabad 284. Zaheer-ud-din v The State PLD 1988 Quetta 22. Zaheer-ud-din v The State 1993 SCMR 1718.

Notes 1. For accounts of the Ahmadiyya see Lavan (1974) and Friedmann (1989). The former is principally a historical account of the Ahmadiyya movement from 1877 to 1936, while Friedmann provides a subtle analysis of Ghulam Mirza Ahmed’s theological thought, prophetology and his departures from orthodoxy. While I have summarily reduced the complexity of Ahmadi and Muslim theological thought and differences to the single most critical point, Friedmann provides a nuanced and comprehensive analysis. 2. See Lavan (op cit.) and Kennedy (1989) for some context on the colonial period. For colonial legal cases in which arguments that Ahmadis were not Muslims were made see Hakim Khalil Ahmed v Malik Israfi (1917) 2 PLJ 108, Narantakath Avullah v Parakkal Mammu (1922) ILR 45 Madras 986, Sifat Ali Khan v Ali Mian AIR (1933) Allahabad 284. Binder (1961: 259–96) details the first postindependence anti-Ahmadi riots of 1953–54. The government instituted judicial enquiry into this riot produced a vigorous advocacy of liberal–secular principles. See the Report of the Court of Inquiry into the Punjab Disturbances of 1953 (1954). 3. Parliament was dismissed and the Constitution suspended from 1977–85. Although antecedents to Zia’s institutional and policy shifts can be found in Bhutto’s period, the former’s regime nonetheless clearly marks an attempt at articulating a new political order legitimated through Islam and centred on the executive. 4. In particular see Abdur Rehman Mubashir v Syed Amir Ali Shah (PLD 1978 Lahore 113) and the minority opinion of Justice Shafiur Rahman in Zaheer-ud-din v The State (1993 SCMR 1718). Both these cases are discussed below. 5. Some background to the religious agitation that led to the National Assembly convening to debate the Ahmadi issue is provided by Nasr (1994: 170–87). 6. For somewhat more considered examples in an otherwise vitriolic and splenetic anti-Ahmadi literature, see Maudoodi (1979) and Ahmed (1994). 7. The Kalyma Shahada: ‘I bear witness that there is no God but Allah and that Muhammad is his messenger’. 8. Jinnah’s address is reproduced in Yusufi (1996: 2601–605). 9. For one example of the narrative of religious intolerance see Ahsan (1998).

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10. Cohn argues the project of translating and codifying Hindu and Muslim law was one of the Company’s first tasks for in the British cultural system the capacity to assess taxes was inextricably linked to the law (Cohn: 59–60). 11. The corpus of authorities on Muslim law consisted of Hamilton’s 1791 translation of Al-Hedaya (The Guidance), which lacked any discussion of inheritance. William Jones was thus commissioned to translate Al-Sirajiyyah (The Muhammadan Law of Inheritance), which was published the following year. The only other major work was Baillie’s translation of a part of the Fatawa Alamgiri in 1865. These three translations were the textual base of Muhammadan law (Anderson 1993: 175; Kozlowski 1985: 125; Kugle 2001: 272–73). 12. Hamilton, for example, did not translate the section on prayer, for it was irrelevant to company concerns. 13. See Kozlowski (op. cit.) on waqf and Gilmartin (1988) on the application of the sharia in the Punjab. For an account of the formative period of AngloMuhammadan jurisprudence between 1771–1832, see Kugle (op. cit.) and Fisch (1983). 14. This assumption of a single Muslim community, bound by a common faith and a homogenous unchanging code of law, was foundational to the colonial application and elaboration of ‘Islamic law’. Thus, despite differences in Shia and Sunni law, it was not until the 1841 decision in Rajah Deedar Hossein v Ranee Zuhoor-oor Nissa, 2 Moore’s Indian Appeals (MIA) 441 that the courts recognised the legal distinction between them. 15. Kozlowski (1989: 60–78); Anderson (1993: 171); Gilmartin (1988A: 4). Also see Ewing (1988: Introduction). 16. More generally see Al-Azmeh (1993); Asad (2003); Messick (1993); Hallaq (1997); Kozlowski (1989). 17. The ulama did not necessarily share this view, but the symbolism of the sharia as a polyvalent signifier helped forge ties between modernist lawyers such as Jinnah and sections of the ulama. This was perhaps most evident in the demands for the imposition of sharia law in the Punjab (see Gilmartin 1988A: 169–74). On the ulama’s perception of the sharia and its transformations during the colonial period see Zaman (2002: Ch. 1). Islamists such as Maududi, while not recognising Anglo-Muhammadan law as the sharia, nonetheless shared the modernist vision of a centralised state implementing the sharia as a code. 18. The sharia refers to much more than just law, as Messick (1993: 3) puts it: ‘[it] is better characterized … as a type of “total discourse”, but has often had its scope reduced, and made synonymous, with law by modernizing states’. 19. Although the traffic has primarily been through the state appropriation of classical jurisprudence as Zaman (op. cit.) points out the ulama have also drawn on liberal and modernist discourses in order to transform aspects of their tradition. 20. For a brief overview of the court system, see Lau (1994a). On the Federal Shariat Court see Anwar (1998) and Amin (1989).

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21. In particular through the Hudood Ordinances, which had complex and adverse consequences for the status of women (Shaheed 1987; Weiss 1986). Introduced in 1979, they comprised four separate ordinances: Offences against Property Ordinance, Offence of Zina (unlawful sexual intercourse) Ordinance, Offence of Qazf (False Allegations) Ordinance, and the Prohibition Order. The Property Ordinance introduced Islamic punishments for theft and robbery but has neither brought major change to the law of theft nor to the punishments prescribed. The Zina Ordinance made adultery and fornication criminal offences. The Qazf Ordinance made false allegations of fornication or adultery an offense. The Prohibition Order criminalised alcohol for Muslims (Medhi 94:109–56). The other major introduction was the replacement of the 1872 Law of Evidence by the Qanun e-Shahadat Order of 1984. Some scholars have argued that this was little more than a cosmetic translation of the 1872 Evidence Act into Muslim terminology and there were few specifically Islamic provisions (Kennedy 1990: 67–69). Others such as Patel (1986) and Mehdi (op. cit.) while agreeing that there were few changes note that one significant change was the reduction of women’s ability to witness financial instruments. 22. The ulama are particularly critical of the Muslim Family Law Ordinance, which liberals support as it improves womens’s rights to divorce whereas the ulama support the Zina Ordinance, which liberals criticise as an ill-formulated law that has effectively converted women’s allegations of rape into confessions of fornication and adultery. See Balchin et al. (1998) Mehdi (op. cit.); Patel (op. cit.); Rahman (1966); Shaheed (op. cit.); Weiss (op. cit.). 23. On the privileging of belief in modern conceptions of religion, one that emphasises cognitivist aspects as opposed to embodied ritual practices that are constitutive of self and subjectivity see Asad (1993). For a study that takes this insight and demonstrates its relevance in a contemporary Muslim society see Mahmood (2001). 24. Abraham v Abraham (1863) 9 Moore’s Indian Appeals 195. Also see Abdul Razack v Aga Mahomed 21 Indian Appeals 56 (1894). Both cases are reprinted in Fyzee’s Cases, respectively (1965: 505–49 and 68–77). Citations from Cases. 25. This case is cited by Fyzee (1999: 61); Saxena (1937: 74); and Amir Ali (1929) as applying to Muslims and Hindus. 26. I use the qualifier ‘ontic’ in relation to identity to refer to the selfunderstandings and experiential aspects of identity. I am indebted to John Kelly for this formulation. 27. Article 260 defines the meanings of the various terms used in the Constitution. The definition of Muslim in 260 (3) was substantially amended by General Zia in 1985 in order to explicitly name the Ahmadis, amongst others, as non-Muslims. 28. This technical redefinition was popularly understood as an act of excommunication from the Muslim ummah. 29. When applying for an identity card, required for all citizens, or a passport, the application form contains this constitutional definition of a Muslim. By self-identifying as a Muslim one formally consents to this definition.

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30. The failure to enact a law to ensure that the Ahmadis no longer propagated their ‘heresy’ under the guise of Islam is somewhat surprising. The National Assembly had been aware that the constitutional amendment did not enable any measures to be taken against Ahmadis if they refused to accede to their non-Muslim status. Immediately prior to passing the amendment, the Assembly had passed a Resolution recommending a provision be added to the Pakistan Penal Code to give the amendment penal force. It stated: To give effect to the above recommendations a draft bill unanimously agreed upon by the Special Committee is appended. (b) That the following explanation be added to Section 295A of the Pakistan Penal Code: Explanation. — A Muslim who professes, practices or propagates against the concept of the finality of the Prophethood of Mohammed (peace be upon him) as set out in clause 3 of Article 260 of the Constitution shall be punishable under this section. (Dawn, 8 September 1974)

31.

32.

33.

34.

35. 36. 37.

However, this resolution was never drafted into legislation. This can partly be attributed to the fact that Bhutto’s government, which had been forced by the threat of further demonstrations by the religious parties to concede the Ahmadi question for constitutional consideration, considered the Ahmadi chapter closed with the passage of the second amendment. See Constitution (Second Amendment) Act, 1974. The fourth constitutional amendment subsequently gave them minority representation at the federal level as well. See clause 2A amending Article 51 of the Constitution (Fourth Amendment) Act 1974, which came into effect on 21 November 1975. Constitutional Amendments reprinted in Rabbani (1999). They cited statements by Mahmud Ahmed, Ghulam Mirza Ahmed’s son and subsequently the second Khalifah (Caliph) of the Ahmadi community, who had declared non-Ahmadi Muslims to be kafirs in 1911. See Lavan (1974: 107); Freidmann (1989: 158–62). Other civil suits brought by the ulama against the Ahmadis sought to prohibit them from naming their place of worship a masjid and from constructing a place of worship that resembled a mosque. They also sought to ban them from using epithets reserved exclusively for the Holy Prophet, his family, and companions, since these were regarded as exclusively signifying holy personages in Muslim sacred history. Prayer is the critical constitutive act of being a Muslim and a Hadith (saying of the Prophet Muhammad) of Abu Huraira reports that performing prayer in congregation is 25 times more valuable than saying it alone. See Mishkat Al-Masabih (Robson 1964: 143). See Newberg (1995) on Pakistani court judgments in constitutional cases. Abdur Rehman Mubashir (op. cit.). For an Ahmadi view by one of the lawyers involved see Rehman (2002). On this basis, they sought relief under the Specific Relief Act (SRA) of 1877, in particular Section 42, which states:

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Asad A. Ahmed Any person entitled to any legal character, or to any right as to any property, may institute a suit against any person denying, or interested to deny, his title to such character or right, and the Court may in its discretion make therein a declaration that he is so entitled, and the plaintiff need not in such suit ask for any further relief. (Mokal 1990: 498)

38. The judge noted that Section 42 applied only to situations where a plaintiff sues for declaration of his own legal right, whether to property or to legal status, when that right is invaded or threatened with invasion by the defendant. It, he observed, ‘does not deal with the negation of the defendant’s rights’ (Abdur Rehman: 135). 39. Section 9 of Pakistan’s Civil Procedure Code is the same as Section 11 of the pre-independence Indian Civil Procedure Code (1877). The colonial judicial practice of intervening in ‘religion’ on questions of civil rights involving religious office or property preceded its statutory codification in this section, which states that: The Courts shall (subject to the provisions herein contained) have jurisdiction to try all suits of a civil nature excepting suits of which their cognizance is barred by any enactment for the time being in force. Explanation: A suit in which the right to property or an office is contested is a suit of a civil nature, notwithstanding that such right may depend entirely on decisions of questions as to religious rites or ceremonial. (Broughton 1878: 10) 40. See Mishkat-ul-Masabih (Robson 1964: Book 4). It is not clear which traditions the counsel was referring to in this chapter. 41. In this ruling, Ahmadis are people of the book (zimmis) because they accept the Holy Quran and Sunnah. 42. The ordinance’s full title is: The Anti-Islamic Activities of Qadiani Group, Lahori Group and Ahmadis (Prohibition and Punishment) Ordinance of 1984. See Gazette of Pakistan, Extraordinary Pt 1, 26 April 1984. 43. Section 298: Whoever, with the deliberate intention of wounding the religious feelings of any person, utters any word or makes any sound in the hearing of that person, or makes any gesture in the sight of that person, or places any object in the sight of that person, shall be punished with imprisonment of either description for a term which may extend to one year, or with fine, or with both. In 1927, Section 295-A was added. This was introduced in the wake of the Rangila Rasul (The Colorful Prophet) affair, a scurrilous and sacrilegious tract written by the Arya Samaj against the Prophet Muhammad. See Thursby (1975: 40–71). Apart from religious feelings, Section 295-A made malicious insults to religious beliefs and religion criminal offences. 44. Mujibur Rahman PLD 1985 FSC8; Zaheer-ud-din PLD 1988 Quetta 22; Mirza Khurshid Ahmed PLD 1992 Lahore 1. 45. Whether the Federal Shariat Court was in fact binding at the time is a matter of some legal debate.

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46. Antonio R. Gualtierie, a religious scholar who witnessed some of the proceedings, argued that although the Ahmadi community acquiesced to prohibitions on epithets, descriptions and titles reserved for Muslim holy personages and from naming their place of worship a masjid, ‘they will not budge on the kalyma. This they feel strikes at the heart of their faith’ (1989: 41). 47. On post-independence India’s debate on whether propagation of religion should be guaranteed by the Constitution see Smith (1963: Ch. 4). On the Indian judiciary’s restrictions of religious practice see Baird (1991, 1992, and 1999). He also notes that three Indian states have passed bills that placed restrictions on the propagation of religion. (1999:197) 48. Muslim reform movements that emphasise the Quran and other textual authorities as opposed to Muslim cultural and religious practice are usually referred to as scripturalist or fundamentalist and they often regard nontextually authorised practices in South Asia as signs of Hindu influence, penetration and defilement. 49. Note that Ahmed is one of the names of Prophet Muhammad. 50. Section 295-C PPC enacted in 1986: Whoever by words, either spoken or written, or by visible representation, or by any imputation, innuendo, or insinuation, directly or indirectly defiles the sacred name of the Holy Prophet Muhammed (Peace be upon him) shall be punished with death, or imprisonment for life and shall also be liable to fine. See Hanif (1999). 51. They are referred often to as Qadianis rather than Ahmadis, usually by their foes. However, they consider this appellation, deriving from territorial location, derogatory and prefer to be called ‘Ahmadis’ or ‘Ahmadiyya’. These preferred terms suggests the centrality of their founder and his prophetic qualities. But Ahmadi writers dispute this, arguing that these names were not chosen to honour their founder but refer to Prophet Muhammad’s Meccan period, when he was called ‘Ahmad’ and persecuted, which they see as historically analogous to the Ahmadiyya experience (Lavan: 93). The ulama remain unconvinced and understand the use of the Prophet Muhammad’s other name as indicative of Mirza Ahmad’s attempt to identify as the Prophet of Islam. They, therefore, refuse to refer to them as ‘Ahmadis’. 52. Zaheer-ud-din v The State, SCMR 1993: 1718. 53. I will confine myself to the majority opinion, only noting that the minority opinion, which found certain sections of Ordinance XX to violate fundamental rights, is also consistent with liberal law. Both opinions are intelligible within liberal legal discourse. 54. Laws regulating property rights such as trademarks, patent and copyright are often collectively described under the rubric of intellectual property rights but as Coombe (1998a: 207) points out it is important to be attentive to the differential emphases of these laws. 55. The court made a distinction between the right to belief and the right to practice and said even if the former was absolute the latter cannot be absolute and could, in exceptional cases, be made subject to law. It cited Reynolds v United States 98 US 145, which it understood the US Supreme Court

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as finding that it could not interfere with religious beliefs but could do so vis a vis practices, and thus held Mormon polygamy to be unlawful. On US judicial regulation and restriction of religious practices see Sullivan (1994, 2005). 56. In its attempt to justify that Ordinance XX was not unconstitutional the court asserted the supremacy of the sharia over the Constitution. In this it ignored its own ruling in Hakim Khan (Hakim Khan v Government of Pakistan. PLD 1992 SC 595), which had recently settled this issue in favour of the supremacy of positive and constitutional law.

10

Words that Wound: Archiving Hate in the Making of Hindu-Indian and MuslimPakistani Publics in Bombay∗ Deepak Mehta Introduction This article is a preliminary attempt to describe some of the contours of hate literature by focusing on the discursive relations between Hindus and Muslims in Mumbai (Bombay until 1994). My argument is that the plots, actions and narrative situations described in this literature do not remain fixed within the discursive boundaries of a particular text. Rather, there is a multiplication effect as stories about these books are carried into conversations, become subjects of political speeches and are transformed into actions of political protest and sectarian slogans. This multiplication forms the bedrock of riot speech and is the linguistic counterpart of practices of violence between Hindus and Muslims. It is not uncommon to see that even after a particular book, exhibition or cartoon has been long published it can reappear in new contexts. Such dispersion and multiplicity, both spatial and temporal, are characteristic of the hate literature that I have examined from the colonial to the contemporary period. What is particularly highlighted in the contemporary literature is the conflation of the identities of Muslim and Pakistani (that is, to be Muslim is to be suspected of being of or for Pakistan) and the anxieties this conflation expresses about nationalism and masculinity. This finding points to the fact that belonging to Pakistan is not necessarily premised on being of a particular territory or a sovereign nation-state that goes by the name of Pakistan, but is a diffuse element that attaches itself or is violently attached to one’s identity. It suggests that the nation of Pakistan is discursively, affectively and mythologically as alive and fecund in India as it is in Pakistan proper. My article is located in the present in so far as contemporary events of Hindu–Muslim violence in Mumbai are concerned. However, to

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inquire into the structuring of publics in the 1990s through discourse that entangles both communities, I reach into the colonial period from the 1920s to the 1940s. It is my assumption that the workings of the colonial state strongly prefigures the present to the extent of forging the conditions for contemporary hate pronouncements.1 At the same time, the relationship between the present and the colonial period is not so simple, as I explain a little later. First let me say what I understand as the relationship between state laws and public discourse. The multiplicity of hate literature in time and space and its potential to generate passions that would lead to disorder means that the state once had and continues to have the notion of ‘Emergency Powers’ to suppress any threat to it.2 The very act of censorship creates the potential for generating publics divided along sectarian and eventually national lines — the Muslim-Pakistani on the one side and the Hindu nationalist on the other. In turn, these publics relate to the state through the notion of an emergency. The typical scenario is that with the publication of a particular book, picture or cartoon, or the performance of a film or play, a Hindu or Muslim group organises protests around the potential of such publications or performances to hurt religious sensibilities may be hurt. The group demands that the publication or performance be censored by state authorities. On the face of it, the laws that curtail hate literature appear to follow its production — this literature is already offensive and various civil groups appeal to the regulatory agencies of the state. This appears to be the case of those texts, written in the vernacular, which insert quotations in English, orienting themselves to the censoring authority of the state. In this sense, censorship is a way of producing such literature, establishing in advance what will and will not be acceptable public discourse. An instance of this in the colonial era is when the author of Vishwasghat (Breach of Faith, 1927) inserts quotations in English in his Gujarati text. As he is writing within a terrain that is mapped by the laws on censorship, these laws lead to a ‘foreclosure’ (Butler 1997: 138) by which is meant that the subject emerges in the circumscribed domain of the speakable. How do we explain this address to the state censor? Certainly the process of state censorship and the archiving of hate literature produces a particular kind of public, primarily by effect. Yet, texts such as Vishwasghat and Rangila Rasool (Colorful Prophet, 1928), pamphlets such as Khooni Cawnpur Uraf Bahadur Aurat

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(Bloody Cawnpur alias Brave Woman, 1927), and the editorials of Samna (Confrontation)3 of Mumbai of the 1990s do not cohere with the prefabricated space of law. It is almost as if they infiltrate the law. They circulate, overflow and drift over an imposed terrain, even as they use as their material the vocabularies of established language. They use this language to express different interests and desires, to introduce the mythic into statist discourses. The hate literature that I have considered is in two parts. The first, dated roughly from 1920–40 is found in the Maharashtra state archives in Bombay. I have dealt with that literature that came under the gaze of colonial censors.4 The second series of publications that I have studied refer to various editorials and articles in Samna, the mouthpiece of the Shiv Sena (Army of Shiva). Most of these articles were written by the Shiv Sena supremo, Balasaheb Thackeray. This literature reflected on the Bombay riots of 1992–93 and was written in the course of the violence in the city.5 In reading the 1920s together with the 1990s, I have attempted to show that the force of this literature lies in its ability to break away from its immediate material contexts. In part, this literature works through an encoded memory and in part it depends on a repetition that is linked to injury. The two dates — 1920–40 and the 1990s — become a series of interlocking presents and pasts.6 Time is not a chronology of successive points, each with its distinctive ‘now’. Rather, we find a circulation between the past and the present. The Samna articles, written in 1992, drew on the past, giving a renewed sense of life to the partition of India in 1947. They replay the partition scenario but this time attempting the total excising of Muslims in Bombay, by partitioning them from India before they could further partition India from inside it in the name of Pakistan. The figure of the traitorous, oversexed and marauding Muslim was present in a series of genres in the 1920s, ranging from scholarly literature to cartoon strips, from popular calendars to picture postcards. Conversely, in the writings of various Muslim authors of the 1920s, the Hindu was imaged as effete, effeminate and sly. Samna of the 1990s reproduced the colonial imagery of the Muslim while giving it a mythic resonance, trying to recuperate a representation of the Hindu as masculine and martial. At the same time, these articles recreated the emotive force of the partition by envisioning the Muslim as an illegitimate citizen who wished to turn Bombay into Pakistan. Reading the Samna articles together with the literature archived by the colonial state, we find a ‘discursive contemporaniety’ that highlights the ‘presentness’ of hate.7

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Affect here unfolds through actions and texts that become pregnant with the potential for violence. And the emotions linked to affect such as those of anger, vengeance and hatred are ultimately about ideals of masculinity and love for the nation.

The Mythic in the Samna: Religion and the Nation An editorial in the Daily Samna (11 January 1993) reflected on the ongoing Bombay riots of 1992–93. The Muslims in Hindustan are behaving as a part of Pakistan. There are two nations existing in this country…. If such orders [of police firing on riotous crowds] were given on 6 January, then the killing of Hindus in the mini-Pakistan of Bombay would have been stopped. True rioters and traitors would have been killed…. Our prophecy has come true. A Muslim whichever country he belongs to, whichever position he occupies is first a Muslim. Nation is of secondary importance to him. This nation had to be reclaimed from the Muslim: Why is the Sena attacking Muslims? Thackeray: They are not prepared to accept the rule of this land. They don’t want to accept birth control. They want to implement the Sharia in my motherland. Yes this is the Hindu’s motherland.8 (Interview in Time magazine, 25 January 1993)

The Samna articles give the nation the appearance of having been corrupted by the polluted Muslim.8 This pollution could not be redressed by balance, payment or the establishment of harmony, but by cleansing. This cleansing referred to the forced but necessary excision of the Pakistan that lay within Bombay for the pair, Muslim and Pakistan, stood as an obstacle to the realisation of the Hindu nation. Describing the Shiv Sena’s participation in the Bombay riots of 1992–93, an editorial article in Samna (23 January 1993, the birthday of Balasaheb Thackeray) said, In this war we and our Samna fought like men…. Fire flares from every word and letter. Shiv Sena, Hindutva and Samna together form a triveni sangam (the confluence of three sacred rivers in Hindu opinion: Ganga, Jamuna and the mythical Saraswati). We have prepared one generation, a generation on fire. Samna’s job is to keep it smoldering. The Hindus who woke up on December 6 (the day the Babri Mosque was razed) should not be allowed to become embers again. We must

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burn like torches, and in the forest fire that ensues, the traitors will be burnt to ashes.

The theme of fire as a cleansing ritual found repeated mention in other Samna editorials. The fires in the yagna (sacrifice) are still burning and these fires are being fed by the bodies of the Hindus…. The horizon is clouded by the curses of the dead children and the youth. The volcano is still erupting lava…. Hindutva is like a flash of lightening and anyone trying to hold it will burn. The fire that this lightening has caused is something that this country will be indebted to forever…. You have set to fire many pyres of these little children. But do you have the power to control the embers? (‘Burning Pyre’, Samna, 14 January 1993)

These articles are generative of a fantasy. This fantasy has three main themes: the hunt for the Muslim-Pakistani, including those Indian politicians who pandered to him (specifically Sharad Pawar, then Minister of Defence in the Central Government and a sworn opponent of the Shiv Sena); the cleansing purity of fire by which Pakistan was to be expelled from Bombay; and the sentimental fecundity of regeneration and rebirth. The coexistence and interaction of these three themes points to the mythic structure of the Samna articles. The hunt for the Muslim-Pakistani was instrumental to regeneration and, through the use of fire, the nation would acquire the power to bring about its rebirth. Why should expiation have been a necessary condition to bring about a second birth? An editorial written a day before the demolition of the Babri mosque said, ‘They (Muslims) behave as if Babur was the father of the country…who is this minority community? The Muslim traitors who have partitioned this country and have not even allowed us to breathe ever since then’ (‘Towards Ayodhaya’, 5 December 1992). The Shiv Sainik (Soliders of Shiva) were urged to march to Ayodhaya to fight the traitor since the existence of the country was in peril. The fight was about ‘those extinguished lamps of our culture that we wish to rekindle’. In this fight, ‘the Sariyu River had once turned red with the blood of the Ram Bhakts (disciples of the God Ram) and it is going to happen again with the blood of the Kar Sevaks (religious workers performing worship). Prepare for this martyrdom for the sake of the future of the country’ (ibid.).

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Two days after the Babri mosque was demolished, when Bombay was wracked by communal violence, Samna in an editorial, ‘Crush the Traitors’ (Samna, 8 December 1992), said, Muslims must draw a lesson from the demolition, and stop the poison spewing from them for the non-existent Babri. Otherwise they will meet the same fate as Babri domes…Masjids have become the storehouses of illegal arms…. Those Muslims who criticize the demolition should not stay here for a second. Those Muslims who come out on the roads, destroy temples…are traitors. There is no option but to crush them with whatever weapons we can lay hands on.

A day later (Samna, 9 December 1992), after the arrests of Mr L. K. Advani and Mr Ashok Singhal,9 an editorial called ‘Stay Awake’ opined, By arresting the commanders the battle begun at Ayodhaya’s Kurukshetra will not stop…Narasimha Rao (then Prime Minister of India) expressed regret over the demolition of the Babri Masjid. Not a word was said about the hundreds of temples destroyed by Muslims. Is this a nation or a musafirkhana (wayside inn)? Streams of treason and poison have been flowing through the mohallas (neighborhoods) of this country. These mohallas are inhabited by fanatical Muslims, they are loyal to Pakistan. Riots break out whenever Muslims dominate. They stop once they begin to get beaten. The same thing is happening today. Pakistan has manufactured seven bombs. But the bomb made in Hindustan with Pakistan’s blessings is more dangerous. Now Pakistan need not cross the borders to attack India. 25 crore Muslims loyal to Pakistan will stage an insurrection. This is one of the 7 bombs Pakistan has placed in Hindustan. Hindus, this is your last chance. This is your nation. Armed Muslims and police can’t injure your religion.

These suggest that the expiation of Muslim towards the regeneration of the nation was premised upon the view that Muslims were unyielding in their complaints and demands, and that no amount of dressing down prevented them from returning over and over again to the injustice occasioned by the destruction of the Babri Masjid.10 Not only would their expiation make their continual offensive cease, it would also erase the new horizon of an other place that they kept projecting within the nation, that of Pakistan.11 However, it was not only that Muslims had and continued to corrupt the nation by their biological existence and their rhetorical overflow, but it was the nation

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itself, embodied in the figure of law, that needed to atone for its vice of harbouring the Muslim-Pakistani.12 It is not in the hands of the Court to decide whether the land in Ayodhaya had a temple first or a masjid according to Clause 143 of the Constitution…Nani Palkhiwala (an eminent lawyer and Constitutional expert) says that the Supreme Court is not equipped to make this decision in terms of experience or knowledge…. Issues that need to be solved with the help of history are never solved by a Supreme Court…. The responsibility of passing a judgment on the opinions of the citizens, their faith, history or matter related to the Puranic age cannot be placed with the government (‘A Handful of Faith’, Samna, 1 January 1993).

At the time of the riots, the Shiv Sainik could not avoid the implication of an outside space (Pakistan) that was disordered, seditious and corrupting. The problem was that this external space was folded into Bombay and its inhabitants, including Muslims, who used the law of the courts where the law of the Hindu nation should take priority.13 Thus, the function of Samna writings was not to so much to describe the condition of the nation enfeebled by its laws as to arrive at another conception of the nation that was capable of containing the failings of the former. In this second nation, the movement would be away from the histories of law to the imagined communities of Hindu warriors incarnated in the Shiv Sena, from transience to permanence, from strangeness to familiarity. This movement was plotted in two distinct ways. First, the genealogy of this nation was most powerful when formulated as an inner lineage in which the Hindu was placed above the norms of historical evidence and written law. The Muslim-Pakistani — the foreigner, the alien — remained within the jurisdiction of the Constitution but was now imaged through words that represented him as an evil doer, terrorist, murderer, problematically inside the nation. In rhetorical terms, the image of the Muslim-Pakistani was contrasted to the Shiv Sainik (as synecdoche of the Hindu). In a second move, while the Samna articles made reference to a territorial dispute (the temple in Ayodhya, certain neighborhoods in Bombay as the territory of Pakistan), the mention of Pakistan also acted as a mirror on which was reflected the possibility of a nation state conceived exclusively as Hindu in belonging and temporality.

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In a direct way, the Samna editorials were concerned with the mythic element within the demolition of the Babri mosque, the reinvigoration of the Hindu nation and the casting of the Muslim (usually male) as foreign. But if we focus on the affect that characterised them, it is possible to argue that these writings functioned as a palimpsest to the extent that they participated in different yet overlapping discursive registers. The first register named the Muslim as an object of hate; second, hate was mimetically represented through the figure of Pakistan and linked to revenge; third, the writings intersected with state law and demanded retribution; and fourth, these writings were not the fevered imagination of a single author but were and are part of a moralising discourse by which Hindus and Muslims have been able to cast the other as the enemy. I will now discuss the various ways in which the enemy was constructed. I do this by examining how the colonial censors classified records of hate and established procedures to deal with them.

The Colonial Archiving of Hate Hate literature was archived in both the constitutive content and physical presence of law. The laws governing the production of hate literature spanned a wide spectrum — Section 9 of the Press and Registration of Books Act, 1867; Section 99A, 153A, 153B of the Code of Criminal Procedure, 1898; the Seditious Meetings Act, 1907; the Indian Press Act, 1910; Clause (h) Section 4 (1) of the Indian Press (Emergency Powers) Act, 1931; Sub-rule (1) of rule 56 of Defence of India Rules.14 The archive also collected and classified an equally impressive range of documents — Muride Shaitan (Disciple of Shaitan) and the Sword and the Quran; books in Gujarati by Narayan Vasanji Thakkar (1928); Rangila Rasul, a book in Marathi by Achut Balwant Kolhatkar (1928) Aryasamskriticha Utkarshapakarsha, a book in Marathi by Mahadevshasttri Divekar (1940); an illustrated Marathi comic of 1922 published at Sarasvati Mudranalaya, Bombay; Radd-e-Hindu (Refutation of Hinduism), a book in Urdu written in Gujarati characters (1927); an Urdu pamphlet, Khooni Cawnpore Uraf Bahadur Aurat, written by Muhammad Ibrahim Abrar (1927), published in Lucknow but with a circulation in Bombay. In addition, songs, poems, picture postcards and a vast number of newspaper articles fell within the space of regulation.15 The archive thus functioned as the provider and preserver of its own subject matter and became the locus from which power was exercised.

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The archive was also the public depository of normative laws, thereby showing features of both a public and private face. Documents on issues connected with the enforcement of various laws were interspersed with some that were marked confidential. The latter were characterised by in-house debates on whether a particular publication or public meeting was objectionable and the feasibility of applying relevant laws to it. Four different institutions of the colonial government were involved in this exercise with set patterns on how particular publications, especially those written in the vernacular, would come up for review. Typically, the office of the Commissioner of Police would receive a written complaint by a civic association, composed of either Hindus or Muslims, objecting to a particular publication. The publication would then be sent to the office of the Oriental Translator to the Government for its precise rendition into English. Occasionally, more than one translation was provided. The Remembrancer of Legal Affairs, who suggested the application of relevant laws, would then comment upon the relevant translation. The judicial department, in consultation with the Chief Secretary (Home, Special) debated the laws and if necessary the opinion of the Advocate General was solicited. In case the publication was banned, the government issued a formal notification and authorised the Commissioner of Police to take necessary action, such as enforcing a financial penalty or arresting the offender.16 This pattern suggests that archivisation went beyond merely recording the event. By this I mean that while particular publications were removed from circulation, they were preserved for matters of governance. In this sense, the archive could never be a closed structure. It opened into the future. We see this opening into the present most clearly in the case of the Samna articles of the 1990s and their review in the Bombay High Court under Sections 153A and 153B.17 They were not only subject to the application of identical laws (Sections 153A, 153B), they also constituted publics along the affective lines of hate. It is true that archival power points us to the sovereignty of the state, but only as a terminal form.18 It also emplots how regulating hate productions forged power relations and strategies amongst different colonial and post-colonial institutions. In colonial India, the regulation of hate speech flowed from itemising and preserving subversive documents by comparison and contrasts, while in the case of the Samna articles, the system of classification was utilised as an increasingly flexible system of control, in which the meaning of particular documents was determined by utilitarian ends. In the Samna articles, legal

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judgments reasserted the omniscience of colonial law (such as 99A, 153A and B) by altering taxonomic categories. In both Indias, we see the course of hate across the legal management of documents infused with affect. Given that hate literature is located within the archive, in what ways was it framed by colonial administrators? Colonial administrators explained Hindu–Muslim relations through the concept of communalism. Early twentieth century communalism, in their opinion, was informed by the shuddhi/sangathan (purity/unity) movement on one side and tabligh/tanzim (preaching/community) on the other. There is a remarkable convergence of opinion between colonial administrators and the historians of India19 that communalism lead to the partition of 1947. Any subsequent violence between Hindus and Muslims has also been traced to this defining concept. From the colonial administrator’s point of view the one influential tract that invigorated the shuddhi/sangathan movement was Swami Shraddhanand’s Hindu Sangathan — Saviour of the Dying Race (1926). This tract led to a spate of publications that crystallised the divide between Hindus and Muslims, but also provoked a series of interventions by the colonial state. To counter Hindu extinction, Shraddhanand proposed sangathan as a way of revitalising Hindu society. Sangathan aimed to reclaim half-converted Hindus and any Muslims to the Hindu fold and to harden the Hindu for militant action by drill and physical culture (Hardy 1972: 208). For Shraddhanand, the present tyranny of Brahminist orthodoxy was aided by violent conversions practiced by Muslim conquerors and Christian missionaries (Bhatt 2001: 64). Whatever the larger political implications of Hindu sangathan,20 this text, more than any other, provided the grist for the hate mill. In its evocation of the grandeur of the Aryan civilisation it allowed various authors (Hindus and Muslims) to break the opposition of real time and deferred time, actuality and simulation, the living and the nonliving. The Hindu conversion movement led to a Muslim response. By 1923, Saifuddin Kitchlew, a Muslim congressman from the Punjab, established the Jamiat-i-Tanzim. Initially intended to serve as a vehicle for Muslim participation in the nationalist movement, the tanzim played a prominent part in arguing for separate electorates and ensuring provincial dominance of Muslims in Punjab. The tanzim advocated the material advancement of Muslims by establishing

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Muslim banks and credit societies. Its main thrust, however, was a call to faith and the forced conversion of Hindus. Both the colonial state and various hate publications took the shuddhi and tanzim movements as their backdrop. A booklet — Hindu–Moslem Tension — prepared in 1928 by the administration (see Home Department [Political], File S257/1928, Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai) discussed five causes for the antagonism between Hindus and Muslims in the Presidency: appeals to fanaticism; the shuddhi and sangathan movements and the Muslim riposte in tabligh and tanzim; incidents such as the ‘Rangila Rasool’ case in other parts of India; the growth of education among Muslims; and the demand for a share of appointments in public services. Of these, the appeals to fanaticism and the shuddhi/sangathan movements were the most important. ‘The object of sangathan is the consolidation and defence of the Hindus, while tanzim includes similar objectives on behalf of Muhammadanism’ (ibid.: 2). Much of the activity of conversion occurred in tandem with the publication of various articles in the Press, pamphlets and books. To curb the menace of fanaticism the government, in 1924, issued a general warning against ‘intemperate writings and speeches tending to inflame communal animosities’ (ibid.: 13). In September 1924 the government added Section 295A to the Indian Penal Code. In the same year 10 warnings were administered to ‘editors, printers and publishers in respect of scurrilous articles and pamphlets inciting communal hatred; five such warnings [are] administered in 1925, and twelve in 1926’ (ibid.: 1). Furthermore, ‘the public is warned that while the Governor in Council does not wish to interfere in any way with reasoned discussion, he will be compelled if the campaign [of scurrilous writing] does not cease forthwith to use all the powers vested in him by law to guard the feelings and religious susceptibilities of all sections of the public of the Presidency’ (ibid.). A Press note of 1924 marked out, if not defined, the field of hate literature: ‘…the Governor in Council cannot neglect the possibility that a campaign of wild accusations, of vulgar and even obscene abuse and of incitement to meet force with force may lead to outbreaks of bloodshed and murder such as have occurred in other parts of India. A perusal of these articles and pamphlets leads to only one conclusion, that the writers are deliberately and in full consciousness of what they are doing endeavouring to stir up religious hatred between the two great communities of India’.21

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Sometimes emergency provisions were invoked to ban particular publications. This ban created a boundary of law, an inside and an outside, in declaring a state of exception. In this connection Section 295A of the Indian Penal Code strengthened the government’s hold and temporarily ended writings and speeches of a ‘more scurrilous nature’.22 While local officers were urged to uphold customary and common law rights regarding disputes between Hindus and Muslims, sometimes these rights were suspended by orders under the emergency powers. The net affect was the formulation of the Indian Press (Emergency Powers) Act, 1931 and an extended debate on a proposed legislation to secure reports of speeches delivered at public meetings held on private premises and the employment of the provisions of the Seditious Meeting Act, 1911. The force of such laws and the Press note cited above present the colonial understanding of hate literature. By 1928, the law on hate speech had been crystallised further. This law followed from the appellate judgment passed by the High Court of Lahore in what is known as the Rangila Rasool case.23 Rangila Rasool was originally the title of a satirical pamphlet written in 1924 containing derogatory references to Islam and commenting at length on the sexual life of the Prophet. The publisher was prosecuted under Section 153-A of the Indian Penal Code and convicted by the Sessions Court at Lahore in 1924. The case came up for revision before Justice Dilip Singh of the Lahore High Court, who held that though the pamphlet was intentionally offensive and wounding to the religious feelings of Muslims, Section 153-A could not stop polemics against deceased religious leaders. Nor would the pamphlet necessarily promote feelings of enmity and hatred between Hindus and Muslims. In September 1927, one Alam Din fatally stabbed Rajpal, the author of Rangila Rasool.24 In 1928, the Dandekar Brothers Publishing House in Bombay printed a book written by Balwant Kolhatkar entitled Rangila Rasool. Following a series of complaints by Muslim civic associations in the Presidency the book came up before colonial censors. The Oriental Translator to the Government mentioned that the Marathi Rangila Rasool was about the life of the Hindu God Krishna and had no references to Islam. It was a playful, even well-written text, but the use of the term ‘Rasool’ for Krishna could not be sustained. Accordingly, the colonial state asked the author and the publisher to remove the word ‘Rasool’ from the text. After lengthy

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legal petitions, Kolhatkar was forced to withdraw the book from circulation. The reason provided by the Advocate General was that certain words carried with them the power to wound. ‘Rasool’, given its troubled history, was one such word. We might say that for the Advocate General the saying of the word was the doing of an insult. These sorts of terms were to be proscribed under Section 153A and B of the Indian Penal Code. Earlier, I suggested that the colonial archiving of hate has much contemporary salience and that the 1920s and 1990s are discursively bound in giving contemporaneity to hate. Itself an archive of ideas about particular groups of people, hate literature reaches forward in time to forge a new circuitry of religion, masculinity and the nation through the relay of affects. In describing the Samna articles, I have already spoken of the specific relation forged between religion and nation by hate literature. I now briefly outline some of the texts and themes which further the relations between religion and masculinity in the colonial archives and beyond. Vishwasghat (Breach of Faith, 1927), a text in Gujarati, authored by Harishankar Joshi of Surat and printed at the Bharat Printing Press in Bombay, was twice translated into English by the Oriental Translator to the colonial government and came up for proscription. The text argued that Muslims had committed a ‘breach of faith’ against Hindus in particular and the world at large. But the objectionable and troubling passages for the censors were the quotations in English. Invoking Washington Irving’s Life of Mohammed, the text quoted, ’The moment Mohammed proclaimed the religion of the sword, and gave the predatory Arabs a taste of foreign plunder, the moment he was launched in a career of conquest, which carried him forward with its own irresistible impulse’ (Joshi 1927: 19–20).25 Likewise, Elphinston’s History of India was summoned to say, ‘Such was the nation that gave birth to the false Prophet whose doctrines have so long and so powerfully influenced a vast portion of the human race. But whatever may have been the reality of his zeal and even the spirit of his doctrines, the spirit of intolerance in which it was preached, and the bigotry and bloodshed which it engendered and perpetuated must place its author among the worst enemies of mankind’ (ibid.: 24–25). From here Vishwasghat considered Mohammed’s overriding sexual appetite and again used Washington Irving to establish its argument. Harishankar Joshi, the author, unleashed his moral outrage upon the

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desire imputed to kill kafirs, demolish their temples, burn books and utilise their women. Vishwasghat was proscribed in Baroda state, but the Presidency could not find ‘sufficient grounds’ for banning the book. In quoting western writers on Islam and linking their opinions to his moral outrage, Joshi shows us the travelling character of hate discourse, its ability to search out and link up with other discourses, in other contexts. In 1927, the year when Vishwasghat was published, various booklets written by Muslim authors came to the notice of the colonial censor. The Mazhab-ka-Danka (the Drum of Faith), published by Nur Mohammad Usman of Pydhonie, Bombay, was an Urdu poem written in Gujarati characters.26 Like Vishwasghat it used religious imagery in mobilising hatred. I declare that the Swami [Shraddhanand] is dead and gone; and let us show you where he is lodged at present. A person who meets his death without reciting the Kaleema can never enter Paradise. Since the time the infidels have made hell their home, the Aryas have begun frequenting that place. O God! Let the Arya soldiers reach there as early as possible, (for) their command (i.e. Shraddhanand) has already left…. We shall make them recite the Kaleema of the faith of the Prophet, and shall convert the Aryas into Muhammadans.

The two texts, Vishwasghat and Mazhab Ka Danka, resonate with emotional intensity. In this they bear an uncanny similarity with the Samna articles of the 1990s. The colonial censors recognised that terms such as ‘infidel’, ‘hell’, ‘sexual appetite’ were less about distinct objects and more about intense affects. Their concern was after all about the ability of words to deliver hurt or induce affects as if by contagion. Moreover, in placing such words within the widest possible historical or religious contexts, their authors discharged their affects into these contexts and configured these affects within distinct iconic figures, such as that of Shraddhanand, Shivaji and Muhammad. This implied a negation of contexts closer at hand. Such affective discharge was also a marked tendency in the Samna articles, as we saw in their efforts to produce mythic resonances. The ability to forge new connections and produce the milieu for affective was discharge clearly marked in a Marathi leaflet published in Bombay and Poona on 2 August 1927.27 The first two lines were a refrain:

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Come taking the ochre colored Bhagwa Zenda (flag) Let us lower the pride of the landa (circumcised) We shall change the circumcised Jackal We shall plant the zenda on Delhi Alas Brothers what is this state of ours The country is calling out Loving brothers I pray at your feet. Take up the stone, let us lower the pride of the landa… Of which whore is he born, unexpectedly of black family… You vile sala, you Delhiwala, O goat with beard, Khwaja Nizami, Hasan harami28 You will lose your nose and mouth… Repeat the words, O brave Shivaji Maharaj, may I always get to your feet. Shri Shiva the simple. Take the ochre colored banner on your head; if not we will lower your pride.

Three days later (5 August 1927), the Khabardar (Beware), a Marathi weekly with a circulation in Bombay and Karad, published the following: Safa Maidan Kardenge (We Will Clear the Ground) No tyrant can harm even our hair. Whoever raises his hand against us we shall make him lifeless. Taking the name of Ali we shall upset the table of infidelity (Kufr) and will make the enemy of our religion a man of faith. Do not fight us, O bania. Let us marry your daughters; we will keep them in our harems. (Home Department (Political). File 260/1927. Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai)

We can detect a strong undercurrent of sexuality in the above. While keeping silent about women in their own community, the authors of these texts often made explicit mention of women in the other community. In some cases the enemy was made feminine or at any rate emasculated. Despite their mutual antagonisms we are confronted with a remarkable phenomenon here. In their respective comments about women, in particular prostitutes, Hindu and Muslim male writers found common ground. Their shared ‘maleness’ seemed to be the soundest basis for overcoming otherwise unbridgeable religious and political differences. A Home Department File of 1928 showed how the motif of the prostitute occurred in the Press. An anonymous contribution headed ‘Brothels of Two Musalmans of Karhad’ (25 May 1928) appeared in the Savadhan (Attention), a Marathi weekly published in Bombay and Satara District.29 The File attached

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accompanying comments by an anonymous correspondent under the pseudonym ‘Shaikh Chilli’, published in the Musalman and Khabardar (7 and 8 June 1928) — Urdu newspapers with circulation in Bombay. In the Savadhan the ‘Karhadkar’ wrote, ‘Just as several padris (Christian priests) use young girls as baits because young Hindus do not formerly get converted merely by means of lies, a similar attempt is being made by some idiotic Muslims in the Satara District…. These persons on seeing some young, handsome and rich Hindu, unscrupulously ask him to win their daughters! ... But what is it to these bastards? All that they care for is that a Hindu should embrace Islam!’ The response in the Musalman and Khabardar, swift and brutal, said, I understand from a Brahmin informant that the Brahmin community is now going to get merged into Brahma by remaining bachelors. That will leave Brahmin girls on hand, they too will undertake ashuddhi (impurity). These goods will specially fall to the share of Christians and Muslims alone and the holy conch of those marriages will be blown through the two brothels, Sangram and Savadhan…. O young Musalmans, this is a grand occasion for you, instead of for priests and the barbers. Take off, therefore, your trousers and go on. (Ibid.)

In a combined assertion of their masculinity and their religious community, both Hindus and Muslims imagined the other’s woman as sexually available or worthy of domestication. Mazhab ka Danka (Drum of Faith) contained a number of poems that came to the notice of colonial censors.30 Poem IV developed on this theme of the Hindu woman: The fairy-faced sweethearts are not controlled by you; and when you make us apostates, there is something held in view by you…. If you have got any barren sweetheart in your mind, then send her to the stud of the Musalmans. By our Islamism we shall certainly produce a son; and we shall show that even dried up branches can fructify.

If Hindu and Muslim authors were united in their view of women, they also expressed a common ressentiment. Ressentiment here was not simply the revenge of the weak as weak but a reaction in the face of a hostile external world. This reaction was both gendered and uttered in the mode of a lament. Khooni Cawnpore Uraf Bahadur Aurat (Bloody Cawnpore alias Brave Woman, 1927) was a 28-page story of a pious, beautiful girl called Jamila, who was an accomplished swordswoman.31 During riots in the city of Kanpur her three older brothers and father

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were killed at the marketplace. A group of Hindus entered her house and killed her mother and youngest brother. The text highlights the conversation between Jamila and the Hindus: Jamila: Beware you impotent cowards. Do not step forward. Let me with my sword first cut this lathi (wooden stick), which has sucked the blood of my innocent mother. A Scoundrel: We do not wish to kill you. You are exceedingly beautiful and hence you should become a Hindu and live a life of luxury…. Jamila: Come in front of me so that I may teach you about the holy formula (‘God is One’) of Islam and that you may be able to see the manifestation of God.

After chanting the takbir (Allah-o-Akbar — God is Great) Jamila took revenge by killing the Hindus. Armed with her sword, called Zulfiqar (the name of the sword of Ali) she left her house and walked to the mosque that was being destroyed. Jamila entered the mosque, killed all the Hindus, found her dead family members and buried them. During her journey from her house to the mosque she removed her veil, walked upright and looked the attackers in the eye. The front cover of the text carried an image of Jamila, an image that was drawn from a combination of symbols of Hindu goddesses — in this case Durga and Kali. Here, Jamila was dressed in a sari, her hair was not knotted. In one hand she carried the head of a male, while the other held a sword. Eventually, overcome by fatigue, Jamila was martyred in the mosque. Before dying she raised her hands in prayer and said, ‘O God, I am anyhow grateful to you. How could I arrange for the burial of my aged mother and innocent brother? Of course I am grateful to you that you have consumed them in fire.’ Ressentiment in the text was accompanied by two competing ideas of violence. The first, the descriptive account, represented the personal element — it directed and described the personal violence of the attacker as sadist as well as his individual tastes; the second account (of Jamila taking revenge) represented the impersonal element, identifying violence with reason and with a terrifying demonstration that was capable of subordinating the first account. In this second account we are no longer in the presence of the torturer capturing Jamila and enjoying her. It is almost as if we are with Jamila in search of a torturer in the process of establishing a contractual relationship with him. If the first violence was a kind of possession, the second was an alliance. Common to both of them was the idea of retribution.

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The theme of the woman becoming masculine and fighting criminals was echoed in a number of pamphlets that appeared in Bombay — both Hindu and Muslim women were urged to take to weapons to protect their honour, to fight the enemy, as well as their inherent weak nature. This revenge could be achieved only if women become men. Ressentiment was part of this picture to the extent that in these stories the spirit of vengeance survived the impact of a greater and more real violence. It was a leftover of the violence with the pamphlets suggesting that women must be the bearers of such feeling. Also, ressentiment flourished in a world where real vengeance would be enacted by men. From reading these stories together it is possible to show that such intensities of words, sexualised speeches and laments functioned as an underlying affective unit that coloured intentionality in hate literature. First we find a desire for the values that were possessed by others and borne by certain goods. Second, there was a sense of inadequacy in attaining what was so deeply desired. Feelings of hatred and revenge, anger, rage and spite were expressed. Third, ideas of injustice and envy took root. Fourth, the sense of injustice combined with a persistent but thwarted desire due to weakness and finitude made one angry. Fifth, combined with a hatred for the bearer of such values a sense of superiority was expressed. This sense of superiority led to a devaluation of the values that one desired and enhanced a sense of self-worth. The person of ressentiment relived the desires and feelings that began and ended with self-worth. Mazhab ka Danka and Khooni Cawnpore explicitly expressed this sense of superiority. Underlying the feeling of ressentiment was a fear and hatred of the enemy, one were cast through religious symbols.32 For Hindu authors, subjection was found in the combination of religion and terror. A case in point was a collection of songs called Anath Bhajnavali (Hymns of the Orphans) published in Gujarati in 1911 that came up before colonial censors. The songs appealed to rich Hindus to help the Nadiad orphanage. In song 20 the orphans were made to say: ‘Our parents who cherished us are no more, and have left us to the wicked butcher. Famine, his representatives, Christians and Moslems has got to our necks’.33 Similarly, song 33 said: ‘To eat us alive the Quran and the Bible are hissing; to drink our blood famine and plague are gnashing their teeth’ (ibid.). The past greatness and prosperity of India were invoked: ‘Great kings used to fall at the feet of Brahmin

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sages, but we their progeny are in great distress…. Their ancestors were Kshatriya heroes, rulers of great states but alas! Their progeny are seen going helplessly from place to place’ (ibid.). The Home Department considered closing the Printing Press that published Anath Bhajnavali under Sections 152A and 124A of the Indian Penal Code, sections that considered articles that attack the government (152A) and written documents directly aimed against disturbing public peace (124A). The opinion of the Remembrancer of Legal Affairs (RLA) was sought. The RLA opined that 152A was inapplicable since there was only an indirect attack on Government (reference to Christians as cow killers). Section 124A was also inapplicable since there was no likelihood of disturbing public tranquility. Moreover, ‘it is not enough that one uses words calculated to produce racial ill feeling. What is required is that one should actively encourage such feelings by the use of words chosen for that purpose’ (ibid.). Eventually, the text was proscribed, though no action was taken against the printing press. In April 1913 the colonial government issued a formal notification under Section 12 of the Indian Press Act, 1910 declaring that Anath Bhajnavali be forfeited to His Majesty. The notice said that the publication contained words that were likely to bring into hatred or contempt certain classes or sections of His Majesty’s subjects. In addition, the keepers of the printing press were fined Rs 3000. Khooni Cawnpore, Anath Bhajnavali, Mazhab ka Danka and a number of other productions made claims to retribution, driven as they were by malice, spite, and envy — characteristics of ressentiment.34 Morality and legality were conflated in a sense of grievance. This grievance could be directed either to the colonial state or her subjects. In either case, the state took recourse to law.

Publics, Law and Affect In moving between the colonial archives and the Samna articles, we find that hate literature, or writings deemed as such, were entangled with the state, through the laws that dealt with the incitement of religious hatred. The state administration (both colonial and republican), attempted to use its power over the public sphere to stifle dissent through the force of law. At the same time, such writings did circulate within ‘insurgent publics’.35 The circulation of hate was in the written form, but also included other forms, such as cartoons, picture postcards, public speeches, ballads and songs, and theatrical enactments.36

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In April 1934, following complaints by the office of Khwaja Hasan Nizam, Dargah Nizamuddin Auliya, Delhi to the Commissioner of Police, Bombay, 5,300 copies of a postcard were confiscated. The office of Hasan Nizami stated that the postcards were published by the Joshi Press, Bazargate Street, Fort, Bombay. They contained ‘verses from the Holy Quran on one side, while on the other they had photos of prostitutes’. Further, the cards were deliberately published for the sake of injuring the feelings of the Muslims and insulting the Holy Quran. The Commissioner of Police was urged to discipline the publisher, ‘or a breach of peace would result’.37 After interrogating the Joshi brothers who were selling the postcards, the Commissioner of Police stated that Mr G.B. Joshi, the keeper of the Press, had no intention of offending the religious sentiments of the Muslims and that he was selling the postcards as a matter of business. Given the Commissioner’s comments no legal action was contemplated (ibid.). Crucially, this circulation showed how the public was a composite, simultaneously binding together diverse linguistic groups while separating Hindus from Muslims. If we have seen how the law was brought to bear upon diverse expressions of hate, from the verbal to the textual to the visual, and how the law contextualised, analysed, and archived the materials that it dragneted, we have to consider how the law recognised and reinscribed insurgent publics. In particular we have yet to consider how hate literature infiltrated the laws even as it made itself speakable within the circumscribed space of the law. We do so through a consideration of the policing of speeches in so called ‘private premises,’ later comparing it to the way in which the speech in the Samna articles was policed in the 1990s to condone the speakers and uphold hate. Policing here involved not merely the surveillance of public speeches, but also the taking of notes in the presence of a witness. In 1942, following the policing of public meetings held on private premises, the colonial government declared, ‘In exercise of the powers conferred by sub-rule (1) of rule 56 of the Defence of India Rules, the Government of Bombay is pleased to impose the following condition upon the holding of public meetings in the Province of Bombay, namely, that police officers shall be permitted to attend the meetings for the purpose of taking reports of the proceedings’.38 In this order, any meeting which was open to the public, regardless of whether it was held on private premises, was deemed to be a ‘public meeting’.

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Underlying this order was the vexed issue of dealing with public speeches delivered on premises such as mosques and community halls that both inflamed religious hatred and opposed the colonial rule of law. The inability of colonial law and public speeches to meet on common legal ground marked the discursive disparity between jurisdictional and political feasibilities.39 In the process, incitement to communal violence and sedition against the state were conflated. I will briefly reflect on two meetings that are to be found in the colonial archive. On 15 April 1925, Hakim Taj Mahomed spoke at the Mirzapur Masjid in Ahmedabad in the presence of 300 Muslims. The audience also included two constables who made ‘mental notes’ of what was said at the time. Their report was submitted to the sub-inspector of police, from which he prepared the English report. After dwelling at length on the life of Muhammad, the Hakim said, The kaffirs of India make allegations against the Prophet of Islam and you Musalmans tolerate it…. Either you go away from this country or break the head of kaffirs. They compose drama of your old man and call you to see it…. I do not tell you a lie, but a resolution has been passed by the Hindu Maha Sabha to destroy eight crores of Musalmans. You should also prepare your children in the same way and prepare them for the occasion. (File 355 (25) D. Home (Special) 1923–26). Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai)40

On 13, 14, 15 and 16 February 1927, Maulvi Abdul Majid Fidui delivered a series of public lectures in Broach city (present-day Gujarat), attended by more than 250 Muslims on each occasion, and he subjected the character of the Hindu gods — Brahma, Krishna and Rama — to derisory treatment. A disgraceful incident has been given in the Hindu religion that Brahma committed sexual intercourse with his own daughter, Sarasvati. This is the kind of God they have. It is also written in their religious books that there was a goddess who rubbed her hands and got a son. She asked him to enjoy her. He refused so she burnt him…. Then she rubbed her hands a third time and the son that was born this time carried out her wishes…. They say the Muslims marry the daughters of their own maternal uncles — but what is this?... They even allow their wives to go to another person when they are sick. (File 355 (25) D. Home (Special) 1923–26, Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston college, Mumbai)

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The district Superintendent of Police reported that Fidui had been under surveillance since April 1926, when in speeches delivered at Ahmedabad, he referred to the Calcutta riots and threatened the Arya Samajists.41 The Home Department considered applying Section 107 (Cr.PC) against Fidui. Section 107 was specifically intended to prevent a person from committing a direct breach of peace or disturbing ‘public tranquility’. Under this section the likelihood of such breach or disturbance had to be imminent. Fidui’s speeches, according to the RLA, could not be considered as falling under this section since it was difficult to establish whether subsequent speeches would lead to a breach of peace (ibid.). The RLA advised that Fidui be prosecuted under Section 109 (Cr.PC) and if necessary under Section 144 and Section 153A of the Indian Penal Code, which allowed for prosecution for speeches already made. However, these sections could not be applied to the present instance because of a lack of corroborating evidence supplied by members of the public present at the time the speeches were made. These ‘venomous’ speeches in public spaces, those delivered in mosques, the circulation of picture postcards and the profusion of pamphlets, show that the public occupied multiple discursive arenas. In part these arenas were oriented against the laws on censorship, but also against other competing publics organised on sectarian lines. Legal authority was challenged at the level of styles of political behaviour and norms of public speech, while the address to competing sectarian publics was premised on exclusion. The key element in the formation of such publics was the elaboration of a series of affects built around hate, love of the nation and the availability of women of the other religion. Colonial censors responded to such discourses by passing the Indian Press (Emergency Powers) Act, 1931. Clauses (d) and (h) of Section 4 (1) of the Press Act were amended to address such hate writings. Clause (d) proscribed statements that referred to intercommunal relationships, while clause (h) censored accounts that impugned the state. A similar economy of affect came up for review in the Bombay High Court in reference to the Samna articles (see Criminal Law Journal, 1995: 1316–31). The petitioners (Joseph Bain D’Souza and others) highlighted parts of various articles written by Balasaheb Thackeray that emphasised the affective nature of the MuslimPakistani: ‘Municipal Deputy Commissioner Mr Khairnar risked his life to use the bulldozer in Bhendi Bazar which has become a haven

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of Pakistani infiltrators and anti-national Muslims. Moulvis and mullahs have corrupted Bhendi Bazar…’ (Criminal Law Journal 1321). The Honourable judges found, on reading the article in its entirety, that there was ‘nothing by which ill-will, spite or hatred against the Muslim community as a whole is expressed’ (ibid.). Their response was identical with reference to another statement: ‘The fanatical traitors have launched an ugly dance of death. Loyal citizens of India have sacrificed their lives in this fire which has been spreading fast. In the mohallas inhabited by fanatics which we call “mini Pakistan” were the centres where the cruelty and treachery of traitors caused havoc’ (ibid.: 1325). Quite apart from the role that self-deception played in the writing and reading of these articles, one may say that the criminal law on hate literature institutionalised feelings of anger and resentment towards those it considered wrongdoers. In its eyes, Bal Thackeray was certainly not a wrongdoer. Instead, the attempt of the judgment was to make the passions raised by these articles more coherent, more perspicacious: ‘Taking the experience from the past events [the riots of 1992–93], both the communities have started forgetting the ill-feelings, thereby creating communal harmony and leading life as part of the mainstream of this country…therefore it is not desirable to reopen old wounds’ (ibid.: 1330). What the judgment refused to acknowledge was the discursive violence that was utilised to willfully misrepresent and thereby de-legitimate Muslim publics. In advising Muslim publics to be part of the mainstream, the judgment implicitly reinscribed their insurgent character. In this article I have argued that the passions on which such literature was based (and one might say, continues to stand) reveals a promise built on hate. By this I do not mean merely that hate has a future, but also that it has the limitless ability to provoke fresh rounds of conflict, discussion and infiltration of the law. In drawing out the promise of hate in this article, I claim first, that hate literature and all its related motifs (hyper-masculinity, love of the nation) points to a promise that has to be kept: the nation has to be secured for its true heirs. Second, the argumentative thrust and rhetorical procedures of this literature were obsessed by a de-positioned address, addressor and addressee. Authors, readers and listeners were marked by an offense that moved across temporal boundaries. This was done by drawing on the resources of the religious. In this sense, it was almost as if this literature signalled an apocalyptic sensibility inscribed

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in Hindu–Muslim relations but one always leavened by law. Once coloured by law, this literature became an object of political decision and simultaneously an object that defied the political. Nothing exemplifies this nature of being within the horizon of the law and in excess of it better than the figure of the Muslim-Pakistani — a figure both inside and outside the nation.

Notes Acknowledgements: My deepest gratitude to Rahul Roy and the travelling seminar on masculinities, where this paper was presented, to the IDPAD project and team for criticisms; and to Veena Das, whose influence on this paper is all too evident. ∗ The first part of the title of this article — ‘Words that Wound’ — is drawn from an edited book by Mari Matsuda, Richard Delgado, Charles Lawrence III and Kimberle Wlliams titled Words that Wound: Critical Race Theory, Assaultive Speech and the First Amendment. That title suggests a combination of linguistic and physical vocabularies, with Matsuda arguing that language parallels the infliction of physical pain and injury. Racial invective, she says, is like receiving a slap in the face. In this article I track the discursive production of hate between Hindus and Muslims, routed through the censoring authority of the state. The playing out of hate is conditioned by ‘affect’, a term that points us to the conditions of possibility of emotions as much as to their actual expressions. 1. Deleuze and Guattari (1994: 167, 173) separate affect from affections. This separation is the transition from one state to another, discursively from one mode of story telling to another. Transitions involve a ‘bloc of sensations’ (ibid.: 167) that are monumental. The monument does not commemorate the past — as memory or history — but is a present bloc of sensations preserved in fabulation. I look at fabulation not as providing us with the resources of fantasy, or even the capacity of telling lies, as much as showing us how the discursivity of hate is generated. 2. In colonial India, The Indian Press (Emergency Powers) Act, 1931 was reformulated with reference to an article published in the Urdu and English newspaper, the Muslim. Clauses (d) and (h) of Section 4(1) of the Act were invoked to show how certain sentences and words were liable to cause injury. See Home Department (Political) File 82/1933, Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai. I will discuss the application of colonial law later in the article. 3. These texts and editorials will be discussed in the course of the article. Briefly, Vishwasghat (Breach of Faith, 1927) was a text in Gujarati authored by Harishankar Joshi and printed in Bombay. Rangila Rasool (Colourful Prophet, 1928) was a text in Marathi, authored by Balwant Kolhatkar. The title evoked the more infamous Rangila Rasool printed in the Punjab in 1924. Khooni Cawnpore Uraf Bahadur Aurat (Bloody Cawnpore alias Brave Woman, 1927)

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was published in Lucknow but circulated in Bombay. Its author Ibrahim Abrar often performed portions of the text in public spaces in Bombay. Samna is a daily newspaper written in Marathi and is the mouthpiece of the Shiv Sena, a political party that combines nativism with Hindu nationalism. Several important affective dimensions marked the discourse strategies of this literature. Of these, interweaving the voices of textual authorities and the relaters’ moral agenda affectively charged the recreations of one’s own and others’ writings. The Bombay riots began on 7 December 1992 and continued until the third week of January 1993. For a discussion of this violence see Hanson (2001), Chatterji and Mehta (2007). Shyrock (1997: 280) in his study of how history has been made in the context of segmentary politics in Jordan attempts this task. He shows how a politician, claiming descent from the Prophet, invoked Muhammad’s rise to authority to further his interests and protect himself from imitation. The phrase is taken from Foucault (1994: 89). Here he reads text not so much to establish origins or detail their internal coherence as to show how authors who talk of the present belong to it. These articles were written in Marathi. In presenting an English translation I have used a reference from the Criminal Writ Petition (No. 465 of 1993, D/-23/26-9-1994, in Criminal Law Journal, 1995: 1316–1331) of Joseph Bain D’Souza and another versus the State of Maharashtra and Others. The petition was filed under Sections 153A, 153B in the Bombay High Court presided over by Justices C. R. Majithia and M. L. Dudhat. In addition I have looked at the Srikrishna Commission of Enquiry on the Bombay riots and bomb blasts of 1992–93. I also had some of the editorials translated and cross-referenced. In the Bombay High Court the petition was dismissed on the grounds that Bal Thackeray did not mean to offend the entire Muslim community, but only those Muslims who were anti-national. It held that the articles ‘would not fall under the mischief of Ss. 153A and 153B’. Deposing before the Srikrishna Commission in 1994, the additional commissioner of police, Deshmukh, said, ‘of a total of 24 cases under Section 153 A, for which Government sanction is needed, filed against Thackeray since 1984, 16 could not be proceeded with as the Government did not grant sanction for prosecution’. In six cases sanction was obtained and charge sheets were filed in criminal courts in Bombay, but the state government withdrew these cases on 28 August and 18 October 1996. The Deputy Secretary (Home, Special) gave three reasons for the withdrawal: ‘(a) inexpediency of the prosecution for reasons of state; (b) to further broaden public justice and public order; (c) interests of administration of justice would not be served’. Mr Advani and Mr Singhal are members of Hindu organizations. After the destruction of the Babri mosque they were placed under arrest for criminal conspiracy. ‘The areas like Bhendi Bazar, Null Bazar, Dongri, Pydhonie and Mahim Dargah, which we refer to as mini-Pakistan, were the same areas where these terrorists and rioters bared their weapons… If the army had conducted surprise raids

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in these mini-Pakistanis they would have discovered the large cachet of arms that has come into the country from Pakistan and Bangladesh’ (Samna, ‘Situation is Normal’, 8 January 1993). ‘When the Shiv Sainik reaches the battlefield (Ayodhaya) with this fervor even the staunchest opponent of the temple will quake with fear. He wasn’t born to only sing “bhajans” and “kirtans” (hymns and religious songs). The Shiv Sainik will be honoured in Ayodhaya, His experience on the battlefield will only lend to this dharma yudh (holy war)’ (Samna, ‘Toward Ayodhaya’, 5 December 1992). ‘The erection of the Ram Mandir (temple) is equivalent to the upliftment of the country. This temple in Ayodhaya is a symbol of loyalty and Hindutva. The citizen is now faced with the question as to whether he wants the country to be associated with Sri Ram or with the marauder Babur. The Karseva which commences with the erection of the Ram Mandir in Ayodhaya on 6 December is of utmost importance. It is the fight which will determine the future because not only is the safety of the country in peril but her very existence’ (Samna, ‘Toward Ayodhaya’, 5 December 1992). The insistence of Pakistan in Bombay was an uncanny presence in the colonial archive. Reflecting on a speech delivered by Sir Currimbhoy at Kesarbagh on the occasion of the observance of Pakistan Day the Matrubhumi (27 March 1941), an acclaimed piece of hate literature, said, ‘The dreams entertained by Sir Currimbhoy are…to become a king…having suzerainty over Hindus — twenty two crores of Hindus in India. A person like Sir Currimbhoy who is indifferent to the world may not perhaps be aware of the fact that the downfall of the [Mughal] Empire, based on the foundations of treachery and fraud, was brought about by the puff of a brave person like Shivaji who was known to be a Hindu, but the world is fully conversant with the same (Home Dept (special), File 844-L1-VIII (3), 1941). There were other laws that were deployed to regulate hate production. My concern is not so much to provide a straight narrative of such laws as to see them in their relationship to affect. This list is just a sample. There were many more publications. Colonial censors were efficiently active in proscribing a sea of publications. A Judicial Department file (1546/1912) listed the publications, some 200 in all that were proscribed under the Indian Press Act, 1910. The list was completed towards the end of May 1912. The file mentioned the name of the publication, the province(s) where proscribed and the particulars of each writing. These publications included mela (festival) songs, ballads, journals such as Bande Mataram, Indian Sociologist (the latter prohibited under the Sea Custom’s Act, 1907) and photographs. A curious case was a photograph entitled ‘Rashtra Purusha (National Heroes)’, published in Nasik by S. D. Mohan Singh, whose name figured at the base of the photograph as ‘Devi Singh Mohan Singh, Bidiseller’. From this cornucopia I will abstract those publications that deal with hate between Hindus and Muslims. Earlier, in 1968 and 1982, the Bombay High Court adjudicated on similar hate productions and banned them under Sections 99A and 153A.

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18. Ann Stoler, for example argues that colonial archives are monuments of power, based on systems of exclusion and silence and colonial documents, reflecting the supremacy of reason, are able to achieve concordance between competing native accounts. In this way, too, the colonial archive reproduces the power of the state (Stoler 2002: 97), just as it is its prime technology of rule. 19. See Chetan Bhatt (2001), Ayesha Jalal (2001), Sanjay Joshi (2001), Lise McKean (1996), and Sumit Sarkar (2002). The list is not exhaustive. It would require a separate article to elaborate the content of this communalism. Here I will indicate some of its features as they refer to the Bombay Presidency and as they appear in official colonial documents. 20. The yoking of the discourse of nationalism and demography, of biopolitics and cultural revival, are the obvious political fallouts. From a different view, if this text has a future it is not only because it promised a renewed life, but because its messianic thrust shows the power of the virtual. 21. In Home Department (Political) 1928/84, Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai. Statutory Commission — A Note on the Press, Newspapers and Books and Periodicals. 22. Ibid.: 13. 23. In Home Department (Special) 1893–60, J-58, 143 K (b). 1928, Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai. 24. Following the Rangila Rasool case judgment, a range of articles, particularly in the Punjab, attacked and vilified Prophet Muhammad. An Arya Samaj magazine of Amritsar, the Risala Vartman, published an article, ‘A Trip to Hell’, which depicted Muhammad with his wives suffering the ‘tortures of the damned’. The Punjab Government prosecuted the author under Section 153 A IPC (Home Special 1893–60: Rangila Rasul, Excerpt of Report prepared by the Indian Statutory Commission on Hindu-Muslim Relations). About the same time, Justice Dalal of the Allahabad High Court in a case similar to the Rangila Rasool, known as the Vichatar Jiwan Case, provided an entirely different ruling from that of Justice Dilip Singh. He was not prepared to make the ‘nice distinction’ between a book that may hurt the feelings of Muslims and one that may cause feelings of enmity and hatred between different classes of His Majesty’s Subjects (Home Department (Special) 1893–60, J-58, 143 K(b). 1928). 25. The book circulated in Bombay and came to the notice of colonial censors after the Young Muslim Association of Bombay objected to its contents. Objections were also raised by the Momin Anjuman-e-Islam (The Society of Believers) of Surat and Bombay, the Naarae-Tawhid, the Hamdard (2 August 1929), Insaf (2 August 1929), Din (5 August 1929), Urdu newspapers with a circulation in Ahmedabad and Bombay. The issue was also raised in the Legislative Council of Bombay Presidency by Khan Saheb A. M. Mansuri, a councilor representing Ahmedabad and Surat cities. See Home Department (Political). File 64/1928–29, Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai.

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26. See Home Department (Political), File 42/1928, Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai. 27. In Home Department (Political), File 297/1927, Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai. 28. The reference was to Khwaja Hasan Nizami, the priest of the Nizamuddin mosque in Delhi. He was particularly active in petitioning colonial authorities on hate literature. 29. In Home Department (Political), File 219/1928, Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai. 30. Home Department (Political), File 42/1928, Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai. 31. In Home Department (Political), File 130/1931, Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai. 32. In his discussion of the theological enemy, Anidjar (2003: 7) says that the foe is marked by a double genitive: he might be one who actively hates god, or he might be one who is subjected to god’s hate. The ambivalence between these two meanings leads to the permanent possibility of war between god and a part of humanity and links the issue of war and enmity to law and subjection. 33. Judicial Department, 1909–20, File 234/1930. Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai. 34. Michael Moore in ‘The Moral Worth of Retribution’ (1997) argues that unlike the Nietzfchean view of ressentiment, retribution must be grounded in the rational and good emotion of guilt, which he says is an emotion rooted in correct moral judgment. Malice and spite, contrarily, point us toward moral error. In punishing the offenders of these articles, it does not seem to me that colonial authorities are driven by any sense of guilt. Instead, as Nasser Hussain (2003: 66) argues, colonial rule of law is maintained through legal procedure that allows the moral claims of legality to coexist with the political claims of government. 35. See the articles by Boyle (1992) and Ryan (1992). Alternately, we may have something like the emergence of subaltern ‘counter-publics’, in Fraser’s (1992) use of the term. I have tried to argue that these insurgent/counter-publics were in a relation of antagonism with other counter-publics. From the colonial administrators point of view law had to mediate the relationship between antagonist counter publics. These publics incorporated personal and impersonal address in their discursive practices, an argument that is made by Warner (2002). In her analysis of caste disputes in ninteenth century south India, Pamela Price suggests that English language-speaking Indians formed political groups similar to those influential in 18th and 19th century Europe. Such publics were mobilised to influence governmental policy beyond its local ramifications. This fully developed political public was coterminus with the emergence of a centralised state that, in its formulation of policies, directed its attention to a population, rather than caste groups. The result was the creation of publics through the procedures of law. What is missed

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out in this analysis is that such publics were also formed through a conscious and intricate manipulation of affects as they related to law. The idea of the public proposed here comes close to that developed by Appadurai and Breckenridge (1995: 1–20). For them public expression includes body representations in the arts, dance and so on. More importantly, the ‘public’ is both consumer and agent in these forms, and is characterized by reflexive self-expression. Home Department (special) File No. 1742/1934. Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai. File 751 (1)/ 1939–46, Home Department (special), Sub: Reports of Speeches, Maharashtra State Archives, Elphinston College, Mumbai. Sara Suleri identifies these disparities as the ‘essential alegality’ and ‘radical obsolescence [of law] in colonial discourse, i.e., the failure of colonial regimes to legitimize themselves in the legal precedent of either Western coloniser or Oriental colonised’ (1992: 55–56). It was not possible to successfully prosecute Taj Mohamed as no written notes of the speech were taken. While a verbatim report was not regarded as a sine qua non for proceedings under Section 108, IPC, the oral evidence had to be corroborated by an independent witness, which did not occur. A native of Moradabad in the United Provinces, Fidui went to Delhi in 1921 and joined the Khilafat movement. In Delhi he was recognized as a fluent speaker and zealous Khilafat agent. He joined the Tabligh movement and became a member of the Anjuman Tabligh-e-Islam as a special preacher. He was said to be a man of loose character and commanded little respect in Delhi (ibid.).

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Itineraries of Conversion: Judaic Paths to a Muslim Pakistan Sadia Abbas Introduction: A Land Outside Time As the world bursts into a nightmare that rekindles threats of ancient apocalyptic conflicts, conversations about religion in general and Islam in particular have acquired a crushing urgency. The ostensible polarisation between East and West, Islam and the rest seems to require us to believe that the travel of ideas, ideologies and ideological emphases is clear — modern liberalism or radical secular progressivism come from the West and by contrast, the yet recuperable ‘authentic’ East provides religion in more or less socially traditionalist guises. Stated so, the proposition seems absurdly inflated. Yet that is increasingly the position of the new imperialists and of a range of their Islamist opponents. Academic liberals, too, seem to have been pulled into endorsing some version of this dichotomy. The contexts of postcolonialism and America’s revived imperialism make great the temptation of militantly recuperating a Muslim identity — and if cultural conservatism is the ‘other’ to the West’s liberalism, the more conservative the Islam in question, the better its anti-imperialist credentials. In this context of rapid response polarisation, the Western cultural and intellectual influences upon, and contexts of, Islamist thinkers have become increasingly obscure. We might have become accustomed to political analyses of the CIA’s contributions to the weaponry and training of Muslim militants, but we are not always attentive to the more subtle, but nonetheless pernicious, European and American discursive influences upon a range of Islamist thinkers. My concern in this article is to explore some of the West’s contributions — in the form of the work of two converts, Muhammad Asad and Maryam Jameela — to Islamist thought in Pakistan. Jameela’s and Asad’s conversions are repeated by the cricketer and global playboy turned politician, Imran Khan’s recent rediscovery of his

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Muslim identity — a rediscovery that is particularly striking precisely because it requires that Khan cast himself as an outsider to Islam, the kind of outsider, moreover, who can be brought back into the fold by reading Asad, the kind of outsider whose return can be related as a confessional story of a conversion. Separated by a generation and a continent, Asad and Jameela share their Jewish faith, a skepticism about Zionism, a deep antipathy to Western modernity, and a quest for a place of tradition and safety outside Europe and the United States. Jameela’s own conversion was influenced by Asad’s work. Khan, too, lists Jameela as a thinker who has influenced his thought. Jameela’s and Asad’s anti-Zionist politics and their commitment to Islam can obscure what is paradoxical about their biographies — their conversions are orientalist movements out of Western modernity into a space that they seem to see as outside the inexorable march of European time. What makes Islam worth converting to is that it is somehow still suspended in its own past. A significant part of its attraction is also that Islam is the Abrahamic future: an austere and iconoclastic religion, predicated on law, but one into which people can convert — in sum, a more universal Judaism. An invocation of orientalism may seem tired at this point, a trite iteration of the hermeneutic of suspicion. But it is necessary, precisely because it is so easy to forget the flattery that can lie so insidiously at orientalism’s core — a flattery that can make the temptation to self-orientalise particularly intense. Both Jameela and Asad see Islam as premodern, never disenchanted, precariously perched on the edge of the abyss of modernity. Sometimes they seem to think that Muslim cultures and societies are in danger of losing this state of enchantment and sometimes Muslim society seems already to have lost its perfection. Both resolve the tension through a critique of Muslim society as having squandered the gifts of Islam and adulterated its premodern sanctity. Jameela, in particular, views Muslim modernisers and reformers as a column of ‘the enemy within’, who seek a fall from a state of untroubled premodern grace. Khan’s case is an exemplary instance of the self-orientalising tendencies that can lodge themselves at the heart of postcolonial culture.1 For all three figures, Islam appears to provide a historical narrative that is cast, romantically, as outside European time. Pakistan appears to be the geographical terrain upon which this other temporality is to take a concrete form. Of course, space has always been invested with temporal qualities in the colonial encounter and the worlds of

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the colonised are frequently moralised as suffering from a temporal deprivation, a suspension outside the leaps of modern time — a deprivation which itself is evidence of a deserved ‘backwardness’ (McClintock 2000: 175–89). Yet it is surprisingly easy to forget that there is a face of orientalism that glamourises this alleged temporal separateness — indeed longs for its numinous otherness — and that it sometimes affiliates itself with anti-colonialism, that, indeed, orientalism can be philic as well as phobic. Where Asad and Jameela move from West to East, Khan goes from Pakistan to Britain back to Pakistan. The value of Islam becomes apparent to all three whilst they are in the West. All three share an elitism, a fascination with power and an aspiration to influence politics. Asad and Jameela reveal the European sources of anti-European thinking, their own complete entanglement within Western thought, and an unselfconscious tendency to grasp and wield an authority derived from the West. Asad’s and Jameela’s conversions are moral judgments on European time, on the very idea of modernity. Taken together, the three converts reveal the dark hybridity of Islamist orientalism. Gauri Viswanathan has argued that conversion is a subversion of secular power. Conversely, Nicholas Dirks has insisted that conversion is ‘always a relationship of domination, even when the means of domination are much more subtle and even voluntary than in the more general colonial situation’ (van der Veer 1996:121; Viswanathan 1998: 3). Viswanathan is concerned with the conception and status of religion in a time when religion is modernity’s ‘estranged self’, Dirks is concerned with conversion to Christianity in colonialism (Vishwanathan 1998: xiv). Both are seeking to understand the shape of religion in modernity, and its relationship with political power. I take my orientation to conversion from these two scholars. We see, in the cases of Asad and Jameela, that even as conversion seems to be a subversion of the power of the convert’s own milieu and ostensibly an act of humility and respect — a submission to the tenets of a religion and an entry into a community — it can become a mode of seizing and wielding a monitory power that allows the convert to look to the future of the religion by berating the community of the religious for betraying the religion’s initial promise — for betraying the promise of its past. Converts can attempt to hold those who are already in the religion to its austerest content and tell them that they are incipiently, or already, apostates, at work, in effect, to sow dissension within the actual community — as opposed to the community they

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seek to imagine into existence. Khan’s case is more complicated in this regard than either Asad’s or Jameela’s, because he is also arguing against sectarian violence. But it must be said that one of his hidden targets appears to be women’s emancipation. All three make claims about how the state should be run and ally themselves with political power. Regardless of how they present themselves, given the form of Asad’s, Jameela’s and Khan’s implications in the discourses and social contexts of the West, their conversions cannot be seen only as subversions of Western or secular power, but must be seen as complex deployments of that power in the service of their own ambitions and quests. That these quests have substantial spiritual dimensions does not detract from their very material commitments and instantiations. Pakistan itself becomes the ground upon which the edifices of politically inspired spiritual quests will be erected.

Imran Khan’s Quest Archived on the website of Tehreek-e-Insaaf (Movement for Justice), the party he leads, is an article by Khan called ‘In Pakistan We Have Selective Islam’.2 Although the title promises a polemical diagnosis of the ills of Pakistani Muslim practice, it turns out to be as much, if not more, a story of diasporic self-rediscovery, a conversion narrative with an international itinerary. In the brief and rather peripatetic piece, Khan tells the story of his own return to a consciously practiced Islam, an Islam acquired through more than accidents of birth and culture. He tells us that once upon a time he accepted only the parts of the religion that suited him. He recounts how he and his fellow students at school were contemptuous of all things and people Muslim. This contempt derived from a colonial complex and embarrassment about the backwardness of Muslim and, presumably, Pakistani culture. Most of all, however, it came from the selectiveness of the Islam practiced by many in Pakistan — from their bigotry, hypocrisy and violence. Being recognised and sought out by the English aristocracy and Western elites whilst living in the West helped him overcome his selfhating brown sahib (lord) inferiority complex. His success as a cricketer made him see God’s plan in things, making him realise that nothing, including his success, was accidental. Then came the Salman Rushdie affair and he saw the hostility of the West to Islam. Together, these realisations made him turn to his own identity as a Muslim.3

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Having straddled two cultures, he is particularly well equipped, he says, to identify the strengths and shortcomings of both. Although the West has stronger institutions, it is the Pakistani culture of family that vouches for the moral superiority of the East and, of course, this moral superiority stems from Muslim roots. The charm and ethical power of these roots has been obscured by the West’s general hostility to all religion, its commitment to logic and, according to Khan, to ‘half-baked’ scientific theories like evolution. Single mothers, rising divorce rates and the growth of racism provide further evidence of the inferiority of the West.4 Significantly, he casts his turn to religion as a rediscovery of his cultural and national identity, as we see in the rhetorical question he poses: ‘So what led me to do a lota [turn] on the Brown-Sahib culture and instead become a desi [local]?’ 5 To become a properly practicing Muslim is to become desi. What Khan does not discuss is his own history as a global playboy. The confession at the heart of the narrative is of a turn from a lapsed identity, not from sexual excess. The sexual conversion one can only assume is his (now ex-) wife’s, who is ‘reformed’ in her transformation from the Jewish Jemima Goldsmith to the Muslim Haiqa Khan.6 Imran Khan’s narrative of conversion into a proper Muslim desi functions doubly: it buries the story of his sexual history and simultaneously asserts his national claim to political authority. Conversion to Islam — as an owned ideological commitment and as an identity — allows him to become a better Pakistani, the kind who has the political credentials to rule.

Muhammad Asad’s Quest In The Road to Mecca (1954), Leopold Weiss tells the story of his conversion to Islam, and his subsequent transformation into Muhammad Asad. Asad’s early biography is intriguing. The son of a comfortable Jewish family (there is an account in the book of summers at his grandfather’s home that evokes nothing so much as The Garden of the Finzi-Continis), he travelled to Palestine, was disenchanted by the injustice of the Zionist movement and conceived a passion for the Arabs. He travelled to Arabia and became heavily involved in tribal and, later, anti-colonial politics. This extended exposure to Arab culture led to a growing appreciation for Islam and, eventually, he converted. The tipping point for the conversion arrived (in a classic scene of modernist alienation) amongst deracinated commuters in a Berlin subway. Back in Arabia, unable to bear the changes he saw

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imminent, he decided to leave to explore and, as it turned out, attempt to create, other Muslim lands. He was invited to South Asia by the Indian poet and politician Mohammed Iqbal and, after the formation of Pakistan, became Pakistan’s Minister Plenipotentiary to the United Nations, a job he left in order to write The Road to Mecca, whose explicit motive was to explain Islam to the West. He completed the book in New York, but never returned to Pakistan although, when he assumed power, General Zia ul-Haq invited him back. Asad died in Spain, his very death a striking testament to his nostalgic relation with Islam, as if only the site of an always already lost Al-Andalus could be his final resting place. The Road to Mecca displays some, mostly unrealised, stylistic ambition. The main narrative frame is the author’s recollection of his ‘long, last desert trek’ into Mecca (Asad 1993 [1954]: 9). The purpose is to remember, and lament, an Arabia that has already disappeared. This now disappeared place was an assemblage of tableaus that prepared him for his conversion. The narrative cuts between the account of his journey with his friend Zayd and the numerous visits and habitations that comprise his past experience of Arabia and the Middle East. The narrative movement back and forth between the present and the past presents a jigsaw of fragments that, assembled, produces a picture of his conversion. This is not accidental. We see that his conversion was no single event but a compendium of various moments of illumination, doctrinal understanding, apprehension of the ‘Godconsciousness of Islam’, the awareness of the emptiness of modern, mechanistic Western society, the recognition of the possibilities for adventures of the ‘spirit’ as well as of the body offered by a tribal Arabia fending off colonial intervention — clinging with loosening fingers to a crumbling identity and past (ibid.: 74). The desire for adventure is evidently inspired in part by T. E. Lawrence. In the Road to Mecca, Arabia, its people and its semitic, Abrahamic heritage meld repeatedly into tableaus that are meant to have a haunting metaphysical significance. The beauty of the Arabian man merges with the still emptiness of the landscape to give numerous intimations of the conversion which is yet to come in the narrative, but which we know has already occurred. From under the shadow of the red-and-white checked kufiyya his [Zayd’s] eyes regard me with solemn intentness, as if this were a much more serious matter than a mere cup of coffee. These eyes — deepset

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and long-lashed, austere and sad in repose but ever ready to flash in sudden gaiety — speak of a hundred generations of life in steppes and freedom: the eyes of a man whose ancestors have never been exploited and have never exploited others. But most beautiful in him are his movements: serene, aware of their own rhythm, never hurried and never hesitant: a precision and economy that reminds you of the interplay of instruments in a well-ordered symphony orchestra. You see such movements often among beduins; the sparseness of the desert is reflected in them. For, apart from the few towns and villages, life in Arabia has been so little moulded by human hands that nature in her austerity has forced man to avoid all diffusion in behaviour and to reduce all doing dictated by his will or by outward necessity of a few, very definite, basic forms, which have remained the same for countless generations and have in time acquired the smooth sharpness of crystals, and this inherited simplicity of action is now apparent in the true Arab’s gestures as well as in his attitude toward life. ‘Tell me, Zayd, where are we going tomorrow?’ Zayd looks at me with a smile: ‘Why, O my uncle, toward Tayma, of course…?’ ‘No, brother, I wanted to go to Tayma, but now I do not want it any more. We are going to Mecca…’. (Ibid.: 40–41).

Here, as elsewhere in the text, encounters with the ‘natives’ acquire a haunting significance, emblematic of the ‘Arabic character’ about which Asad generalises often, banally, without qualm: ‘Arabs like to be flattered, and in addition they like to be photographed’, ‘the soul of the Arab is monotonous’, ‘cosmic consciousness and an instinctive directness of perception’ are the ‘basic characteristics of the beduin psyche’ (ibid.: 119, 133, 179). These, it must be said, are meant as praise. As the book progresses, stray, fleeting meetings, tableaus of people and landscape, performances of Arab music acquire increasingly exultant-seeming and numinous foreshadowings of the conversion. An old woman’s lips moving in prayer engenders a ‘strange elation’ (ibid.: 117). Beautiful women, sway ‘tenderly’ like ‘long stemmed plants’ and ‘slim men’ seem lifted out of the ‘disappearing day’, each step seems to have ‘an existence of its own’, between ‘eternity and eternity’ (ibid.: 79). The sound of tambour leads to a startling clarity of perception and limpid silence, ‘Brutal. Honest’ (ibid.: 133). Most significant in these hotly redolent moments is the sense that Arabia is to provide a solitary, still beauty — sometimes in the homoerotic descriptions of the men, sometimes in the alternately nurturing

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and austere vastness of the desert landscape, sometimes in the ancient presence of the barely visible women — that has somehow managed, in its sublimity, to escape time. Lest the reader be left in any doubt about the metaphysical significance of these tableaus, Asad is careful to spell it out. He describes women drawing water: Their garments are black, and their faces — as almost always with beduin and village women in this part of Arabia — uncovered, so that one can see their large, black eyes. Although they have been settled in an oasis for many generations, they have not yet lost the earnest mien of their forefathers’ nomad days. Their movements are clear, and their reserve free of all shyness as they wordlessly take the bucket rope from my hands and draw water for my camels — just as four thousand years ago, that woman at the well did to Abraham’s servant from Cannaan to find for his master’s son Isaac, a wife from among his kinfolk (ibid.: 42–43).

He follows this with a long excerpt from the Bible, and then goes on to say: Far away is the country of Padan–Aram and Abraham’s time: but these women here, with the power of remembrance their stately gestures have evoked, obliterate all distance of space and make four thousand years appear as of no account in time (ibid.: 43).

This spatial and temporal collapse pivots on a number of Asad’s central preoccupations. First, he is quite obviously concerned to find a space that will provide a regenerative ‘Other’ to an exhausted Europe. The apparent social stasis of Arabia’s people — as yet prelapsarian, because modernity has not corrupted them — the relative emptiness of her desert expanses provide ample resources for the creation of this Other. Second, a recurrent trope in the book is the attempt to render visible Islam’s Abrahamic heritage. Islam emerges as the better, more universal, Hebraism.7 And Arabia still seems to be suspended in an Abrahamic past: David and David’s time are ‘like Abraham and Abraham’s time, closer to the beduin of today than to the Jew of today’ (Asad 1993 [1954]: 91). The tableaus — where time seems to loop backwards to render visible the continuity of an as yet unbroken past in Arabia — are crucially linked to Asad’s fascination with monotony. The monotony of the Arab soul does not come from a shortage of imagination, but

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instead because ‘his instinct does not go, like that of Western man after width, three-dimensional space and the simultaneity of many shades of emotion’ (Asad 1993 [1954]: 133). Both the strengths and the weaknesses of the ‘Arab character’ are owing to this ‘pure monotony, this almost sensual desire to see feeling intensified in a continuous, ascending line’. The weaknesses result because ‘the world wants to be experienced, emotionally, in space as well’. But the description of strength is revealing and returns us to his cluster of preoccupations, which, through repeated layering, acquire a symbolic density: For the faith in the possibility of an endless linear ascent of emotional knowledge can lead nowhere but to God. Only on the basis of this inborn drive, so peculiar to people of the desert, could grow the monotheism of the early Hebrews and its triumphant fulfillment, the faith of Muhammad. Behind both stood the motherly desert (Asad 1993 [1954]: 134).

An austere monotheism — subjected to its own purifying fire — monotony, Abrahamic continuity provide the counterweight to European modernity and its failures. These are crucial to Asad’s conversion. For in one of the concluding chapters, ‘Dajjal’, in which Asad recounts the final moment of conversion, we learn of his interpretation of the Dajjal prophecy. The prophecy, as recounted by Asad: Dajjal is an apocalyptic being, blind in one eye, but with mysterious and extraordinary powers endowed by God. It is a being able to hear things at the far corners of the earth, to see into infinite distance with its one eye, to make plants grow and rain fall, to make gold and silver appear from under the earth with, indeed, the power to kill and to bring to life again. The weak of faith will worship it but the strong will know that written in flames on his forehead are the letters ‘Denier of God’ (Asad 1993 [1954]: 293). And the Dajjal story, Asad finally decides, is a parable of ‘modern, technical society’ with its worship of material progress and scientific knowledge. As a consequence of having turned himself over to the worship of Dajjal, Western man is alienated, lonely, sceptical, postlapsarian in his loss of innocence. In order to overcome this deep isolation, he attempts to control the outside world, to create ‘artificial allies’, to make ever more destructive machines. The quick march of this scientific creation is not only the result of a ‘positive growth of knowledge’, but also of a ‘spiritual despair’ (Asad 1993 [1954]: 294).

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Western civilisation has not been able to find a ‘harmonious’ balance between man’s bodily, social and spiritual needs; it has lost its old, religious, ethical systems without being able to find anything to replace them. The consequence of all this is that ‘lacking all truly, religious orientation, the Westerner cannot morally benefit by the light of the knowledge which — undoubtedly great — science is shedding’ (Asad 1993 [1954]: 295). But the final fragment falls into place in Europe at a classic site of modernist ennui. Travelling in a Berlin subway with his wife Elsa in September 1926, Asad is pierced by an epiphany. His eye falls on an affluent businessman, resplendent with a diamond ring and an exquisite briefcase. But, despite a prosperity that Asad sees as paradigmatic of a newly affluent Germany, the businessman does not seem happy. Instead, he appears vacant, his face caught in a rictus of pain; the pain, Asad is careful to note, is existential not bodily. Next to the businessman is a quite elegant woman bearing the same apparent marks of woe. As Asad looks around the compartment, he discerns in face after well-fed face the same ‘hidden suffering’ (Asad 1993[1954]:309). Elsa concurs with his judgment and goes so far as to say that they all seem to be suffering the ‘torments of hell’ (ibid.). When he returns home he picks up a copy of the Quran; it falls open, it seems to him providentially, upon a page displaying the following lines: You are obsessed by greed for more and more Until you go down to your graves. Nay, but you will come to know! Nay, but you will come to know! Nay, if you but you knew it with the knowledge of certainty, You would indeed see the hell you are in. In time, indeed, you shall see it with the eye of certainty: And on that Day you will be asked what you have done with the boon of life.

Asad takes this passage as an anticipation of something that could have only become true in his own ‘complicated, mechanized, phantomridden age’ (Asad 1993 [1954]: 309–10). It proves to him the truth of the Quran. What we realise, then, is the motive for the often frustrating framing and style of The Road to Mecca. The repeated tableaus of desert and people infused with a numinous glow are precisely Asad’s refusal of

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any historical development. There are few stories to be told that do not involve Asad himself as an historical actor. What the Arabs offer, and are always imminently in danger of losing, is the ballast of historical stillness and an organically fused society and self. It is as if a Delacroix painting had been taken as an aesthetic template for the book. Able to provide images of what seem like a frozen past, Arabia is a channel to a perfect Islam, itself a perfection of Abrahamic austerity — and these needs must remain outside European time. Asad’s decision to render translated Arabic speech into a disconcertingly archaic English, that has the quality of caricature, resplendent with ‘thous’ and ‘thees’, is perhaps most revealing here. It is not my intention to argue against a critique of the excesses of Western modernity. But it is crucial to note the paradigmatic orientalism of Asad’s story. One need only read the first paragraph of Orientalism to see a description of Asad’s narrative habits. Arabia is for him, indeed, ‘a place of romance, exotic beings, haunting memories and landscapes, remarkable experiences’. And it is disappearing; its time is over (Said 1979:1). What Edward Said identifies as the hallmarks of orientalism are ubiquitous in The Road to Mecca: the reduction of people to types, the idea that Asia will regenerate Europe, the investment of almost archetypal figures with the force of current moral, philosophic issues, a reconstructed religious impulse, indeed a ‘naturalised supernaturalism’ (ibid.: 114, 115, 119, 121). It is useful to recollect the cultural milieu in which Weiss had come to intellectual consciousness. Fritz Stern has written powerfully of the ‘cultural despair’ that animated the thought of nineteenth century and early twentieth century German thinkers such as Paul de Lagarde, Julius Langbehn, Moeller van den Bruck, and of the effect of their thought on National Socialism. They blamed a general cultural anomie upon modern liberalism and associated Jews with it. They were prompted by a resentment of loneliness, a desire for a new community of believers, an overwhelming desire for a new faith, ‘a new national religion that would bind all Germans together’ (Stern 1961: xii–xiii). A certain Whiggish narrative of historical progress, of the development of the Western individualised self, cut off from a past in which society and self, spirit and flesh were organically fused, is precisely what these thinkers took at its word, and confirmed in the sweep of their repudiation. In this they were like T. S. Eliot and his right wing modernism, with its longing for a time when sensibility was not yet dissociated, when the Reformation and Protestantism had

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not ruptured Medieval self, society and religion (Eliot 1993: 67–92). Stern points out that these Germanic critics were precursors of the kind of ‘malcontent’ who would seek refuge in the Hitler movement in the 1920s (Stern 1961: xv). In one of his many explanations of the attractions of Islam, Asad writes that he does not believe that ‘individual man was in need of ‘salvation’: but…that [he believes] modern society was in need of salvation’ (Asad 1993[1954]: 305). This language of social salvation and spiritual regeneration places him within the Germanic tradition of reactionaries seeking an unalienated present. But Asad’s conservatism needs must be of a different order. Excluded as a Jew from a straightforward integration into this sentimental, loosely religious, critique of the alienations engendered by modernity, his quest requires a different itinerary. Zionism would appear to provide an appropriate alternate ideology, finding its sources as it does in nineteenth century German thought, even as it locates its mythic and volk solution on different geographical terrain. But Asad is honourably critical of the Zionist indifference to the fate of the indigenous Arabs. He recounts an argument with Chaim Weizmann about the Arabs and the Jewish historical title to the land. As Asad tells the story, Weizmann is simply puzzled when questioned about the future of the indigenous Arabs, and startled and disapproving of Asad’s argument that there might be any injustice in their treatment by the Zionists (Asad 1993 [1954]: 93–94). Another reason that Asad appears appalled by European Jews is that, unlike indigenous Middle Eastern Jews, they do not look like the Arabs. European Jews have brought with them the ‘smallness and narrowness’ of their lives from Europe and seem particularly diminished by comparison — they do not seem as if they could be of the ‘“same stock” as the proud Jew from Morocco or Tunisia in his white burnus’ (cloak) (Asad 1993 [1954]: 92). He follows this characteristically aestheticising and archetype-invoking description with the assertion that it is the European Jews who are responsible for introducing tensions between the Jews and the Arabs (ibid.). What becomes evident, then, is that Asad’s orientalism is a solution to the despair and ennui of European modern life. When it proves inadequate, Zionism itself is seen as an outcome of the failures of European modernity. Unsurprisingly, Asad is blind to his own implication in the counter-discourse of European modernity — a discourse as distinctively European as one can imagine, but for which Asad seeks alternative geographies.

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As I mentioned earlier, Viswanathan has suggested that conversion can be a subversion of the secular and, by implication, liberal power. Asad’s conversion seems precisely to be an attempt at such subversion, but reveals also its potentially dark register. Not all subversion is politically radical, and some can be distinctly reactionary. Asad’s conversion manifests a version of the reaction against modernity that was spreading across Europe and Anglo-America: the mingling of land, people and haunting, mystical significance, a combination of Wordsworthian spots of time, moments of sublimity, Lawrentian (D. H.) coupling of earth, eros and human re-enchantment, adventures with handsome Bedouin heroes who allow the convert to partake of a simple, desert morality — part Mills and Boon, part T. E. Lawrence. Had Asad looked like Peter O’ Toole, the subversion of secular, liberal power would have been complete.

Maryam Jameela’s Quest Asad’s journey to Pakistan, via a discovery of Islam, is repeated in more striking form by another convert, Maryam Jameela. Born Margaret Marcus in the affluent New York town of Westchester, repeatedly hospitalised for mental illness and diagnosed with schizophrenia, she converted to Islam whilst in her 20s. Later she would gloss her illness as the consequence of being out of step with Western culture, evidence of a spirit primed for Islam. Her interest is said to have been sparked by reading The Road to Mecca and Islam at the Crossroads, also written by Muhammad Asad. She corresponded with Abul Ala Maududi, who invited her to become a part of his household. In this correspondence, Maududi wrote that he was disappointed with Asad’s change from a true, practicing Muslim to a (in Maududi’s view) progressive, and, therefore, failed Muslim and she revised her opinion of Asad — writing back that she hoped she never fell prey to the temptation to betray Islam by becoming progressive (Maudoodi and Jameela 1969: 15, 18). She moved to Pakistan and became the second wife of a party worker for the Jama’at-e-Islami, and spent the rest of her life writing Islamist pamphlets in veiled seclusion.8 As evinced by her commitment to Maududi and her acceptance of purdah (the veil), Jameela’s brand of Islam — though initially inspired by Asad — became more severe than Asad’s. Nonetheless, the similarities between Asad and Jameela are numerous. A critical distance from Zionism combined with an awareness of the similarities between Judaism and Islam seem to have been crucial in drawing

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both to convert. Jameela’s critiques of Western modernity, of the cult of Western man, seem even stronger than Asad’s. What concerns her most is the threat to Islam from ‘the enemy from within’ (Jameela 1962). She appears to relish the phrase’s fear-mongering hostility. The enemy within are Muslim reformers: Sayyid Ahmad Khan, Muhammad Abduh and Taha Hussein, along with secularists such as Kemal Ataturk and Ziya Gokalp, come in for their share of criticism but so, too, do Muslim feminists, who are presented as slavish adherents of the West and of an ideology — feminism — that will result in the end of the entire human race (Jameela 1978: 48). In order to give the reader a taste of the almost apocalyptic hysteria that appears never too far from the surface in Jameela’s writing, I shall quote the rather long conclusion from her pamphlet Islam and the Muslim Woman Today. Never has moral corruption and social decadence menaced mankind on such a universal scale as is the case now. The adoption of feminist ideals degrades humans lower than animals. For animals live by their instincts and cannot do anything opposed to their nature. Among animals, homosexuality is unknown. The male is only attracted to the female of its own species. The male animal never goes with lust to another male or a female to another female. Among animals, the maternal relationship is completely severed as soon as the young are able to look after themselves. In most species, the father takes no interest in its offspring. There is no such thing as modesty, chastity, marriage or filial ties among beasts. These concepts are unique with human beings. They are found in every human culture at every stage of civilization and history. The feminists wish to abolish the very characteristics which make man human and undermine the foundation of all his relationships and social ties. The result will be suicide, not only of a single nation as in the past, but of the entire human race (ibid.).

The amalgam of assertive, uninformed authority, socio-cultural hyperbole, political doom-saying and conservatism are characteristic. What the pamphlet and this passage, in particular, also reveal is the general motive for Jameela’s work: a constitutive and profound fear of social change. The pamphlet is a fairly familiar grab-bag of anti-feminist polemic. Feminists are blamed for promoting ‘degraded’ sexual behaviours, lesbianism, the destruction of the home and family, of all social and moral frameworks, juvenile delinquency, crime, ‘an atmosphere

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saturated with violence, unrest and lawlessness’ (Jameela 1978: 29, 34). Against this vision of social catastrophe and apocalypse is pitted the harmony of the Muslim home in which women are cherished and protected, treated with inordinate dignity. They observe purdah out of desire, not compulsion (ibid.). According to Jameela, Sura an-Nisa makes clear that the husband is ‘master and friend’ to his wife, whose duty it is to repay this kindness with loyalty, obedience and implicit trust. This economy is crucial for the stability and balance of the family, for if the wife is financially independent, the husband loses his authority as the patriarch. The result is domineering women and fathers for whom children have no respect (Jameela 1978: 22). In a Muslim family, Jameela writes, men have the authority of the imam, a patriarchal authority that she says, rather startlingly, ‘symbolizes that of God in the world’. The man’s function is ‘sacerdotal’. But Muslim women have rebelled because Muslim men ceased to be virile, becoming effeminate instead (ibid.: 39–40). The pamphlet is monitory in other ways as well. Muslim women are told how to raise their children: no pop music, no dirty films. The mother herself should only listen to recitations of the Quran, the news, good poetry and proper educational programmes (Jameela 1978: 12). Moreover, the Muslim mother ought to make the home pleasing and attractive. In fact, one of the most startling passages is the following, where Jameela displays naked contempt for Pakistanis: Most Pakistani homes I have seen here in Lahore, even of middleclass people are dingy and dirty. Too many Pakistani women I know have the dirty habit of continuously littering the floors of their homes, particularly the courtyards and kitchens, with garbage and rubbish. They would rather live in filth than sweep it up themselves. Islamic education should teach girls cleanliness and orderliness (ibid.: 13).

In another text, Islam and Western Society, she says that Muslims talk a lot but do little; they rarely complete their projects, despite myriad ‘grandiose’ claims; they like to shirk work; ‘zeal, zest and enthusiasm’ are quickly surmounted by ‘apathy and indifference’ (Jameela 1976: 12). She includes a strategic ‘we’ when talking about Muslim laziness — ‘it’s hard to berate the orientals when one is telling them one wants to join their communities’ (ibid.). She writes also ‘among too many orientals, promises are made only to be broken’ (ibid.). Let me return to Islam and the Muslim Woman Today: the pamphlet careens through repetitive visions of social disintegration counterposed

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against defences of purdah, polygamy, the right of a man to grant divorce unilaterally and the intrinsic subordination of women. The gift of such subordination is a freedom from worry and responsibility for in a proper Muslim society women are spared the double burden of modernity: the necessity of earning a living and simultaneously fulfilling their obligations to their family while maintaining a good household (Jameela 1978: 27). It is, of course, not surprising to learn that the 1960s are to be excoriated — ‘marches, pickets and sit-ins’ end the ‘silent fifties’ (Jameela 1978: 31). Jameela quotes the placards carried at feminist demonstrations in inflamed capitals, a typographical enactment of the catastrophe she claims to be reporting but is trying in her own way to induce. Of the several quoted, the ones intended to elicit the most intense moral horror are: ‘DON’T COOK DINNER! STARVE YOUR HUSBAND TONIGHT! END HUMAN SACRIFICE! DON’T GET MARRIED!’ An earlier quotation from Max Lerner, the Marxist turned neoConservative, completes the picture of a reaction to the countercultural 1960s, emblematic of female emancipation. Lerner claims, in the 1968 Reader’s Digest article to which Jameela refers, that Americans are living in a ‘Babylonian society’, in which all social and religious mores have disintegrated. Evidence for this, in the passage Jameela quotes, is that Americans now frequent cinemas to watch a Swedish actress have ‘multiple orgasms’ in I, A Woman, complete nudity in Antonioni’s Blow-Up, Jane Fonda ‘hop’ around naked in Barbarella, the ‘twisted soul’ of a black, male prostitute in Portrait of Jason (Jameela 1978: 23–24). Muslim Reformers and feminists seek to catapult their societies into this world of degradation and Babylonian license. Two pages from the conclusion, and against the dismal social forebodings of the pamphlet, is a long quotation from the family chronicles of the Durer household. The vision of blissful and consensual patriarchy contained in the passage is presented by Jameela as both evidence of the ‘social integration, stability, peace, and harmony’ that prevailed in medieval Europe, and as close to Muslim ideals. In a strangely telling early use of the discourse of the American right, she uses the phrase ‘Christian family values’ to describe the picture presented in the passage (Jameela 1978: 44). Jameela’s conversion to a radically traditionalist brand of Islam and the permanent retreat into purdah provide a haven away from a world that appears, threateningly, to be on the verge of socially generated chaos and, eventually, in terms of her rhetoric, extinction.

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To the extent that such a haven is to be available to a modern Western woman, who is Jewish but also critical of Zionism, Islam can be made into a different temporal space, in turn, given even more protected form by purdah. Purdah itself appears as a looser, empowered alternative to a straitjacket. But the assertion of this alternative temporality requires some historical work. Muslim time, regardless of orientalist fantasy, Asad’s tableaus and Jameela’s desires, has not stood still — so an entire history has to be rewritten and, if that cannot be done easily, discredited. Islam versus the West reveals this double procedure of revision and discreditation. The text is flimsy and has the quality of a rather basic book report. The first and most striking chapter is a 20-page rendition of what Jameela claims to be an account of ‘The Philosophical Sources of Western Materialism’. The account contained therein accepts to a startling degree a Whig–liberal account of Western intellectual history, rendered, darkly, with judgments of moral, spiritual and historical loss. Jameela, like Asad, needs the Western progress narrative, which is confirmed all the more in the repudiation. The decline of the West is, thus, most evident to her in the most triumphant account of its intellectual ascendancy. Despite the peripatetic writing, overstatement and the historical and scholarly flimsiness, the structure of the first chapter is fascinating in procedure and in the revelation of Jameela’s conceptual preoccupation. It begins with a description of the similarities between the medieval Muslim world and Christendom and ends, via an account of the European fall (the Protestant Reformation) from this great medieval moment, with a 1960 New York Times report on the destruction of religious education in Turkey. Muslim leaders, the reader is told, must choose what they want: ‘Western materialistic philosophy or the Qur’an. They cannot have both’ (Jameela 1962: 28). The motives for the medieval affiliations of the text are more complicated than they might at first appear. The primary and ostensible prompts are that in this medieval age both Christians and Muslims were predominantly concerned with their salvation and the afterlife. The ethical values apparently revealed in the scriptures were considered absolute and eternal. The submission to the will of God was ‘universally believed to assure the individual eternal bliss in the world to come’ (Jameela 1962: 9). There is more. In the introduction Jameela has told us that, while at reform Jewish Sunday school, she began to read about the relationship

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between the Arabs and the Jews, and learned that Jews were welcome in Muslim Spain at a time when they were being intolerably persecuted in medieval, Christian Europe. It is this Islamic–Arabic civilisation which ‘stimulated Hebrew culture to reach its highest peak’. She writes that, at the time she thought Jews were returning to Palestine to strengthen their religious and cultural ties with their ‘semitic cousins’. In this strengthening, they would achieve another cultural ‘Golden Age’, this time in the Middle East (Jameela 1962: 1). Muslim histories do tend to hearken to the medieval period, not least because of the superiority of the Muslim world in this period to the dark ages of Burckhardtian accounts of Europe. But Jameela’s vision here is slightly different. Both Medieval Christendom and Islamdom are superior to modern Europe and, by implication, the United States. The decline of the West begins with the Renaissance.9 Europe and the Muslim world drift apart. An increase in urbanisation results in the supercession of the Church by a middle class growing in dominance. Centralised monarchies form armies that rise against the feudal nobility. Kings, bankers and merchants take the place of the Church in the patronage of the arts. The scholars of the Renaissance turn to the pagans for intellectual inspiration and sustenance, and thus severe the ties with the Church. The medieval valuation of monasticism is overturned. Faith in the ‘unaided human intellect’ replaces faith in God. Modern Western civilisation as we know it today is born when the ‘entire emphasis’ has shifted ‘to developing the potentialities of each individual here on earth to the fullest possible extent without reference to the hereafter’ (Jameela 1962: 10–11). When the Renaissance enters the intellectual–historical account, the Reformation cannot be far behind. We learn that the Protestant Reformation dealt the Church a blow from which Christianity has never recovered, that Luther ‘created a religion of his own’ when he broke with the Church. Luther was not, according to Jameela, motivated by a desire to scourge institutional corruption within the Church, but instead by a general Germanic, incipiently bourgeois hostility to saintly monasticism (Jameela 1962: 11–12). The result of the Reformation was the gradual evacuation of religion from European life, an arbitrary and self-indulgent interpretive relation to the Bible, a glorification of wealth and success, contempt for poverty, solitude and contemplation. Deprived of its ‘supernatural sanction’ morality, too, became arbitrary, and apparently Luther’s followers were ‘free to live as they saw fit without reference to either

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God or the hereafter’ (Jameela 1962: 11–13). The largest political consequence came about because of the rejection of the authority of the Church and the abandonment of the universalism of Latin in favour of the vernacular languages: secular nationalism was strengthened (ibid.: 13). As a result, religion was transformed into a handmaiden for secular politics (ibid.). Into this soil, primed by spiritual decay, arrived science and atheism. Suddenly the chapter metamorphoses into a giddy who’s who of Western philosophy and science. Francis Bacon, Descartes, Copernicus, Newton, Voltaire, Hume, Diderot, Rousseau, William James, Darwin, Freud, Bertrand Russell and Schopenhauer make quick legs, and are rushed off, their ideas treated with breathtaking dispatch — the eight pages fly by. Claiming that she has now rendered the history of Western materialistic philosophy from its origins, Jameela asserts that we have seen ‘the vicegerent of God on earth’, man, reduced and ‘debased’ to a mere animal, unaccountable to God, accountable only to physical and social ‘requirements’ (Jameela 1962: 24). It is as a result of this history that Fascism, Nazism, Communism, Pragmatism and Zionism have flourished (ibid.). The proponents of all these ideologies would apparently ‘agree with Nietzsche that God is dead’ (ibid.: 25). What Jameela has done, then, is reproduce a summarised secularisation narrative, which is presented as an account of the insurmountable hostility of contemporary Western civilisation to all matters spiritual and religious (Jameela 1962: 119). This historical process culminates in the ‘spirit of the twentieth century’, itself associated with the West through the developments of modernity. The point of this account, it turns out, is to discredit those Muslim leaders who have been influenced by the West. In order to evince signs of this disturbing influence, they need not do more than assert the need to make a distinction between the ‘social content of the Quran and its spiritual teaching’, that is do more than be committed to any social change that seems to be at odds with the requirements of medieval Islam (Jameela 1962: 27). To the extent that Muslim reformers try to bring Muslim social life in line with ‘the spirit’ of the twentieth century, ‘make Islam ‘compatible’ with modern life’, or declare their affinity with the West, they too are to be seen as fundamentally hostile to Islam. This is true not just of Ataturk but of such reformers as Sayyid Ahmad Khan, Muhammad Abduh and Taha Hussein. The secularisation narrative is pulled analogically into

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play so as to ensure that the West and secularism are seen as interchangeable. The West itself becomes this narrative (Mufti 2000: 92). For Jameela, this means that any apparent affiliation with any idea associated with the West can be declared a form of apostasy. Indeed, Jameela concludes the book by saying that even adopting Western dress and the lifestyle of a civilisation as hostile to Islam as the West is ‘tantamount to apostasy’ (Jameela 1962: 128). Muslim strength depends upon resistance to the ‘trend of our age’ (ibid.). Our very age, it transpires, is the West.

The Place of the West Khan, Asad, Jameela all share their habitation of the West as a constitutive feature of their reinvented selves. Their arguments are not only shaped by a reaction to the West and by conservative discourses that are articulated in Europe and in America, all three figures also derive their authority from affiliations that accrue to them from the time they have spent outside the Muslim world. It is hard to imagine Asad having the ear of a major political leader or monarch in Europe. His ability to scold the Muslims, to tell them, even before his conversion, that they have squandered the glories of their heritage derives from the willingness of the Muslims he encounters to be impressed by an interest it is often felt no Westerner could possibly have in Islam or its history (Jameela 1962: 298). Similarly, the adventures that Asad has sought in coming to the Middle East, for which his readings in Sinkiewicz, James Fenimore Cooper, Karl May and Jules Verne have primed him, would not be available to him were he not from Europe (Asad 1954: 54). As the Grand Sanusi sends him to Cyrenaica to find out what the Libyan mujahidin (warriors) need in their battle against the Italians, he says ‘perhaps thou wilt be able to see things my people cannot’ (ibid.: 325). Jameela’s role as a Jama’at-e-Islami spokeswoman against feminism and putatively Western values is hard to imagine without her status as an American convert. That she is aware of the importance of her original national identity is apparent from the way she refers to the United States as a point of comparison (Jameela 1962: 79). In fact, one of the places where she argues the West ought to be emulated is in the sphere of American-style democratic politics, as long as the aspects adopted are compatible with Muslim law. The recurrence of the West as a focal intellectual point, the obsession with its history and social ills speaks more to its centrality in Jameela’s imagination

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than any interest in the social realities of the Muslim world, of which she has very limited experience . She encounters it through books and then in permanent purdah, as the second co-wife, in a large, radically conservative household. The conversion is discursive before it is shaped by the actual experience of any Muslim community. The Muslims she does encounter in the West are always disappointingly ‘progressive’. In this she must be seen as different from the women who choose conservative Islam having grown up in Muslim cultural contexts — societies, families, diasporic milieus. The largest irony is perhaps that the form of subjectivity available to her is possible because she can travel and reinvent herself; she uses this freedom throughout her life to berate other Muslim women to whom she wishes to deny precisely such movement. Saba Mahmood has recently argued for the complex agency of Islamist women but such an understanding of Islamist psycho-intellectual complexity in no way changes the fact that Jameela would like to deny Muslim women the right to travel and self-reinvention that she claims for herself (Mahmood 2005). It is unlikely that her mentor, Maududi, would be equally sanguine if a female member of his family were corresponding with a Christian priest with an intention to convert. To focus, as Mahmood does, on the micro-dynamics of subjectivity, without grappling more boldly with the larger political implications of such choices, is to concede far too much to the liberal preoccupation with the self in the Western academy. Jameela’s authority for her polemics, it must be reiterated, derives from the implication, never far from the surface in her work, that, as someone who has lived in the West, she knows better. Her fight, and her primary preoccupation, is with the West, of which, for her, purdah is the ultimate ‘Other’ territory within Pakistan. Of course, Pakistan itself is a quintessentially ‘Other’ space. Her intriguing appeal for Maududi is that as a Westerner she can show young Muslims the inadequacies of a Western way of life: I think [your work] will serve as an eye-opener to the Muslim youth here, which will provide them with a striking contrast that while they are trying to Westernize themselves despite their birth in a Muslim society, here is a young woman born in a ‘reformed’ Jewish home in modern America who has been struggling for the Truth and who is striving to practice it when she has found it out at last. I hope your example will teach them a lesson (Maudoodi and Jameela 1969: 37).

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The blurb on the back of Asad’s Islam at the Crossroads, which is from Iqbal, is equally striking:. ‘Coming as it does from a highly cultured European convert to Islam, it will prove an eye-opener to our younger generation’.10 The generous interpretation of these judgments is that they speak to the crisis of colonial and postcolonial cultures, where even local traditions must receive the imprimatur of the West in order to seem worthy enough to thrive. It is a stamp Jameela is happy to manipulate. Imran Khan, too, knows better because he has inhabited two cultures. It is, however, in the conclusion of his essay that we see the clearest evidence for his preoccupation with, and anxiety about, the West. The problems of extremism, he suggests in the penultimate passage, can be addressed by our Westernised classes. If they began to study Islam, they would be especially well-equipped to fight sectarianism, they would understand what a progressive religion Islam is and would be in a stellar position to ‘help the western world by articulating Islamic concepts’.11 Because, and this is where the piece splinters into farce, even Prince Charles has accepted that the ‘western world can learn from Islam’. Lest Charles’ endorsement be insufficient, the plans of his deceased ex-wife are mentioned. Princess Diana was apparently ‘inquisitive’ about Islam. After Khan’s marriage to Jemima Goldsmith, Diana ‘saw the wonders of Islam and how it had reformed Haiqa’. Diana’s affair with Dodi Fayed is mentioned, as is the fact that the West might have been threatened had she chosen to convert but the reader is told, whatever the now unknowable, counterfactual case might have been, that her interest in Islam was great. Then, the article vaults again and concludes with the astonishing line: ‘And the probability of Lady Diana reverting were [sic] excellent’. What seems like an assertion of the superior attractions of Islam is instead evidence of a cringing need for recognition by Western celebrity elites — as if Hello! magazine was being asked to provide consumer guarantees and fashion certification for Islam. This is the latest, celebrity, phase of an elite nationalism — in which a broadly Islamic identity is turned against imperial hegemony. But as is so often — indeed paradigmatically — the case, the focus of the argument remains the West, which is caricatured in the narratives produced about it and in the symbols to which its reduced — as caricatured as the East, Orient and Muslim history which is proffered in resistance.

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Imagining Pakistan The questions must be asked: Why do these fantasies cluster around Pakistan? What precisely about Pakistan as an entity and as an idea makes it so powerful a magnet for such a blend of fantasy and selfreinvention, for this particular mix of conversion, orientalism and political ambition? Of course, other countries are not immune to ideological projects that mix denial, self-flattery and plans for political transformation, but how is it that Asad’s and Jameela’s brands of ostensible anti-imperialism can turn Pakistan into a space for a settler adventure? Asad’s writings on Pakistan suggest that it is the historical conditions of Pakistan’s emergence that make it possible for the nation to become the terrain for a thought experiment in religious ideology. The tension is central to the idea of building a nation for a religious group, particularly in a land that has many different religious communities. The very effort of distinguishing among Indian Muslims, Sikhs, Christians, Hindus and Parsis, all of whom inhabit the same space, requires an explanation of what sets Muslims apart. The necessity of this effort to clarify what is distinct about Indian Muslims presents Asad with an opportunity to insist that Islam is an ideology not just a culture; the idea of carving out a nation for an already present minority does not seem conceptually sufficient to him. The differentiation required invites erasure and invention in equal measure. In May 1947, Asad published a somewhat panicked piece, ‘What do we mean by Pakistan?’, whose chief aim seems to have been to ensure that the imminent nation would be thoroughly, ideologically Islamic and not just culturally Muslim. He was anxious to establish the salience and import of the distinction between Islam as ideology and Islam as culture. In the article, Asad argues that the ‘inarticulate’ masses of the Indian subcontinent ‘instinctively’ knew something that the Muslim intelligentsia seemed to have terrible trouble grasping: the only thing that sets the Muslims of India apart from India is Islam (Asad 2000:74,76). As far as the Muslim masses are concerned, the Pakistani movement is rooted in their instinctive feeling that they are an ideological community and have as such every right to an autonomous political existence. In other words, they feel and know that their communal existence is not — as with other communities — based on racial affinities or on the consciousness of cultural traditions held in common, but only —

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exclusively — on the fact of their common adherence to the ideology of Islam; and that, therefore, they must justify their communal existence by erecting a socio-political structure in which that ideology — the shari’ah — would become the visible expression of their nationhood. (Ibid.)

Asad is explicit and insistent: what sets Muslims apart is a set of beliefs that have proliferating social, cultural and political ramifications. Who gets to decide which sect or kind of Islam ought to be the one taken to speak for all is never discussed. Those who might argue otherwise, who want to claim Islam as the culture of the Muslims of India, who justify a separate nation by appeals to the political suffering of Muslims, simply miss the point, both because the ‘inarticulate’ masses desire an ideological nation and because the Quran makes clear, according to Asad, that the Muslim political situation cannot be bettered until Muslims improve themselves morally, that is, become better Muslims. Pakistan is for Asad a geographical tabula rasa, a space re-conceived as a receptacle for Islam as a settler ideology — an ideology to which local Muslims are an obstacle. His indifference to Muslim suffering becomes more intelligible when we realise what Pakistan means to him: it is a way to vindicate the notion that ‘Islam is a practical proposition’ in the modern world. The nation is meant to provide a beacon to the rest of the world, to catalyse an Islamic revival, become a ‘great experiment’ against the modern world. Building this Islamic state is ‘an adventure’ and only ‘a good Muslim can be a good Pakistani’ (Asad 2000: 96, 87). One of the more striking moments in ‘What do we mean by Pakistan?’ occurs when Asad writes: The birth of an Islamic polity in Pakistan would vindicate the claim that Islam is a practical proposition, and that the Muslims — because of their being Muslims — are a nation unto themselves, irrespective of geographical location. And if non-Muslims object to this claim on the grounds that nowhere else in the world — not even in the rest of the Muslim world — does any group of people nowadays aspire to separate nationhood by virtue of its religious beliefs alone, we are entitled to answer them: ‘In that case, we are unique. So what?’

For someone whose road to Pakistan weaves through Palestine and who is writing at a moment when Zionists are at the very brink

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of achieving a Jewish state, these lines reveal a stunning degree of anxiety and denial, perhaps because Asad cannot bring himself to admit that he wants Pakistan to be a properly anti-European Israel. This is no less true of Jameela, who simply replicates Asad’s position and commitments but with an even more politically conservative emphasis. For both Asad and Jameela, the historical and social realities of India’s and Pakistan’s Muslims are, for both Asad and Jameela, subservient to an ideological experiment, and to their own desires for a place of comfort and self-fashioning outside Europe. It is the tension that Asad exploits — the very problem of what it is that constitutes a proper Pakistani, a true Pakistani self — that then makes confessional politics an easy option for later historical moments. Pakistani politics has, of course, never been immune to the tendency towards the confessional. Once the nation’s origins are predicated on the possible equation between religious ideology and religious culture, the easiest way of claiming political authority is to stage a rediscovery of Islam, to articulate programs for national rejuvenation in confessional terms. Conversion is the choice tool for political self reinvention in the confessional state; the auto da fe, the state’s mode of performing sincerity and ensuring loyalty. Khan’s return to religion, then, is simply the quick and easy way to gain political authority and moral credibility in such a national context. For Asad, any Muslim merely born in the region counts as less Pakistani, a mere native, an ethnic or cultural Muslim. Amongst Indian Muslims the best Pakistanis would be Sunni (Asad is skeptical of Shia claims to Islam) muhajirs who come into its borders for reasons of belief and not because of any assumed cultural affiliations or because of political oppression. Migrants motivated by belief would thus take precedence over refugees even if both were Muslim. This explains a migrant like Zia ul-Haq — he was after all from East Punjab — his desire to turn Pakistan into a theatre for a national auto da fe; a constantly asserted Islam provided for him a mode of establishing his political credentials whilst consolidating his political power by insisting that other Pakistanis display their Muslim credentials. But in the Asadian world the very best Pakistani would be a convert from a non-Muslim land who had no prior cultural connections with Islam. Asad installs conversion at the very heart of national identity — one can only come to Pakistan from elsewhere — bookstores in Karachi’s elite Defence Housing Society often spill over with copies of

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The Road to Mecca and Pakistan’s expanding Anglophone elite has recently rediscovered Islam. Coffee parties are constructed around Quran reading groups and upper-class women flock to five star hotels to listen to the Edinburgh educated, right wing, Sunni female preacher, Farhat Hashmi, tell them how to be good Muslims. The European wanderjahre of a figure like Khan, it turns out, is not a detour away from Pakistan, but a particularly secure road into it.

Notes 1. For an exemplary discussion of self-destructive self-orientalization working through an embrace of religion see Aamir Mufti (2000: 87–103). 2. Imran Khan, ‘In Pakistan we have Selective Islam’, http://www.insaf.org.pk/ articles.aspx, accessed 20 October 2006. 3. Ibid. 4. Ibid. 5. Ibid. 6. Ibid. 7. Islam is not tribal (Asad 1993 [1954]: 303. 8. For a concise and useful introduction to her work see ‘Maryam Jameela: A Voice of Conservative Islam’, in John Esposito and John Voll (2001: 54–67). 9. Sedgwick and renaissance. 10. Back cover, .

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Iqbal and Karbala Syed Akbar Hyder Ramz-e Quran az Husain amukhtim/z-atish-e u sho’la ha andukhtim (I learned the lesson of the Quran from Husain/In his fire, like a flame, I burn) — Muhammad Iqbal

Introduction When I began my academic engagement with various South Asian contexts that receive their vocabulary from the event of Karbala, I realised very early in my research that one figure through whom these contexts may be woven together is Muhammad Iqbal. He becomes the most significant interlocutor of the various ideologies of the Islamic world. Although people from disparate backgrounds lavish praise on him, Iqbal’s role in the constitution of these ideologies differs in significant ways. In many ways, we can compare him to the elephant in the mystical work of Jalaluddin Rumi — Iqbal’s source of emulation (Nicholson 2000: 11). Like the elephant in Rumi’s parable, situated in the dark and surrounded by men who each feel a part of the elephant’s body and mistake that part for the whole, Iqbal has been studied, admired and criticised in various contexts and through many ideologies. Such multiple approaches to Iqbal make him an intellectual whose legacy is infinitely negotiable, perhaps also like the event of Karbala. Iqbal is arguably the most original Muslim reformer–poet hailing from modern South Asia, and one whose evocations of Karbala and martyrdom have become important refrains in the subsequent discourses of anti-colonialism and nationalism. From 1857 onwards — when the last Mughal ruler was exiled — British colonial rule had assumed a pre-eminent status. Although the three-century-long rule of the Mughals was relatively decentralised and hardly a reflection of textual Islam dictating the policies of the state — even though some Mughal rulers identified closely with Islam — many Muslims, after the fall of the Mughals, were concerned

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about their community’s fate in a post-Mughal India under British colonial rule. The very idea of a unified religious community, whether Hindu or Muslim, was, to a great degree, ushered in by colonial discourses that persisted in viewing India as if it were constituted by well-defined religious categories. Ironically, those wrestling with the questions of whether or not colonialism should be resisted, and if so, with what strategies, also generated a prodigious amount of literature that employed religious idioms formulated through linguistic, regional or class concerns. South Asian intellectuals in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century were acutely concerned with positing the anti-colonial struggle through discourses saturated in religious vocabulary. Iqbal was no exception to this. Yet, he was unique in his mastery of Urdu and Persian reformist language and in the towering shadow he still projects on discussions on South Asian Islam. Muhammad Iqbal, having lived as a prominent intellectual and poet in the first four decades of the twentieth century, and having witnessed life in both Europe (where he went for his higher education from 1905 to 1908) and Asia, is a fascinating melange of voices of the East and the West. Drawing from Islamic spirituality, philosophy, aesthetics and history, as well as from certain discourses of the European Enlightenment, he was a South Asian modernist force who bridged temporal and geographical distances. By ‘modernist’ — in the context of Iqbal — I mean that he was a utilitarian configurer of the past who sought to use this past to meet the spiritual and material needs of the present and ultimately secure a brighter future. This reconfiguration of the past is itself rooted in the vision of reconciling Islamicate and European ideologies to progressive ends — which are shaped by a desire to wake up the dormant elements in the Muslim community. Surprisingly, the centrality of Karbala and martyrdom in the discourses of Iqbal has not received due attention, despite the importance of these concepts for Iqbal’s concept of khudi, or the desired higher self. In the first section of this article, I explore how Iqbal reclaims the symbol of Karbala for a pan-Islamic reformist discourse that transcends sectarian differences. In so doing, I locate Iqbal loosely within the Sufi and Sunni socio-religious reformist traditions (of Muhammad Ali Jauhar and Maulana Abulkalam Azad) while underscoring the poet’s important breaks with these traditions. Iqbal constitutes Karbala as a political project to unite and mobilise

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Muslims, especially the Muslim minorities of the South Asian subcontinent. For Iqbal, Karbala is also a move away from the ritualistic– symbolic realm towards the spiritual–active one. The second part of this article explores how Shias, a persecuted minority in Pakistan, valourise Iqbal in an attempt to accrue legitimacy for their own socio-political ends. In spite of his Sunni heritage, Iqbal’s name becomes an important invocation, and therefore a rhetorical device for validating Shi’i readings of Islamic history. This article concludes by pointing to the heterogeneity of the engagements with Iqbal’s rearticulation of Karbala in the works of Iqbal’s contemporaries and followers.

Iqbal and Karbala The first Muslim, the King of men, Ali The treasure of faith, in the world of love, Ali In the affection of his progeny, I live Like a jewel, I sparkle [in his love] — Muhammad Iqbal

With these words, Iqbal sings his panegyrics for Ali (b. Abi Talib) in the epic poem Secrets of the Self. Iqbal illustrates here the ideal Muslim self through the persona of Ali. As one of the mystically inclined commentators of Iqbal puts it (Chisti 1998: 412–15), within Ali, Iqbal sees the embodiment of three of the loftiest human characteristics: knowledge, love and action. To Iqbal, the scope of Ali’s knowledge is evident from the Prophetic tradition: ‘I am the city of knowledge and Ali is its gate’. Iqbal is fully immersed in this Sufi tradition and knows well that according to many Sufis, the Prophet invested Ali with the cloak of spirituality or the khirqa. Although all companions of the Prophet are to be revered for seeing the last Messenger of Allah faceto-face and enjoying his company, Ali’s status in the chain of Islamic spirituality is distinct. And it is upon this status that Iqbal founds the concept of khudi or ‘self’. In many Sufi discourses, khudi appeared with a pejorative connotation. But Iqbal reclaims this concept in order to articulate a higher self. This triadic self — invested with knowledge, love and action — derives from that ‘first Muslim’, Ali, and lies latent within all Muslims. Ali, however, is not alone in manifesting the ideals of the true Muslim self. He is accompanied by his beloved wife Fatima. Had the Prophet not forbidden grave worship, Iqbal declares in his praise for

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Fatima, ‘I would have circumambulated her grave and fallen into prostration on her dust’. Fatima is not only the centre of the realm of love, she is also the leader of all those in the caravan of God’s love. Husain’s traits are his inheritance from Fatima as sons inherit the jewels of truth and virtue from their mothers. And Fatima not only embodies perfection among mothers, but all women; for in addition to her love for her children and husband, she is tied to the toil and labour of this world, having borne a heavy burden in the most excruciating circumstances. Along with action and love, knowledge is also the providence of Fatima: The Word of God rests on her lips as she works her way through life (Naqvi 1977). Fatima, in the world of Iqbal, is Ali’s complement, and thus central to the propagation of Islam. It is the son of Ali and Fatima, Husain, who traverses the paths of martyrdom with the lamp of knowledge and an abiding commitment to love, so as to project to the world the manner in which Islamic ideals can be realised. In his poem ‘The Meaning of Liberation in Islam and the Secret of the Karbala Incident’ (Naqvi 1977: 55), lqbal first places Husain in the context of Islam’s philosophy of ’ishq, or love, as prefigured by both Ali and Fatima: He who enters the divine covenant with the Lord must not prostrate in the presence of anyone but the object of devotion, God. The momin, or true believer, emerges from love, and love likewise flows from the momin. Love makes the impossible possible. Love is superior to intellect (aql) in every imaginable way. Love captures its prey with no guises, whereas intellect has to lay a snare. The treasury of intellect overflows with fear and doubt, whereas love is an efflorescence of determination and certainty. Intellect partakes of construction in order to deconstruct whereas love creates desolation in order to foster prosperity. The leader of this realm of love is Husain: an imam-e ‘ashiqan pur-e Batul sarv-e azade ze bustan-e Rasul That imam of lovers, that son of Batul (Fatima) That liberated cypress tree from the garden of the Messengers

Iqbal compares Husain’s exalted station within the Muslim community to that of Surat al-Ikhlas in the Quran. This sura is a fundamental component of Muslim ritual prayers and concisely summarises the Islamic creed of monotheism: ‘Say, He is Allah, the One; He begets not nor is He begotten and there is none like Him’. Just as the words of this Quranic sura are pivotal, Husain is an integral part of the Muslim

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community. In fact, according to lqbal, truth itself survives through the strength of Husain. Having paid this tribute to the martyred hero of Karbala as the fountainhead of the philosophy of love, lqbal proceeds to dehistoricise Husain’s struggle, at least as far as the Shias are concerned: ‘When the Caliphate severed its relationship with the Quran [under Yazid] and dropped poison in the mouth of liberation’ (Naqvi 1977: 59), Husain rose as the cloud of mercy and then rained upon the land of Karbala. The implication is that before Yazid, the successors of the Prophet had been tied to the privileged Islamic text, and Yazid strayed from the path of his (rightly-guided) predecessors. This is of course a Sunni implication, for as far as the Shias are concerned, the Quran is invariably bound to Ali and his descendants. Since Ali was deprived of his leadership position after the Prophet (except for the brief time span in which Ali became the fourth Muslim caliph), the caliphate was separated from the Quran within moments of the Prophet’s death. But lqbal rescripts Husain as a more cosmic force, a cloud of mercy akin to his Prophet–grandfather, above and beyond sectarian strife and appeals to history. The rain from the cloud of mercy was so nourishing that tulips sprouted and gardens flourished and the despotism of a desolate world was eradicated. According to Iqbal, the suffering that Husain himself had to undergo to nourish the garden of truth transformed him into the very foundation of monotheism. bahr-e haqq dar khak o khun ghaltida ast pas bind-e la illdh gardida ast For the sake of Truth, he writhed in dust and blood Thus did he become the foundation of la ilaha (Naqvi 1977: 60)

Iqbal, a devout student of mysticism and a devotee of Muinuddin Chishti, the Sufi luminary from Ajmer, is, of course, building upon the Sufi hermeneutics of Karbala and identifying Husain as the foundation of Islam’s most essential creed of Divine Unity. In addition to living in a milieu where qawwalis (musical programmes) were commonplace, lqbal had also received formal exposure to Sufism and Persian metaphysics while pursuing his doctorate at Munich University, in the land of his beloved Goethe.

Iqbal, Karbala and Persian Sufi Poetry Iqbal’s outpouring of love and devotion to Husain had its precursors in Persian mystical verses, especially those of Abul-Majd Majiduddin

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b. Adam Sanai (d. 1131 CE), Majduddin Attar (d.c. 1229 CE), and Jalaluddin Rumi (d. 1273 CE). According to Sanai, Karbala is the archetype of suffering in the path of God, to which the Sufi must look for guidance: Until they turn away from happiness, men of purity will not be able to step onto Mustafa’s carpet. How should there be joy in religion’s lane when, for the sake of empire, blood ran down Husain’s throat at Karbala? (Chittick 1983: 4)

So the very allegiance to Mustafa, God’s Chosen Prophet, entails a willingness to suffer — a willingness similar to that of Mustafa’s grandson, Husain. Husain’s willingness, as far as Sanai is concerned, is surely unique: This world is full of martyrs, but where is a martyr like Husain at Karbala? (Chittick 1983: 4)

But to speak of Husain is a formidable task, for if justice is to be done to the Martyr of Karbala, the individuality and ego of the speaker must be annihilated. How can one really know the beauty of the most lofty of stations unless one has actually seen it? The practitioners of annihilation can only carry out the ministration of the cause. Sanai, since you have not been cut off from your own self, How can you tell tales of Husain? (Chittick 1983: 4)

The conflict between Husain and Yazid is an allegorical conflict reflecting the tension that exists between the virtuous and the vicious side of all individuals. Thus, all the righteous have to defeat the Yazids and Shimrs1 of their own vicious, egotistical selves (nafs) with the help of Husain. Religion is your Husain, while desires and hopes are pigs and dogs yet you kill the first through thirst and feed these two. How can you keep on cursing the wicked Yazid and Shimr? You are a Shimr and a Yazid for your own Husain! (Chittick 1983: 5)

For Attar, this Husainian dimension is what endears one to God. Husain (b. Ali), with his beautiful traits, was friends with God and

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His Prophet. Friendship implies an intimate knowledge of the friend. Thus Husain is: aftab-e asman-e ma’rifat an Muhammad surat o Haidar sifat. (Attar 1958: 37) The Sun in the sky of gnosis, With the form of Muhammad, and the attributes of Haidar [Ali].

Such is Husain’s station that God’s prophets pay tribute to him on the soil of Karbala: sad hazaran jan-e pak-e anbiya saf zadah binam bakhak-e Karbala (Attar 1958: 37). A hundred thousand pure souls of the prophets, I see, lined up on the soil of Karbala.

The only station that Attar desires in relation to the Martyr of Karbala is to be the lowliest of creatures, perhaps a black dog, in Husain’s lane (Attar 1958: 37). But then again, Attar reconsiders the utility of such a creature and wishes he were more productive to Husain’s cause — and had melted into water in the sorrow of the martyr’s pain, thereby quenching the imam’s thirst. As far as those who hurt Husain, Attar considers them to be nothing but infidels (kafir). Attar and Sanai were followed by the most majestic of Persian mystical writers, Jalaluddin Rumi. Rumi is, more than anything else, the poet of love. To him, the being of the Beloved par excellence is all encompassing. jumla ma’shuq ast o ’ashiq parda-eh zindah ma’shuq ast o ’ashiq murda-eh (Angirawi 1970: 96) All is the Beloved, the lover but a veil Alive is the Beloved, the lover but dead.

The earthly existence, in essence, is the separation of the lover from the Beloved: like the reed torn from the reed bed (Angirawi 1970: 1). Such a forlorn existence obviously cannot have substantial significance in itself. It derives its significance from the loving quest for its origins, a quest that is often painful. However, the more painful it is, the keener the awareness the lover has of his separation from the Beloved.

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The ego of the lover must never be allowed to run amuck lest it is deluded by its own existence. It must be combated within the prison of the body. Rumi, in the same vein as Sanai, sees the Husain–Yazid struggle as symbolic of the struggle between the higher self and the lower ego within all humans. Night died and came to life, for there is life after death: O heartache, kill me! For I am Husain, you are Yazid (Chittick 1983: 9).

How does Rumi mourn Husain, the exemplary lover who comes back to life after the travails of the dark night of Karbala? My heart is Husain and separation Yazid my heart has been martyred two hundred times In the desert of torment and affliction (karb-o-bala) (Chittick: 11).

In Rumi’s verses, Husain wages a war and refuses to pay allegiance to separation, opting instead for union with the Beloved. Thus the event of Karbala should cause people to rejoice, not lament. Rumi cautioned his own followers against mourning his death: When you see my funeral, say not ‘separation, separation’, For that shall be the moment of my union and meeting. When you entrust me to the grave, say not ‘farewell, farewell’, For the grave is but the veil hiding the gathering of Paradise. (Hasan 1972: 163)

Rumi, in his magisterial mystical poetic compilation, the Masnavi, recounts a tale in which a poet arrives in Aleppo on the day of Ashura and is baffled by the fact that the Shias still mourn for Husain after several centuries. This poet believes that Husain’s death should be remembered not through lamentations but through celebration. Implicit in the poet’s language is the subliminal criticism of those who mourn for Husain, namely the Shias. The spirit of a sultan [king] has escaped from a prison. Why should we tear our clothes and bite our fingers? Since he was the king of religion, His breaking of the bonds was a time of joy, For he sped toward the pavilions of good fortune And threw off his fetters and chains. (Chittick 1983: 10)

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Images of a king and a liberated being are skilfully superimposed so as to draw attention to the archetypal lover. The image of Husain as an ideal lover continued to enrich Islamic mystical poetry after Rumi. Nuruddin Abdur Rahman Jami (d. 1492 CE) believes it is necessary for all lovers to pay tribute to the place of martyrdom (mashhad) of Husain: I turned my eyes toward the place of martyrdom of Husain This travel, in the religion of all lovers, is a necessary obligation (Jami 1962: 78)

Even the most sanctified of the Islamic sites, the Holy Kaaba, according to Jami, circumambulates the shrine of this martyred lover of God (ibid.: 78). In opting to tie Husain, first and foremost, to the idea of love, Muhammad Iqbal selectively utilises these mystical threads of the past. The Husain–Yazid dialectic (in the beginning at least) is more concerned with the inner human conflict than with any outward political agenda. From this conflict, the higher self (khudi) emerges victorious as it overcomes the base self. Through this spiritual capital of khudi, even the will of khuda (God/god) becomes subservient to the one who possesses khudi. khudi ko kar baland itna ke har taqdir se pehle khuda bande se khud puche bata teri riza kya hai (Iqbal 1992: 347) Raise yourself to such a station, that before any fate, God Himself shall ask his creation, ‘What is thy will?’

Thus the ‘will’ of the creation rests comfortably within the agency of the creation and the creator–creation dialectic is puckishly and punningly unsettled — khudi (self) seems to dictate the will of khuda (god/God)! Just as eternal life is promised to those killed in the way of God, khudi, for Iqbal, is constituted by self-affirming eternity. khudi hai zinda to hai maut ek maqam-e hayat ke ’ishq maut se karta hai imtehan sabat (Ahmad 1971: 33) If the self lives, death is only a station in life for love tests its affirmation [permanence] through death

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Iqbal follows through on this idea elsewhere: ho agar khudnagar o khudgar o khudgir khudi yeh bhi mumkin hai ke to maut se bhi mar na sake (ibid.: 39) If the self is self-reflexive, self-creating, and self-comprehending, it’s even possible that you will not die from death

This realisation of khudi, according to Iqbal, was passed on by Ali and Fatima to Husain, the martyr of Karbala, who, along with his 72 companions, lived the concept of khudi by fighting (acting) for the principles of Islam (knowledge) and dying (loving) a martyr’s death. However, in the battle of Karbala, Husain is not the sole object of Iqbal’s praise. Husain’s companions also deserve to be labelled ‘godly’ in that aesthetically creative way. dushmanan chun reg-e sahra la ta’ddad dostan-e u ba Yazdan ham ’adad (Naqvi 1977: 60) Like the grains of desert sand his [Husain’s] enemies were countless While the number of his friends equaled God [Yazdan]

Relying upon the numerical value that is attributed to Arabic letters in the system of abjad,2 the poet transforms the 72 followers of Husain into God or Yazdan — the value of the letters composing Yazdan is: y = 10; z = 7; d = 4; a = I; n = 50. It is as though the 72 companions are annihilated in the Persian equivalent of Allah, Yazdan (fana fi Yazdan), in order to strengthen their khudi and ratify the cause of Truth (Haqq) that was espoused by Husain. Continuing in this mystical vein, Iqbal considers Husain’s struggle to be a mine of the mysterious sacrificial tradition that the Prophet Abraham prefigured. In fact, one of Iqbal’s most fondly remembered couplets regarding Husain treats this theme in Urdu. gharib o sada o rangin hai dastan-e Haram nehayat us ki Husain ibteda hai Isma’il (Ahmad 1971: 67) The legacy of the haram is mysteriously simple yet colorful Ismail is its beginning and Husain its climax

Iqbal signifies the revered House of God, the Haram, or the Kaaba in Mecca, in terms of Ismail and Husain. Ismail was the product of the constant prayers of his father, Prophet Abraham, who nevertheless

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was willing to sacrifice his son at God’s command. An important part of the annual Muslim pilgrimage, the hajj, is to recall Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son. Abraham was called upon to make only one sacrifice but Husain made countless sacrifices in the battlefield of Karbala to save the ideals of Islam. Hence, if Abraham and Ismail started the tradition of martyrdom, Husain perfected it, not only by providing an eternal example of sacrifice to the world, but by awakening the slumbering Muslim self. Iqbal is so consumed in Husain’s love that the very lessons from the Word of God, the Quran, are imparted to the poet through Husain: I learned the secret/lesson of the Quran from Husain In his fire, like a flame, I burn (Naqvi 1977: 61)

These words bespeak Husain’s importance in constituting an epistemological framework for the Quran. The words of the Beloved, in the form of the Quran, are imparted to Iqbal when he is consumed in the fire of Husain’s love. Consumed, though far from immolated, the lover–Iqbal’s higher self lives on like a flame. The annihilation reaches its fruition in subsistence and it is this flame of subsistence that guides the spiritually thirsty Muslim community, even beyond the borders of the subcontinent: reg-e ‘Iraq muntazir, kisht-e Hijaz tishna kam khun-e Husain baz deh, Kufa o Sham-e khwish ra (Naqvi 1977: 64) The sands of Iraq await, the desert of Hijaz is thirsty Once again satiate your own Kufa and Syria with the blood of Husain.

The city of Kufa (in Iraq) and the region of Syria were Yazid’s two major power bases. Husain was murdered by Yazid’s forces before the Prophet’s grandson could reach Iraq and incite others to rise up against Yazid. Yazid’s fear was that if Kufa fell to Husain, Syria would soon follow. For Iqbal, Husain’s struggle does not completely end with Karbala. Although Husain himself could not go on fighting in Kufa and Syria, it became incumbent upon the Muslim community to keep this struggle alive. Each and every member of the Muslim community, regardless of his/her sect, gender or class, has the responsibility to emulate Husain’s struggle, for this struggle was the struggle par excellence for justice. Karbala, for Iqbal, is the site whereupon the Quran and the Kaba, two of the loftiest religious artifacts for all Muslims, converge,

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and consequently, all differences within the community should be subsumed within the Husainian struggle. By invoking Karbala as an intrinsic component of an overall Islamic reform blueprint, lqbal ruptures the previously held sectarian codes of this struggle. By underscoring the degree to which Karbala is bound up with the Quran and the Kaaba, Iqbal at once limits the apparently divergent readings of this event. Karbala is thus constituted by a larger and more comprehensive temporal process, the duration of which renders it timeless. lqbal moves Karbala away from its original moment (which for Shias is the moment when Ali’s rights were usurped after the Prophet’s death) and anchors it in an extra-temporal fold of Islam. He could not have agreed more with Husain’s great grandson, Jafar al-Sadiq, the sixth Shi’i imam and a pillar of Islamic spirituality for Sufis, who uttered the following words while imputing both timelessness and spacelessness to Karbala: ‘Every day is Ashura; every land is Karbala’. To the extent that Muslims conceive of Karbala as timeless, an event transcending its particularity, like the Quran and the Kaaba, there is a possibility of using Karbala as a catalyst to forge a more united community. Such a catalyst can only enhance the advancement of reform and justice. lqbal is aware that despite their agreement on the pivotal importance of the Quran and the Kaaba, the Muslim community of his time was subject to discordant impulses. In dismay, the poet–reformer writes: The profits of this community are one, so are the losses The Prophet is one, so is the religion and faith The sacred Kaaba, Allah, and the Quran are one Had Muslims also been one, would it have been such a big deal?! Sectarianism prevails in some places, factionalism in others Is this the way to prosper in the world? (Iqbal 1992: 202)

While hoping for a united Muslim front, lqbal does not isolate this front in any way: he is determined to place Muslims within a larger web of cultures and regions. China and Arabia are ours, India is ours We are Muslim and our homeland is the entire world. (Iqbal 1992: 159)

Differences between Muslims can be respected, but under the aegis of a unified community. The edification of this community can take place through a paradigmatic struggle, like that of Karbala. The ethos of this

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struggle is shaped by a determination to act on behalf of the self, as well as the community, and by extension, all of God’s creation. Thus in poetry that bespoke urgency, Iqbal, through finely drawn metaphors, framed his potent appeals for action. This action, rooted in love and knowledge, gathered momentum by constantly conjuring up Husain’s battle and from situating Karbala within the concept of khudi. Karbala for Iqbal became a political project constituted not only by the simultaneity of affirming the higher self and negating the lower one, but also by creating and reinforcing community solidarity. Iqbal implored those who saw Karbala solely as the epiphany of the highest mystical struggle to interpret this struggle via political activism. Get out of the khanqahs [Sufi residences] and perform the ritual of Shabbir [Husain] For the poverty of the khanqahs is naught but anxiety and affliction. (Iqbal 1992: 680)

The Sufi centres and residences, khanqahs, have long stood for asceticism, spaces for those who are weary of this world. But, to Iqbal, resigning from the affairs of the world serves neither the individual nor the community — hence one should leave the khanqahs in order to perform the deed of Shabbir, a deed that moves beyond symbolic and ritualistic gestures into the domain of activist social, political and religious intervention. Khanqah in these verses stands for passive and hollow rituals whereas Husain’s action, his willingness to preach under the sword, is the process whereby rituals receive spiritually relevant and activist lives. The mystical fetish for poverty, according to Iqbal, vulgarises class struggle, and solidifies it into iniquitous institutions. Material poverty within Sufi lore was valourised so as to create a discourse of worldly apathy and political indifference (Imrani: 193). Of later developments within Islamic mysticism, Iqbal argued that there was so much emphasis placed on the ‘other-worldly’ rewards that ‘this-worldly’ concerns were neglected. Hence the spirit of poverty that Husain advocated — poverty that invests worldly wealth with loathsome qualities and instigates the search for justice — was sacrificed: ek fagr hai Shabbiri is fagr men hai miri miss-e Musalmani, sarmaya-e Shabbiri (Imrani: 193) There is a poverty, that of Shabbir [Husain] In this poverty lies Kingship

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The inheritance of Islam Is the wealth of Shabbir

For Iqbal, Husain’s poverty lay in his righteousness and spirit of sacrifice. He fought Yazid when he had the option of accepting worldly wealth and tolerating the latter’s rule in silence. Had Husain cherished worldly wealth, he would have accepted it from Yazid rather than give up his life fighting for the community’s greater good. Had he simply valued poverty, then he would have withdrawn into a khanqah and forsaken political activism. But Husain rose above the dichotomies of wealth and poverty, asceticism and indulgence to evoke khudi, that higher self that is predicated essentially on love, knowledge and action. This higher self is conceived of in the spirit of social and economic justice at a communal level — it functions in response to the real needs of the downtrodden. This khudi is then transposed to the community or a social collective (qawm, millat, ummat), and the calls for just and loving action are raised: utho meri dunya ke gharibon ko jaga do kakh-e umara ke dar o divar hila do jis khet se dahqan ko muyassar nahin rozi us khet ke har khusha-e gandum ko jala do (Iqbal: 402) Rise! Awaken the poor of my world Shake the doors and walls of the palaces of the rich Set ablaze every stack of grain In the field from which the farmer receives no sustenance.

These verses, appearing in Iqbal’s provocative trilogy, Firmdn-e Khudd or God’s Decree, are Allah’s (khuda’s) call to awaken the khudi of the poor. The ‘decree’ of God can be read as a willingness on the part of the Divine to pay heed to the calls for economic justice, raised by both Marx and Lenin. Iqbal, in effect, articulates his ideal of socio-economic justice by synthesising what he takes to be the redeeming aspects of Marx’s thought, and what he imagines to be Lenin’s valid complaints to God. Lenin, through Iqbal, questions God about the fate of the economically less fortunate. Decrying the perpetuation of banks at the expense of churches, he notices gambling in the guise of trade and exploitation in the name of education. In such a world, souls are destroyed by the machine, as technological tools carelessly crush humanity. Vicariously speaking for Lenin, Iqbal summarises Lenin’s complaint:

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to qadir o ’adil hai magar tere jahan men hain talkh bahot banda-e mazdur ke auqat kab dubega sarmaya parasti ka safina dunya hai ter! muntazir-e roz-e makafat (Iqbal: 400) You are all-powerful and just, Yet in your world The slaves of labor suffer through bitter times When will the boat of capital worship sink? Your world awaits the day of requital.

The day of requital can dawn with the insights of new visionaries like Marx. He’s the Moses without the light, he’s the Messiah without the cross, He’s not a prophet but yet has a book under his arm (Rame 1970: 103)

By portraying Marx as a prophet-like entity, by metaphorically according The Communist Manifesto a near holy status, and by passionately speaking for Lenin, Iqbal interpolates Islamically-inflected Marxist– Leninist ideals of social justice into the structure of the Muslim self and community. The higher self learns from the new Moses figures and the new Messiahs, as seen through the lens of the Quran and Islamic spirituality.3 This khudi, easily learning from other traditions of knowledge, is not shy in embracing sources of virtue that transcend Islam’s traditional realm in order to redress the grievances of the masses. Hence the khudi can comfortably act as a site where Nietzsche’s superman embraces a Kantian categorical imperative, where Bergson’s social correctives shape Goethe’s artistry and imagination, and where Lenin’s appeals are amplified by Marx’s calls for economic justice. This site, by virtue of its very essential attributes (love, knowledge and action), is always in an existential flux. sukun muhal hai qudrat ke karkhane men sabat ek taghayyur ko hai zamane men (Iqbal 1992: 148) Permanence is impossible in the factory of nature, Only change remains permanent in time

Change is borne of inventions, alterations and reinterpretations. Iqbal, in The Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam, underscores a dynamic, existential interpretation of the Quran: ‘As in the words of a Muslim Sufi — “no understanding of the Holy Book is possible until it is actually revealed to the believer just as it was revealed to

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the Prophet”’ (Iqbal 1988). No great philosopher or any distinguished mystic can unravel the knots of revelation, as Iqbal says, until individual ‘conscience’ itself becomes the site of revelation. And of course the revelation is shown to Iqbal through Husain. The significance of Husain’s struggle is inextricably bound to the significance of the Word of God, and like the Word of God, the struggle too must be freshly interpreted in the immediate context of each Muslim individual. Iqbal’s reading of Karbala is in accordance with — although not identical to — the Sufi readings of this event by Sanai, Rumi and Muinuddin Chishti, more than with any binary Shi’i reading in which the alignments for the battle of Karbala were made in the hours following the Prophet’s death, almost 48 years before the actual event itself. In order for such an Iqbalian reading to have any significance within Sunni reformist discourse, the battle of Karbala had to be situated atemporally. In the subcontinent, the dislodging of Karbala from the Shi’i narrative sequence occurred within a broader Sunni reformist rhetoric. Another prominent South Asian Sunni reformer belonging to the first half of the twentieth century, Muhammad Ali Jauhar, invoked Karbala as a trans-Shi’i struggle in the course of his arguments in an effort to preserve the institution of the khilafat (Caliphate). The Khilafat movement attempted to mobilise Muslims, especially in north India, to restore the institution of the Ottoman Khilafat after the end of the First World War. The Ottoman Empire had suffered severe blows at the hands of the Allies after it sided with the Axis powers. The remnants of the authority of the Ottoman caliph, who had become a figurehead leader for millions of Muslims around the world had eroded and the institution itself was finally abolished by the Turkish leader Kemal Ataturk. One legacy of the Khilafat movement was that it rose above Hindu–Muslim communal tensions and was successful in recruiting such luminaries as Gandhi as a vocal advocate. Although short-lived, it did jolt the British Raj with acts of resistance like the boycott of British goods. As Gail Minault has shown in her work on the Khilafat movement, poetry was crucial in consolidating this anti-colonial movement of sorts (Minault 1982: 154–55). Within this context, in which the British Empire was seen as a force inimical to Muslim interests, Muhammad Ali Jauhar defined anew the partisans of Husain (Shi’an-e Husain). haqq o batil k! hai paikar hamesha jar! jo na batil se daren hair vah! Shi an-e Husain (Jauhar 1983: 31)

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The war between truth and falsehood is eternal Those who are not frightened by falsehood are the partisans of Husain

The very word Shia is appropriated and expanded by this Sunni with an implied double-bind qualification: Those who are ‘Shia’ are not intimidated by falsehood; those who are intimidated by falsehood cannot be ‘Shia’. This partisan group, according to Jauhar, is quite selective. Although a thousand might beat their chests, as they do The world of Karbala is limited to but a few (Jauhar 1983: 79)

Thus Jauhar wrests the monopoly of Husain’s cause away from those who commemorate the martyr solely by mourning his suffering in an act of ritualistic exchange. Mourning, for Jauhar, also belies Husain’s cause, since Husain’s battle at Karbala resurrected Islam. gatl-e Husain asl men marg-e Yazid hai Islam zinda hota hai har Karbala ke ba’d (Jauhar 1983: 79) In reality the murder of Husain is the death of Yazid Islam is resurrected after every Karbala

Hence, for the worshippers of truth, Husain left an unforgettable example of a righteous struggle. His splendid example will remain until doomsday The truth-worshipers shall never forget their debt to Husain (Jauhar 1983: 30)

In a similar vein, the Meccan-born Maulana Abul Kalam Azad (d. 1958), two-time president of the Indian National Congress (1923 and 1920–46) and prominent among India’s ‘freedom fighters’, affirms the meaningfulness of Karbala in his Shahadat-e Husain (The Martyrdom of Husain). According to him, the paradigm that Karbala presents is that of truth and sacrifice in the path of righteousness and freedom. Adept in mystical cadences, Azad adapts this powerful Persian couplet to his own endorsement of Husain’s struggle. kushtagan-e khahjar-e taslim ra har zaman az ghaib jan-e digar ast4

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The martyrs of the dagger of taslim [surrender] Each moment get a new life from the Unseen world.5

The ‘Prince of Martyrs’, in Azad’s opinion, laid the foundation for such a taslim and for an honourable struggle against the forces of oppression and tyranny: Husain demonstrated that in order to confront the forces of vice, it is not necessary to have the majority on one’s side. Adducing reformist lessons from Karbala, and juxtaposing to them the mystical and devotional values invested in this symbol, Azad attributes to this event an atemporal universality. The ‘friends’ of Husain, however, in Azad’s opinion, have not been faithful to Husain’s precepts for which he laid down his life: Not only have Husain’s enemies oppressed him by not crying for him but his friends, who cried for him, have also oppressed him by not emulating his life and actions. Azad enjoins the followers of Husain to contemplate this momentous event in order to model their lives on its basis, not to simply shed tears (Azad 1987: 88–89). The sole purpose of the battle of Karbala, Azad writes, was so that a beautiful model of ‘truth and virtue, freedom and liberation, enjoining the good and forbidding the wrong’ could be presented to the followers of Islam. In short, he calls Karbala the jihad of truth and justice. Azad was one of the dominant figures in the Sunni scholarship of the twentieth century subcontinent; his most important work being a remarkable translation and interpretation of several parts of the Quran. Azad, like Iqbal, clearly read Islamic history through Sufi lenses. Through these lenses, Karbala was seen in terms of a distinctive worldview in which the Shias, the Sunnis and the Sufis could participate simultaneously. This tendency to undertake hybrid and synthetic readings of Islamic history and Islamic philosophy, wherein one ideological outlook slides into another one, is the age-old legacy of the great twelfth century scholar–Sufi who Iqbal so venerated, Abu Hamid al-Ghazali (d. 1111 CE). Within the Muslim reform discourse of the first four decades of the twentieth century, as evidenced by the words of Azad, Jauhar and Iqbal, we can also identify a polemical thrust that seeks to reclaim Karbala from Shi’i hands. The experiences of British colonialism and Hindu nationalism forced Muslims to conjure images to give voice to their struggle as a minority. What reflects a more resistant, righteous–minority versus oppressive–majority struggle than the battle of Karbala? What is most fascinating about the way Karbala is invoked in Iqbal, as well as in Jauhar and Azad, is that this struggle of an Islamic historical

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context is never mediated by or filtered through the ulama (religious authorities). Iqbal, after all, had little faith in the way the religious leaders of his time fostered Islam. Just as Iqbal wrests control of the Quranic interpretation from the ulama, Karbala, too, can be liberally read and then emulated by each Muslim. In his Mulla-e Haram (The Religious Leader of the House of God). Iqbal vents his dismay at those in charge of formal religious practices. No wonder you don’t reach God The station of man is concealed from your vision Neither majesty nor beauty remain in your ritual prayers The tidings of my dawn are not professed in your call to prayers (Iqbal 1992: 486)

Whereas Iqbal’s address to the Muslim religious establishment rings with an accusatory tone, it is the poet’s vocation, Iqbal believes, to provide society with a vision. The community, it can be said, is the body; the people its organs The workers treading the path of handicraft are its hands and legs The concert the government conducts is the adornment of the nation’s face And the poet who sings colorfully is the visionary eye of the nation Whenever any organ is in pain, the eye weeps Behold the extent to which the eye sympathises with the entire body! (Iqbal 1992: 61)

The ontological status of the poet, in the eyes of Iqbal, is that of a visionary who is always in tune with the rest of society’s members and not like the religious authority of lqbal’s time. The insights Iqbal had gained from the past sharpened his vision for the present and the future. Poetry could generate the vision for a brighter future by invoking the past. The past has a privileged legitimising position for Iqbal, as it did for an overwhelming number of socio-religious reformers. Of course, the past’s revolutionary aspect could hardly be defined by a symbol more powerful than that of Karbala. haqiqat-e abadi hai magam-e Shabbiri badalte rahte hain andaz-e Kufi o Shamil (Naqvi 1977: 63) The station of Husain is the eternal truth The ways of the [hypocrites] of Kufa and Syria are ever changing.

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The Shia Interpellation of Iqbal: Iqbal in the Pakistani Majlis A multi-sided mystery in a state of perpetual flux, Iqbal could not unveil himself in a flash ... So while his poetic vision enthused many of his co-religionists, turning it into a dynamic principle of Indian Muslim identity meant exposing it to multiple interpretations and appropriations (Jalal 2000: 176,179)

Interpellating6 Iqbal as a Shi’i voice became both a political intervention and a survival strategy for the Shi’i minority in the nation-state of Pakistan, founded in 1947 (nine years after Iqbal’s death) as an Islamic state for Muslims. The dictates of state-sponsored or religious-based nationalism have often compelled the modern nation-state/religion to do away with differences (at multiple levels) in order to constitute a supposedly more united nation. In Pakistan, too, the state, hoping to fulfill its integrationist mission, attempted to elide religious differences as the years passed. Paradoxically, such attempts were also laced with group-specific legislations (especially against the Ahmadis, a Muslim minority that was persecuted at various levels from the 1950s onwards7 and finally declared ‘non-Muslim’ by the state of Pakistan in 1974) that weakened the very idea of a united nationstate. These state actions are borne of a desire to appease the Sunni orthodoxy (important to Pakistan’s claim of Muslim credentials) that has continuously issued criticism of religious minorities including the Ahmadis, the Shias, the Hindus and the Christians. Since Karbala commemorations in South Asia have often angered those who want to police imprecise religious boundaries, Muharram has become an occasion to instigate violence. But in the light of works like those of Muhammad Qasim Zaman, we can also see how Muharram becomes an excuse to act out scripts written about other socio-economic grievances. As Zaman has pointed out, much of the sectarian violence has deeper roots in economic grievances and alienation. That Sunni peasants join anti-Shi’i organisations that call for violence has perhaps more to do with the mistreatment of that peasant by a Shi’i landlord than it has to do with anti-Shi’ism per se (Zaman 2002: 127). But Muharram in Pakistan has become increasingly entangled in a loop of violence where one community’s losses fuel violence against the other. Thus, even though Karbala commemorations might be secondary to other grievances of the members of the Shi’i and Sunni communities, Muharram has become a time when the Shias as a

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community (approximately 20 per cent, or 28 million, of Pakistan’s population) feel especially vulnerable. Although several prominent leaders of Pakistan (Muhammad Ali Jinnah, Iskandar Mirza, Yahya Khan, Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto) were either Shia or had strong Shi’i connections, the demands of the Sunni religious establishment in the 1960s to give the Sunni Hanafi law a privileged position in the country and left the Shi’i community insecure. Apprehensive of such calls, as well as of rising anti-Shi’i rhetoric, Shi’i religious authorities in Pakistan have used the majlis as a forum to further the agenda of the Shi’i community, especially after General Zia ul-Haq rose to authority in 1977. Zia, too, advocated legal and economic policies that were more in harmony with the Sunni Hanafi school of jurisprudence than with the Shi’i Jafari school. Strains of sectarian violence have become more and more conspicuous from Zia’s time. In 2001, between February and April, 50 people were killed in Shi’i–Sunni violence.8 In the Punjab province of Pakistan alone, over 600 people, mostly Shia, fell victim to sectarian violence in 1989–99.9 Iqbal, as we have seen, strove to defactionalise the Muslim community of the subcontinent by emphasising a notion of self through which all Muslims could find a common ground in a shared prophetic paradigm, regardless of language, culture or sect. But within three decades of Pakistan’s creation, the sectarian, regional and linguistic differences shattered any pretence that the Prophet, the Quran or the Kaaba was enough to smooth out historical fissures within the religion. As the influence of the Sunni orthodoxy became evident in the state’s rhetoric, Shias began to resist encroachment upon their historical and institutional territories through their own interpretive discourses. These discourses undercut the telos of Sunni hegemony by selectively invoking Iqbal, in order to vindicate Shi’i legitimacy. In the official imagination of Pakistan, Iqbal is hailed as the intellectual and spiritual father of the country, in spite of the ambiguity in the historical evidence given in support of such a view. Thus, invoking Iqbal’s verses in praise of cherished Shi’i figures is one way in which the Shia minority, by conflating its sectarian identity with non-sectarian eulogies for Karbala, can provide powerful rejoinders to Sunni authorities. No one from Pakistan’s Shia minority endeavours to challenge Sunni readings of Islamic history in the way that Rashid Turabi did. Turabi, the late Shia politician and zakir (preacher), frequently criticised those who taught history in Pakistani institutions for wilfully

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ignoring or downplaying the merits of Ali and his progeny. In one of his majlises, he cites an incident in which a female student of St Joseph’s College, Karachi, learned in an Islamic history lecture that Ali had only three children: Hasan, Husain and Muhammad Hanafiya. The students objected to this statement, saying that Ali had more children than just these three, and the most prominent of the children left out was Abbas. The lecturer replied that she, as a teacher in the college, had a greater command of Islamic history than the Shi’i students who objected to the omission of the names of Ali’s other children. When the students began to cite the importance of Abbas because of his participation as Husain’s helper in the battle of Karbala, the lecturer replied: ‘The incident of Karbala is not in the history of Islam’. Deploring such experiences in the educational institutions of the Muslim world, Turabi addresses the educators of Pakistan: ‘If you want to teach our history, first ask us about it and then teach — If you don’t understand our [Shi’i] history or if you have not learned it from anyone [proper authority], then obviously you should ask us [the Shias]’. When laying out the ‘factuality’ of the Shi’i cause and Ali’s place in Islam, Turabi is quick to point to that monumental work of history, Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Many Shias have a penchant for sections of this book, for it projects the Prophet’s family, especially Ali and Husain, in a relatively positive manner.10 About Ali’s virtues, Gibbon writes: The birth, the alliance, the character of Ali, which exalted him above the rest of his countrymen, might justify his claim to the vacant throne of Arabia. The son of Abu Talib was, in his own right, the chief of the family of Hashem, and the hereditary prince or guardian of the city and temple of Mecca. The light of prophecy was extinct; but the husband of Fatima might expect the inheritance and blessing of her father: the Arabs had sometimes been patient of a female reign; the two grandsons of the prophet had often been fondled in his lap, and shewn in his pulpit, as the hope of his age, and the chief of the youth of paradise. The first of the true believers might aspire to march before them in this world and in the next; and if some were of a graver and more rigid cast, the zeal and virtue of Ali were never outstripped by any recent proselyte. He united the qualifications of a poet, a soldier, and a saint: his wisdom still breathes in a collection of moral and religious sayings; and every antagonist, in the combats of the tongue or of the sword, was subdued by his eloquence and valour. From the first hour of his mission, to the last rites of his funeral, the apostle was never forsaken by a generous

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friend, whom he delighted to name his brother, his vicegerent, and the faithful Aaron of a second Moses. The son of Abu Talib was afterwards reproached for neglecting to secure his interest by a solemn declaration of his right, which would have silenced all competition, and sealed his succession by the decrees of heaven. But the unsuspecting hero confided in himself the jealousy of empire, and perhaps the fear of opposition, might suspend the resolution of Mahomet [Muhammad]; and the bed of sickness was besieged by the artful Aisha, the daughter of Abubekar [Abu Bakr], and the enemy of Ali (Gibbon 1994: 218) ... The persecutors of Mahomet [Muhammad] usurped the inheritance of his children; and the champions of idolatry became the supreme heads of his religion and empire (ibid.: 224).

In the minds of many Shias, the adjectives describing Ali, his sons, Aisha, and the political successors of the Prophet are all fitting. Of course Turabi could not quote such a passage verbatim, partly for fear of inciting Shi’i–Sunni violence, but he did make a reference to the popular history of the Roman Empire, to be consulted by those who desired to know more about Islamic history.11 The message of such quotations is clear: one does not need to rely on Shi’i sources in order to gain an awareness of the superiority of Ali over all other companions of the Prophet. In addition to the works of historians like Gibbon, the cause of Ali’s Shi’ism can also be enhanced by two other prominent non-Shias: Jalaluddin Rumi and Muhammad Iqbal. For Turabi, Rumi and Iqbal (both of whom are widely recognised as Sunnis), were instrumental in configuring Shi’ism as a legitimate segment of Islam. Turabi fondly quoted Rumi and Iqbal while justifying the privileged position of Ali and Husain within Islamic history. He was fully aware that both these poets were so well-known and well-liked in the subcontinent that anything purported to have come from their pens instantly acquired a status worthy of attention. Rumi, to echo a cliche, was the greatest of Islamic mystical poets, and his Masnavi has the status of the ‘Quran in Persian’. This mystical treatise praises all the prominent companions of the Prophet, including Muawiya, Yazid’s father, who is despised by Shias. This, however, is irrelevant to Turabi, for what he wants to underscore is Ali’s privileged status. Hence in one of his orations, he urges the youth to memorise these words of Rumi: You have seen Ali in darkness For this reason you privilege others over him

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I have seen Ali in the light of day For this reason I do not privilege anyone over him.12

Through Rumi’s verses, Turabi would have us believe that Ali’s status was higher than that of other companions of the Prophet. In fact, most students of Rumi would immediately detect the silences and the absences in Turabi’s usage. Turabi conveys the impression that no similar words of praise were written for other companions of the Prophet, and surely not for Ali’s enemy, Muawiya. Similarly, Rumi’s most famous Indian disciple, Muhammad Iqbal, was also a favorite of Rashid Turabi. The passionate words of Iqbal, for Ali, Fatima and Husain have endeared him to Shias to such an extent that they have even written books focussing exclusively on Iqbal’s devotion to the Prophet’s household, at times giving readers the impression that the poet might actually be a Shia in disguise (see Zaidi 1965). By invoking Iqbal, the best known Islamic reformer with equal support from both Shias and Sunnis, Turabi established his own authority. In short, Turabi’s message to the Shias was that even knowledgeable Sunnis like Iqbal agreed that Ali and his household, especially his son Husain, had a privileged status. islam ke daman men bas is ke siva kya hai ek zarb-e Yadullahi ek sajda-e Shabbiri13 The skirt of Islam contains naught But the strike of the Hand of God [Ali] and the prostration of Shabbir [Husain]

Iqbal, according to Turabi, had himself confessed being a ‘bu turabi’ or a follower of Ali. admi kam ka nahin rahta, ’ishq men ye bari kharabi hai puchte kya ho mazhab-e Iqbal, ye gunahgar bu turabi hail.14 Love’s greatest flaw is that it renders a man useless You ask, ‘What would Iqbal’s religion be?’ This humble sinner is a follower of Bu Turab [Ali]

Turabi vindicates the cause of the Shias by invoking Iqbal’s name in the same way he calls on Rumi to elaborate the virtues of Ali and Husain. Turabi historicises Iqbal to undermine the Sunni view of history and legitimise the privileged position accorded by Shias to Ali and Husain. Thus, invoking Iqbal comes to constitute a polemical

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strategy for Turabi to, specifically unsettle the polarising, mutually exclusive Shi’i–Sunni narratives of Islamic history in Pakistan. Through historicising Iqbal as a Sunni appreciative of differences among Muslims, as long as they are under the aegis of a unified community, Turabi posits a strategic continuum linking Iqbal, the nation-state of Pakistan, and the minority Shi’i community within Pakistan. The edification of such a continuum or interface, according to Turabi, can be through paradigmatic struggles like that of Karbala. Consequently, the ethos of such struggles is shaped by a determination to act on behalf of the self, the community, as well as the nation-state — in this case, Pakistan. Just as Iqbal retroactively dislodged the battle of Karbala from the issue of succession and situated it within the wider sweep of martyrdom within Islam, so Iqbal himself can be alluded to in the majlis context because of the ambivalence of his own sectarian affiliations. Although the majlis’s validity as a self-affirming ritualistic forum is without question, there are certain problematic limitations built into this forum. These problematics are primarily rooted in the messy networks of South Asia’s majority and minority politics. The religious majority communities in this region have become the chief guardians of the national identity. Within this context, although the site of the majlis might create a nominal space for asserting and celebrating legitimate sectarian differences, it ends up fracturing one of the other necessities of the Pakistani Shias: asserting a legitimate Muslim, as well as Pakistani, identity. The space of this negotiation actually constitutes the dilemma of the minority in Pakistan, in that it creates a tension between the assertion of difference and the need to assimilate that actually necessitates the obliteration of this difference. While asserting the Shi’i sectarian identity (by reading Karbala differently from the hegemonic Sunni readings), the majlis is speaking in a minority voice, a voice different from the one it uses to validate its national, larger Islamic identity (for whose cause it invokes Iqbal). We may then ask the question: Does the assertion of a separatist, minority Shi’i identity create a downward spiral of alienation from the shared nationalist Pakistani identity? This question in many ways reflects the dilemma of the minority in South Asia — having asserted its separatist identity at one level, the minority carries the onus of constantly proving its fidelity at another level. The Pakistani Shia, the Indian Muslim, the Bangladeshi Hindu and the South Asian minorities in general share this burden.

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lqbal’s Transnational and Transsectarian Significance No discussion of the general Urdu socio-religious reform literature of the sub-continent or of some of the important Iranian reformist discourses is possible without acknowledging Iqbal’s key influence upon many reformer–writers. Through his deployments of Karbala, Iqbal walks along an ambiguously located mystical–reformist line that blurs all rigid sectarian affiliations. Karbala, for Iqbal, is an epistemological symbol to narrate the existential dilemma of gauging ideal human conduct. The relevance that Iqbal bestows upon Karbala as a model of and for struggle also dominates much of the subsequent socio-religious reform literature from the subcontinent, most of it circulated under the name of ‘progressive’ literature. Many writers from this tradition — including socialists of the Progressive Movement, Faiz Ahmad Faiz, Kunwar Mahendra Singh Bedi Sahar, Ahmad Faraz and Ali Sardar Jafri — have interpolated the symbol of Karbala, following Iqbal, into a broader (trans-religious) call for justice and action. In his discussion with me, Ali Sardar Jafri, a member of the Progressive Writers’ Association, made a direct connection between Iqbal), the idea of a higher Muslim self, Karbala and a universal struggle: The very word Islam in Iqbal’s times generated loathing on multiple fronts — the British could not forget the Muslim resistance to the crusades; some Hindus saw Muslims as uncontrollable warriors who invaded their land; the Muslims of Palestine were being crushed in the name of injustice done to the Jews of Europe. Why was this happening to Muslims? It was a natural question that any enlightened (raushan fikr) soul would ask. Iqbal, however, did not ask this question to indict the rest of humanity for Muslim misery. He asked the question to make Muslims aware of their plight, provide an outlet from this plight, and instill pride and confidence in them. He wanted to raise their self to a better self, to a self that drew its substance from the Prophet Muhammad, Imam Ali and Imam Husain. This self is first and foremost a Muslim self — not a Shi’i or Sunni self. This self is inspired by Marx’s calls for justice yet does not send either God, the Prophet, Imam Ali or Imam Husain into exile — as some would say Marx did with historic religious persons. Iqbal, in one sense, was more progressive than Marx for he realised that religion and history could also impart virtues to the oppressed. How could anyone listen to the story of Karbala, of the oppressed. Husain’s fight against the most mighty system of his

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time, and not be inspired to follow in the footsteps of the Prophet’s grandson? Each person could follow Husain in his own way.15

Within this discourse, any righteous struggle can be placed within the matrix of Karbala and within the definition of ‘Islam’. The category of ‘Muslim’ intersects the category of the ‘oppressed’, and by identifying with Muslim subjects of colonialism or postcolonialism one can identify with the victims of colonial oppression. In order to resist such an oppression, one can speak the language of Islam through the idiom of Karbala. As such, Iqbal’s invocation of Karbala can appeal to a variety of agendas, and Iqbal himself, like Karbala and martyrdom, becomes an iconic figure not only in the subcontinent but also in revolutionary and post-revolutionary Iran. Those tied to the Islamic revolution of Iran have shared with Iqbal not only his faith in constituting a Muslim self through the knowledge of the past, but also a penchant for eliding differences within Islam. This is borne out by the repeated invocation of Iqbal, by intellectuals like Ali Shariati and Abdol Karim Saroush. Shariati sees Iqbal as a Muslim existentialist, who engages not only in a personal struggle but also in a communal one carrying forward the standard of Ali. In essence he is a ‘devotee possessing the light of knowledge who burns with love and faith, and whose penetrating eyes never allow negligence and ignorance to prevail without questioning the fate of enslaved nations ... a person who seeks reform, revolution, and a change of mental attitudes’.16 Saroush, one of the most controversial and dynamic contemporary Iranian Shi’i thinkers, credits Iqbal for inspiring others to engage in a continual reinterpretation of Islam.17 These varied and many-layered invocations of Iqbal serve both to reinstigate notions of a dynamic interpretive spirit and regenerate forms of pan-Islamic solidarity. Iqbal creates a space within which talk of pan-Islamism and Muslim self-identity can take place. By reconfiguring Karbala as a trans-historic struggle for justice, as a battle exceeding its particular moment, he subordinates the sectarian issues that have historically charged this event to the concerns of the greater Muslim self and community. These temporally disjunctive appeals to Karbala, within the frame of reference of the Quran and the Kaaba, engender multiple avenues of sectarian rapprochement, in which both Muslim identity and the larger Islamic community can be reconstituted. Insofar as minority Shi’i claims to these nations are concerned, Iqbal helps in affording Shias a legitimate space to

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position themselves vis-á-vis Sunnis in regions of the world where their survival is threatened. His force is such that it concurrently impacts the discourses of the Shi’i majlises, Sufi qawwalis, and socioreligious reformist literature. Iqbal himself occupies a site that is in a continual state of formation and this site, like Karbala, cannot be limited to any particular historical moment since it always outstrips history and inflects sectarian orientations. It is the site from which Iqbal inspires, accords with and prays for the generations to come. May the youth have my longing sighs for dawn that these, the falcon’s offspring, may fly again with agile wings O Lord, my sole desire is but this: That my luminous vision may belong to all! (Iqbal 1992: 378)

Notes 1. Shimr was the person who actually killed Husain in Karbala. 2. Abjad is the sequence of Arabic letters in which each letter has a numerical value. It has been used throughout centuries for chronograms and other mystical as well as playful expressions wherein the artists have desired to link numbers to concepts. 3. It was under Iqbal’s pervasive inspiration that other Progressive Marxist poets of the subcontinent, like Shabbir Hassan Khan ‘Josh’ Malihabadi, struck the reformist chord. 4. Quoted in Abulkalam Azad, Shahadat-e Husain (1987: 60). 5. Quoted in S. H. Nasr (1987: 129). 6. I am using the term ‘interpellation’ in the way in which the French cultural critic, Louis Althusser, used it: Processes whereby an ideology designates and defines its subjects without giving the subjects themselves much agency in the constitution of their identity. See Althusser (1971). 7. For an excellent analysis of how Sunni religious authorities of the 1950s were bent upon defining Islam by excluding the Ahmadis, see Sayyid Vali Reza Nasr (1994: 132–41). 8. See Rory McCarthy, ‘Religion and Violence on Pakistan’s streets’, Guardian Unlimited. (Friday, 6 April 2001) http://www.guardian.co.uk/elsewhere/journalist/ story/ 0,7792,469439,00.html. Accessed 8 May 2001. 9. See Rana Jawad, ‘632 Fell Prey to Sectarian Killings in Punjab in Nine Years’, News International Pakistan (9 January 1999), http://www.best.com/karachi/news/secta rian2.html. Accessed 25 May 2001. 10. In my conversations with Syed Muhammad Murtuza and many other Shias who are well-versed in English, I repeatedly heard references to this work of history in order to legitimise the Shii cause. Interestingly enough, W. Madelung’s Succession to Muhammad has a similar appeal among many Shias today (1997). 11. A Pakistani contemporary of Turabi told me that excerpts from Gibbon’s Islamic history were readily available in Karachi, where Turabi was based.

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12. Turabi (1971), cassette recording. 13. Rashid Turabi (1971), cassette recording. Although this couplet is repeatedly invoked in Iqbal’s name, it most likely does not come from him. See Imrani (n.d.: 36–37). 14. Rashid Turabi (1971), cassette recording. 15. Ali S. Jafri, interview, January 1999. 16. Ali Shari’ati, ‘A Manifestation of Self-reconstruction and Reformation’, http:// www.shariati.com/igbal.html. Accessed 6 January 2005. 17. ‘Struggle to Rescue Islam from Zealots’, Irish Times (22 November 1997), http:// www.seraj.org/Irishr.htm. Accessed 6 January 2005.

Part IV The Everyday

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Look Who’s Talking Now: Voice and Authority in Pakistani Shi’i Women’s Gatherings Amy Bard Introduction ‘Her honour, the mistress of women of all worlds … Hey, I’m not making this up myself here! I’m telling you the importance of the knowledge of Fatima, from the Quran, from the Hadith, with the voice of history.’

A commanding 20-year-old lay preacher (zakirah) rouses her all-female audience partway through an impassioned sermon in a Shi’i Muslim mourning assembly in Lahore. This charismatic young woman will preach tirelessly for 45 minutes about how Hazrat Fatima, daughter of the Prophet of Islam, is an exemplar of pious modesty but also a resource for spiritual intercession and mystical knowledge. At this particular juncture the preacher, Shabih uz-Zahra, identifies a distinctively Shi’i ‘history’ as the authority for her words. At many other points in her speech, she invokes injunctions of the revered Shi’i imams within didactic dialogues, often hinting at esoteric teachings too ‘demanding’ for the wits of ordinary folk. Occasionally, she exhorts her listeners in a personal, individualistic voice that is sometimes humble, sometimes imperious. Shabih’s voices and diction point to a shifting, multi-sited authority in the contemporary Pakistani Shi’i mourning gathering (majlis-e ’aza, majlis). One outcome of her rhetorical strategies is the ascription of feminine dimensions to sites and practices more typically legitimised by patriarchal Islamic authority. This article explores the architecture of such rhetoric at Muharram gatherings — in which Shias remember the martyrs of Karbala (680 CE) — to explore the complex, gendered texture of Islam ‘on the ground’ within the context of a Pakistan beset by sectarian strife between its majority Sunni population and Shi’i minority in the mid1990s. In the process we see how women enact voice within their

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religion tradition to rival that of men, while attending to the changing political context with acute awareness and great subtlety. While I will not be detailing this context (it is the subject of several of the articles in this volume), I will hint at the ways in which a conflict ridden present is woven into the multivalent gendering of rhetoric within Shi’i majlises. Moreover, the prominence of gender as Shi’i women frame, deliver and respond to majlis speeches reveals something of these women’s self-perceptions and, more emphatically, illuminates social constructions of both gender and Shi’ism itself within the context of Pakistan. Preachers sometimes employ masculinity and femininity as organising categories when they refer to sources of authority for the Shi’i community. On a more tacit level, the processes whereby a speaker communicates authority and navigates the level of direct responsibility for words uttered in this dramatic religious performance are also gendered. The calendrical rites of Muharram, during the first month of the Islamic year, relay teachings that are central to their Pakistani participants’ lives on a daily basis, as in the lives of their co-religionists elsewhere in the subcontinent. As a transmitter of these multi-levelled teachings, Shabih reconstructs conversations and anecdotes that feature the loftiest of religious figures. In so doing, she assumes a prominent social position and brings into the limelight carefully crafted public speaking talents. I show how, in addition to illustrating the general content of women’s Muharram gatherings, Shabih’s sermon reveals the workings of a variegated set of rhetorical tools. The young zakirah issues, for example, authoritative utterances in the voices of the Prophet, Fatima and the imams (the Shi’i leaders descended from the Prophet who are the most identifiable, central sources of authority in the majlis), and an occasional, but marked, disclaimer of personal authority. Analysing these tactics and utterances will provide an indepth understanding of the sermon text and of the phenomenon of sermonising itself. The complexity of Shabih’s own position and of her verbal strategies is mirrored in some ways by a discourse and counterdiscourse concerning feminine agency in the majlis more broadly. Majlis texts and speeches may attribute authority and intercessory power to transhistorical, revered female figures, or even align Shi’ism itself with positive dimensions of the ‘feminine’. But they also often repeat or transmit assumptions about ordinary women’s constrained intellectual capabilities. It is a conversational commonplace among Pakistani

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Shias that women’s assemblies are less historically and intellectually informed and more ‘sentimental’ than men’s parallel observances. Absorbing, responding to and reiterating this view, zakirahs frequently translate or paraphrase information and warn listeners about their limited access to the great mysteries of esoteric knowledge. Shabih’s sermon also reminds us of the problems inherent in reading gender embodiments simply as direct role models for contemporary women. Instead, we will see the zakirah offering impassioned lessons that invoke both the feminine in mystical or abstract ways, and the workaday world of daily female rites, roles and responsibilities. In popular Shi’ism, the dutiful Fatima, daughter of the Prophet, and the outspoken, eloquent Zainab, survivor of the Karbala atrocity, are two female models who are also invoked in Muharram’s tragic narratives. Fatima foresaw her own son’s agonised death at Karbala and is credited with immense intercessory powers and spiritual influence. Zainab, the sister of the martyred Husain, sent her own young sons into a battle to the death at Husain’s side, fearlessly berated his killers and safeguarded his successor, who was still a child. Many believers say that these women may miraculously appear to today’s devout Shias, sometimes in mourning assemblies themselves, where they reverently gather the tears shed over Husain and his kin.

The Karbala Context To situate the contemporary Shi’i majlis in a broader historical and cultural context, let us survey the background of the mourning assembly. Shias account for 10–15 per cent of the Muslim population in India and Pakistan.1 Shia gatherings to honour the Prophet, the lineage of rightful Shia leaders, imams, descended from him, and other close members of the Prophet’s family are held on significant dates, including their birth and death anniversaries, throughout the year. The major season for mourning assemblies, though, commences with the first month of the Islamic calendar. For at least ten days Shias commemorate the events around the martyrdom of the third imam, H . usain, in 61 AH (680 CE) with gatherings, processions, and public expressions of bereavement; these constitute Muharram. In Shi’i neighbourhoods, the days leading up to Muharram usher in waves of aural and visual activity to stimulate the seasonal mood: residents build or unpack glittering tomb replicas; their keening voices, practicing dirges, drift across the cramped lanes of Lahore’s old city.

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They purchase black cloth to drape worship halls, homes, small seasonal refreshment stands and their own persons. Stalls appear to purvey cheap pamphlet poetry and chains for self-flagellation in processions; devotees prepare and display icons associated with the martyrs of Karbala: replicas of battle standards, children’s cradles, the blood-spattered horse of Husain. The most devoted participants will continue their public and household rites for as long as two months and eight days. Shi’i traditions recount how Husain, the Prophet Muhammad’s grandson, and his family were tortured at Karbala (in present-day Iraq) by the forces of the Ummayad Muslim Caliph, Yazid (Yazi¯ d). To quell a potential rebellion, Yazid had his massive army ambush H.usain and his followers as they travelled to Kufa. Preferring death over fealty to a tyrant, H.usain was forced to watch his family tormented by thirst when Yazid’s men denied them access to the Euphrates. After H.usain and his men were killed on the tenth of Muharram, the women and children with him, prominently his eloquent sister Zainab, were marched captive to Damascus. Shi’i lore credits Zainab with establishing mourning assemblies immediately after the tragedy. Zainab’s foundational role, taken together with narratives about the female captives’ travails, lends women’s mourning assemblies a particular and powerful sense of continuity. Intense devotion to Husain and the other imams, notably Husain’s father Ali, marks a significant difference between Shi’i Muslims and Sunni Muslims (who are by far the majority in South Asia). The division between Sunnis and Shias harkens back to the early days of Islam when factions of Muslims supported either the first Caliph, Abu Bakr, or Ali, the Prophet’s son-in-law and cousin, as leader after the Prophet’s demise in 632 CE/13 AH. The actual emergence of Shi’i and Sunni sects was a gradual process. Sunnis hold Abu Bakr, Umar and Usman, the first three Caliphs and close companions of the Prophet, in extremely high esteem. Shias, by contrast, revere Ali, the first imam and his descendants as legitimate and divinely-guided successors to the Prophet who may wield intercessory powers on behalf of the devout. There are various sects and sub-groups of Shias; those discussed here belong to the largest community, the ithna asharis, who revere 12 imams. These sacrosanct imams are considered by Shias to have been denied their rightful leadership role by the three Caliphs and their supporters, as well as other enemies within the Muslim community over the centuries.

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Remembrance of Ali, Ali’s son Husain and his family, and the other imams dominate Shia religious life. This is so on the level of everyday observances (e.g. weekly mourning assemblies, pleas to the imams to protect travellers) and major ritual events, namely Muharram majlises and processions. The implications of Shia devotion to ‘the people of the household’, the Prophet’s family, are significant, and their mourning practices, surnames or tendency to wear particular gemstones often render Shias readily identifiable. Religious skirmishes — not unlike the sometime bitter sectarian encounters in Northern Ireland — between Sunnis and Shias, nominally over procession routes and various Shia customs, have been an intermittent feature of the South Asian urban landscape since the nineteenth century. The mid- to late 1990s saw waves of Shia–Sunni violence and killing during Muharram observances. Dozens died in Lahore in 1997 and 1998 and sectarian eruptions continue to plague urban Pakistan 10 years later. Yet despite Shia–Sunni antagonism (including a Sunni tendency to read Shi’i reverence for the imams as a sinful equation of humans with Allah) and the exacerbation of religious differences during politically or economically tense times, the two communities share a great deal as Muslims. This generally extends to a deep respect for Husain and his submission to Allah. The emphatic, artistic elaboration of Husain’s story has for the most part, but not exclusively, been the province of Shias. In South Asia, the majlis tradition dates to the fifteenth or sixteenth century and blossomed most extravagantly in Nawabi Lucknow (India) in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The influence of Lucknow, capital of the Shia-ruled province of Avadh, in its heyday is still pronounced in the Urdu majlis poetry recited in Pakistan now. There are also scores of local writers and reciters who have diversified and modernised poetic genres such as marsiyah, soz and salam, immortalised by the great Lucknow poets Anis (1802–74) and Dabir (1803–75). In Pakistan today, Shia men and women generally conduct separate, largely parallel Muharram majlises. Women usually also have at least listening access to major men’s assemblies from secluded areas within a worship hall (imambarah), while very young boys with their mothers are usually the only males present in women’s gatherings. The thematic emphases and the details of custom in these gatherings reflect gender, as well as class and regional differences.

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In Lahore, women hold majlises in Urdu, Panjabi and mixtures of the two languages. In the lower middle-class neighbourhood where Shabih preaches, the sermon and much of the majlis poetry are in Urdu, though a few especially emotive poems that frame various segments of the observance are recited in Punjabi. Quranic Arabic and citations of religious works in Arabic, almost always translated into Urdu, also pepper the mourning assembly. Very few of the women present could understand a sustained discourse in Arabic, translate specific Quranic verses or speak any variant of Arabic. All, however, have memorised Quranic verses while those who are literate in Urdu (most of them) can also sound out written Arabic and have either studied it in school or at home. Majlises begin with reciters offering poetic tributes and laments to the Prophet’s family and the Karbala heroes and heroines. These are followed by a substantial sermon, a feature which became the core of first men’s, and then women’s assemblies, gradually over the course of the twentieth century. Participants then perform metrical dirges called nauh.ahs, accompanied by breast-beating and impassioned cries of ‘Ya¯ H.usain!’ A symbolic visitation to the martyrs through a ziya¯rat chant, prayers and the recitation of the Quranic Sura-e Fatihah conclude the event. A major responsibility of the hostess is the distribution of tabarruk blessings in the name of Husain to each attendee, whether in the form of snacks, a full meal or a parting token such as a new dish or teacup.

Women’s Majlises and Agency By the nineteenth century, women’s majlises were already wellestablished in larger cities in Punjab along with other prominent South Asian Shi’i centres such as Lucknow. Women’s lamentations fascinated colonial observers such as Mrs Meer Hassan Ali, who resided in Lucknow for some 12 years through the 1820s as the wife of a prominent Shia gentleman. ‘In commemorating this remarkable event in Mussulmaun history’, she notes, ‘the expressions of grief manifested by the ladies are far greater, and appear to me more lasting than with the other sex’. For nineteenth century Shi’i ladies, conducting private majlises at home was the rule. Mrs Ali commented: The ladies celebrate the returning season of Muharrum with as much spirit and zeal as the confinement, in which they exist, can possibly

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admit of. There are but few, and those chiefly princesses, who have Emaum-baarahs [imambarahs] at command, within the boundaries of the zeenahnah; the largest and best establishment is therefore selected for the purpose of an Emaum-baarah, into which none but females are admitted, excepting the husband, father, son, or brother, of the lady; who having, on this occasion, full liberty to invite her female acquaintance, those who are her nearest male relatives even are not admitted until previous notice is given, in order that the female guests may secret themselves from the sight of these relatives of their hostess (Ali 1974 [1832]: 23–24).

Over a century later, in 1941, Mrs Zaheer Fatima Raza, whom her daughter Azra describes as a ‘true feminist’, faced considerable opposition when she proposed and managed ‘a function for ladies on a grand scale to commemorate the 1300th anniversary of Hussain’s martyrdom’ in Delhi. Azra Raza’s account of this undertaking highlights both the limitations on the movements of even elite women in mid-twentiethcentury India and Pakistan, and the significant public activities of prominent Shi’i ladies like the tenacious Mrs Raza in the new nation of Pakistan after partition. Through her mentor and great friend Lady Sultan Ahmed… [Zaheer Fatima] was able to persuade Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Rampur to travel to Delhi and preside over the function. A gathering of ladies on such a large scale in the Muslim Shia community of Delhi was unheard of at the time. Zaheer worked tirelessly for months to organize various committees, invite respected speakers, arrange presentations by children and young adults, and above all, face, and convince others to face the opposition and criticism of the men in her community…. Following the fabulous success of this function, Zaheer Fatima naturally assumed the leadership role in every community and city she lived in for the next 60 years… Migrating to Pakistan in 1947, she established Anjuman-e-Khawateen-e-Hussaini in Karachi in 1949. After moving to Islamabad, she founded Anjuman-e-Khawateen-e-Shia in Islamabad, and in order to promote harmony through social work among Shia-Sunni Muslims, she became the most active and vocal member of the well-known Bazm-e-Amina in Karachi.2

Other determined Shia women, often lay preachers, took on similar missions in various South Asian cities around this time. Latif-un-nissa of Hyderabad (India), for example, organised a group of women to raise funds for a Shia worship hall administered entirely by women,

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which is still in operation today.3 While by the turn of the twenty-first century women’s majlises in centralised imambarahs were burgeoning, today the appeal of a large majlis (attended by several hundred or even up to 2,000 people) addressed by a seasoned preacher still vies with the perceived security and modesty of household majlises. Attending either type of function qualifies as a virtuous act. Mary Elaine Hegland has pointed out in her research on Peshawar that because this is so, it can be awkward, even in families in which women ‘must be in seclusion’, for their male relatives to object strenuously to them venturing afar for majlises. Hegland suggests, nonetheless, that for women who organise major assemblies, ‘Containing their developing assertiveness and capabilities within the framework defined by their male supervisors may become … problematic’ (Hegland 1995: 65–79). While it remains a matter for debate whether or not women’s majlises provide a forum for feminist activism of some kind, it is evident that many devoted majlis-goers struggle with the practical implications of seclusion as a pious ideal. Kajjan Begam (d. 2000), a famed Pakistani reciter of majlis poems, was herself in great demand in large-scale Karachi majlises but favourably compared the private household majlises of her youth in rural Uttar Pradesh with modern Pakistani women’s predilection for bustling hither and thither to attend massive assemblies.4 S.adaf Batul and her mother Rahat of Lahore offered a telling narrative centred on one of their female ancestors that spoke to this quandry. The lady in question, who dwelt in the old-fashioned house (h.aveli) in Rang Mahal where S.adaf and Rah.at still reside, petitioned her male relatives for permission to make a pilgrimage to Mecca.5 The men, explaining that there was no need for her to undergo such a treacherous journey, brought home images of the Kaaba, enabling her to perform her visitation at home. Her relatives replicated holy sites within the haveli again when the lady asked to go to Karbala and other Shi’i pilgrimage sites in Iraq and Iran and then finally to a majlis at a Lahore imambarah. With each successive request, the substitute household worship sites became more elaborate, adorned with gold and so forth, and the woman’s restlessness eventually subsided. This increasing sumptuousness appears to value, as a great deal of majlis literature does, the most local manifestations of Shi’i piety over the Mecca pilgrimage. The women’s stress on that message, though, deflects the question of whether the relatives whom Hegland terms

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‘male supervisors’ had to offer grander and grander compensations to justify denying their sister or daughter a visit to even a local majlis. The story, related with a mixture of pride and wistfulness, reinforced my friends’ duty as sayyida¯ni¯s (female descendants of the Prophet) to limit their outside movements as much as possible within the demands of contemporary life (attending college, etc.) and recalled the wealth their now destitute family had once enjoyed.6 It provided some context for the women’s general policy of refusing to attend large assemblies. It might be added, though, that when my research provided a rare pretext for them to participate in such events, they seized the opportunities with evident excitement.

The Sermon Some of the main written sources for Urdu speakers’ mourning assemblies in the nineteenth century were texts that allotted poems devoted to individual martyrs to each of the first 10 days of Muharram. These evolved from poetic collections used in South Asia much earlier, which had links to the sixteenth-century Iranian Rawz.at us-Shuhada, ‘Garden of the Martyrs’, in Persian.7 S. A. A. Rizvi, a scholar of South Asian Islam, claims that as early as 1732 CE (1145 AH) at least one early prose rendering of Rawzat in Urdu was especially ‘lucid and idiomatic’ so as to appeal to ladies ‘unable … to follow the Persian idioms’.8 Until a generation ago, women commonly read out addresses that blended prose and poetry from inexpensive pamphlet anthologies. Such handbooks for women’s assemblies are still available, but in urban gatherings, these relatively simple texts were largely supplanted, first by long marsiyah poems that narrated Husain’s tragedy as a sort of epic cycle and then, in the mid-twentieth century, by sermons. Today, preachers devise overall topics for each lecture, and then interleave whole stories, poems and Quranic suras with their own explanations, transitions and rhetorical questions. Crucial texts including the Quran, Taufat ul awam (a major compendium of Shi’i injunctions and lore), Shi’i Hadith, and the sayings of the first imam, Ali, are supplemented with religious and secular poetry in Urdu and the odd work in English on science, economics or sociology. Formulae and quotes from these sources have an incantatory, authoritative ring in repetition and they are also manipulable. This makes for efficiency in sermon preparation, memorisation and delivery for zakirahs who preach twice a day for 10 days at a minimum and more

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likely for 20 days or more. An intimacy with Shia miracle narratives, Karbala martyrdom vignettes, mourning poetry and other sermons by male and female preachers form an audience’s assumed, extensive background for any one sermon, and congregations are ever ready to assess or challenge the zakirah’s creativity as she interprets canonical texts.

The Zakirah While today many of the better-known female preachers who travel within or between South Asian communities to deliver Muharram sermons tend to be middle-aged women, often teachers or professors, some local zakirahs are very young. Shabih-uz-Zahrah of central Lahore began delivering sermons when she was about 11. At 20, the statuesque Shabih cuts a dramatic figure with her austere black robes and erect posture. Her name, Shabih-uz-Zahra (‘replica of Zahra’) affiliates her with Fatima Zahra, the daughter of the Prophet. Shabih’s mother, a financially secure Panjabi matron, subsidises all ritual activities in the simple neighbourhood worship hall where Shabih delivers most of her sermons. Proud of her clan’s 200-year-old ta‘ziyah, a wood and cloth representation of Husain’s mausoleum that is carried at Muharram processions, she fought a prolonged legal battle to register its permit in her name instead of that of a male relative. Both mother and daughter were so energetic in their devotions that members of their extended family fretted about Shabih’s demanding preaching schedule adversely affecting her college education.

The Majlis Sermon: Ritual Speech? This speech by Shabih Zahra is representative of most sermons in that its declarations and claims progress from a didactic ground to a highly emotional one. I deal here with patterns of language use only in the initial section of the sermon, known as the faza’il (faza¯’il), the ‘virtues’ (of the imams and the Prophet’s family). The later portion of the majlis address, the masa’ib (masa¯ ’ib), recounts the Karbala martyrs’ suffering and deaths. The sermon under discussion here, delivered on the third of Muharram in the hijri year 1417 (May 1997), came to 22 transcribed pages, of which the masa’ib’s heart-rending images of Husain’s traumatised children and female relatives amounted to only three pages. The overall authority for the sermon derives from the Quranic sura 97, Lailat-il-qadr:

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In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful. 1. 2. 3. 4.

We revealed it on the Night of Power (Lailat-il-qadr). Ah, what will convey unto thee what the Night of Power is! The Night of Power is better than a thousand months. The angels and the Spirit descend therein, by the permission of their Lord, with all decrees. 5. (That night is) Peace until the rising of the dawn.9 The ‘night of power’ is usually taken to refer to the 27th of Ramzan when the first verses of the Quran were revealed on Mt. Hira. On this day annually, God’s decrees for the year are brought down to the earthly plane. Shabih gradually reveals aspects of the sura’s esoteric meaning through dialogues that feature Ali (the Prophet’s son-in-law and cousin as well as the first Shi’i imam) and the sixth imam Jafarus-Sadiq. These culminate in the assertion that the hidden meaning of the word ‘night’ refers to the Prophet’s daughter Fatima. Fatima was also Ali’s wife and the mother of Hasan and Husain, the second and third imams. Well into her sermon, Shabih explains that the sixth imam’s equation of night (‘lail’) with Fatima is grounded in the image of night as an obscuring cloak or a veil — since Fatima epitomises women’s veiled modesty, it only makes sense that the ‘lail’ in lailatil-qadr should be taken to refer to Fatima.

Poetry and Ritual Speech Early in the sermon, Shabih foreshadows this key theme of reverence for Fatima through poetry. She begins by reinforcing mourning for Husain as the reason for the assembly, offers recitations in Arabic and then intones Urdu poetry. Listeners loudly chorus the salavat (or darud), the Arabic chant ‘Allahumma s.aleh‘ala Muh.ammadin va a¯l-e Muh.ammad!’ (Blessings on Muhammad and on the family of Muhammad) at regular intervals and when the names of the Prophet’s family are mentioned. The women also offer verbal approbation and join in to finish the second line of poetic couplets. Shabih’s voice, deep and authoritative for such a youngster, carries startling gravity. Her measured delivery contrasts with both the rapid-fire hortatory and the conversational modes of speech later in the sermon. Recite the salavat for the one who is a piece of Ali’s heart and the light of his eyes. Recite the salavat for the Prophet’s thirsty grandson, Husain.

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I begin my speech in the name of Allah, I manifest my meaning on a sheet of paper. I praise and extol the perfection of the Master of the world, I bring the verse that declares God’s unity to my lips. Remembrance of God’s unity is wealth, a treasure, God’s praises mow down miscreants.10

Shabih follows these verses with two that assert the Prophetic nature of Fatima, a bold interjection given the sensitivity of theological matters relating to the Prophet: Islam is a bounty bestowed by Batu¯l [that is, the pure Fatima] The character of Fatima is itself the religion of the Prophet

Two older ladies comment: ‘No doubt, no doubt!’ Fatima is the fulfillment of all Prophethoods That is to say, she is the flower of chastity upon the Prophet’s branch Even if someone disapproves, I’ll say unhesitatingly, In the world of women, she too is a Prophet!

Shabih here positions Fatima Zahra as a lofty, transhistorical female figure, boldly asserting Fatima’s authoritative status as a ‘prophet’, and defining Islam through the virtue of a feminine exemplar. The sources of authority for these claims and information, however, are rather remote and ambiguous. The first person is used, but in a grand, rather generic poetic voice distinct from that employed when Shabih engages her audience in a direct, conversational tone. The slow speed and exaggeration of the poetic metre reinforce both a ritualistic speech pattern and a specialised lexicon there is nonetheless the attempt to locate Shi’i history in a transhistorical, metaphysical realm, temporarily excising the specificity of one’s present in Pakistan.

Preaching and Represented Speech Another major presentation mode in the majlis features the reenactment of instructive dialogues. In this sermon’s first, Imam Ali proclaims that ‘Every letter [of the Quran] holds within itself some overt meaning and some secret meaning. It retains a secret meaning.’ This is an excerpt from Shabih’s subsequent narration:

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Now, someone among the companions [of Ali], one of the people, asked, ‘Oh Leader of the Faithful, does every letter’ — not ‘every word’, mind you, but ‘every letter!’ — ’of the Quran really hold an overt meaning and a secret one?!’ He said, ‘Yes!’ That gentleman was the very picture of amazement! People began to question amazedly, ‘Well, then, oh, Leader of the Faithful, just how many overt meanings does every letter of the Quran have, and how many secret meanings?’ Our Master said, ‘Listen! Every letter of the Quran has not one, not two, not seventy meanings …’ When he said ‘seventy’, people became further amazed and asked, ‘Oh, Master, more than seventy?!’ He replied, ‘Yes, not seventy, but rather, each letter of the Quran holds within it one thousand overt meanings and holds one thousand inner meanings!’ ‘It holds a thousand inner meanings’.

The insistent repetition demonstrated here, especially with respect to the phrases about the number of meanings in Quranic verses, holds over a much longer section of the text than can be presented. The linguist John W. Du Bois identifies repetition and structural parallelism, also prominent in this dialogue, as part of a cluster of characteristics that tend to shift responsibility for utterances away from the actual speaker (here, the zakirah). It is interesting to consider that the zakirah may be emboldened to traverse points of sectarian controversy and masculine authority by having her rhetoric deflect attention from her person. These features, along with others such as rhythmic and versified speech, ‘archaic’ language, and formulaic expressions, appear in many different ritual contexts (Du Bois highlights divination rites).11 Parallel structures in which answers and questions mirror and/or include each other or questions with slight variants, as quoted previously, also form convenient building blocks for oral discourse. They can exert a persuasive influence over listeners, generate anticipation and invite participation. In an Urduspeaking context, listeners are likely to respond intuitively to metred, repetitive phrases in part because the strict parallelism of metre and monorhyme of popular religious and secular poetic forms are so familiar. Shabih’s listeners, as I have pointed out, often chime in on successive repetitions of a key phrase or complete a line of poetry along with her.

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Here, when Shabih intones statements in a sort of theatrical, ‘acting’ mode, they are usually those attributed to the imam and the words are slow, weighted and drawn out. Then, in the midst of the dialogue, insertions appear in a generic ‘narrator’s voice’ (‘People began to question amazedly,…‘), along with exclamations in Shabih’s own voice: ‘not “every word”, mind you, but “every letter!’’’ ‘Preaching’ here features fairly short, straightforward sentences, but is more prosodically constrained and formulaic than conversational speech. It also contains segments in which the actual speaker was not a direct party or witness to the knowledge being conveyed.12 In the majlis example, the specific authorities for what is said are the imams, historical and partly supernatural personages. The zakirah, the utterer of the statements, functions as what DuBois might term a ‘proximate speaker’, a sort of vehicle who is conveying but not responsible for the imam’s authoritative explanations (Du Bois 1986; Chafe 1993). At the same time, the teaching context of the majlis provides a parallel, very pronounced at certain points, between the imam and his interlocutors and the zakirah and the audience that she admonishes, teaches and even teases. Where some slippage in voices occurs and the two didactic frames almost converge, or Shabih suddenly interjects her ‘own’ voice into such a reconstructed dialogue, her personal authority as a preacher stands to gain. Such seeming unevenness may also shift the feel of the dialogue towards a storytelling mode that slightly diminishes the remoteness of the revered imam’s authority and reminds of the specific moment, both the immediate milieu and the context of Pakistan. This dialogue culminates with the question of what learned person might possibly know the thousand outer and thousand inner meanings of the Quran, to which Ali, the ‘leader of the faithful’, responds with the saying that Allah has ‘secured in the person of the manifest imam the knowledge of all things’.13 In transition to the next dialogue, Shabih invokes another truth she claims that most Muslims have failed to take to heart: ‘Fatima is a part of myself, and Ali also’.14 She goes on to ask: How could the world that couldn’t understand the place of Ali ever understand, ‘Fatima is a piece of myself?’ How could they understand the place of that cloistered lady, sitting at home?

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Shabih’s presentation style here is still theatrical but she speaks rapidly in very simple Urdu when she poses her question. In contrast, when she cites the Prophet saying ‘Fatima is a part of myself, and Ali also’, she uses Arabic, then delivers the Urdu translation slowly and carefully, especially the first few times she utters it. When we look to the content of this proclamation, Shabih’s audience, composed in large part of ‘cloistered ladies’, is particularly wellpositioned to appreciate Fatima’s status. Shabih’s sermon as a whole also strongly indicates that here she is subtly aligning Shi’i Islam itself with the feminine as exemplified by the position of Fatima. She reinforces the alignment through constant references to the critical significance of the family or household of the Prophet and to the lineage of 12 imams birthed by Fatima. The parallel is developed more intriguingly, though, by stress on knowledge that is esoteric, and like Fatima ‘veiled’ and undervalued. In the next segment of the sermon, the young preacher continues to stress the need to respect hidden knowledge and the limitations ordinary folk face in accessing it.

‘How Could Your Wits Know the Heights of our Wisdom!’ Someone asked the blessed Imam Ja’far-us Sadi¯q, ‘Master, oh Imam, tell me this, please: to what night does “Lailat-ul-qadr” refer?’ He said, ‘Oh, questioner, tell me: Do you want to hear the overt meaning, or the hidden meaning?’ The man said, ‘Today since I’m hearing these words for the first time directly from your lips, first tell me the secret meaning, the interior one, the one at the core, the veiled one. First tell me that meaning’. Then the imam said … ‘Oh, questioner …’ Now, if this saying was that of a sage or a documenter of a Hadith, or a Quranic commentator, or an interpreter of the Quran, I wouldn’t relate it, but this saying is a saying from the learned son of the Gateway to Knowledge about a Quranic matter, a matter of knowledge. So what did our Master say? ‘It’s difficult to understand our [the Prophet’s immediate family members’] concerns; they’re demanding; everyone does not have the capacity to understand the nature of our special knowledge simply by hearing of it. Not everyone can comprehend it’.15

Four or five variations follow of this often invoked statement, attributed to several of the imams: ‘Our concerns are difficult, they’re

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demanding; it’s not within everyone’s capability that they should go on hearing of our special knowledge and understand it’. Shabih continues, See here, if there comes a point where your wits cannot approach our wisdom, then leave it to us; don’t vex yourself! How could your wits have the scope to know the heights of our wisdom! Who, after all, can know our heights of knowledge, our heights of greatness?

Listeners, it seems, may partake of certain hidden knowledge revealed to the imams but they are also reassured, even warned, that they need not trouble themselves unduly over the innermost meanings. The intensity with which the preacher makes this point leaves little doubt that it is addressed to the audience at hand as well as to the imam’s listener in the anecdote. Yet the commanding voice is clearly that of the imam, thrown into high relief by the meta-commentary as Shabih both insistently reiterates imamite authority and asserts her own discrimination in selecting the lesson (‘Now, if this saying was that of a sage or a documenter of a Hadith or a Quranic commentator, or an interpreter of the Quran, I wouldn’t relate it, but this saying …’). There is the hint of a suggestion here that not only might the immediate audience not be able to access esoteric knowledge but that the wider Sunni population are shut out from its riches as much by their own doing, as by circumstances beyond their control and knowledge. Is there not a secret pride here that one would know to believe that each letter of the Quran holds one thousand outer meanings and one thousand inner ones? In the next excerpt, intensely juxtaposed voices work to diffuse responsibility for the very knowledge Shabih asserts. Shabih explicitly locates the true authority for the sermon’s content with foundational texts and Islamic history. But she also issues personal claims to be articulating commonly held Shi’i belief. This she accomplishes in large part through contrastive references to her claims about the centrality of Fatima versus the beliefs of (non-Shi’i) people in general. Shabih’s voice is very pronounced, very individualistic, when she annotates a powerful statement she has uttered as the ‘proximate speaker’ of a statement in the Prophet’s voice. She then immediately configures ‘the voice of history’ as a sort of authoritative speaker that speaks through her:

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‘… from Fatima’s head I imbibe the fragrance of Paradise!’ So, lailatil-qadr is more excellent than the nights of a thousand months. Her honour, the mistress of women of all worlds … Hey, I’m not making this up myself here! I’m telling you the importance of the knowledge of Fatima, from the Quran, from the Hadith, with the voice of history. We don’t just talk among ourselves about the importance of knowing Fatima. People say, they say, ‘Shias say that Ali excels the Prophets, Ali is loftier than the Prophets.’ Well I say that, since lailat-il-qadr excels the nights of a thousand months, we believe also that, let alone Ali, Fatima, the mistress of women of all worlds … SHE, the mistress of women of all worlds, also excels every Prophet, from Adam to Jesus!’

In this instance, it is almost as though the voices of the Prophet (‘… from Fatima’s head I imbibe the fragrance of Paradise!’), the young preacher herself, and that of ‘history’ are three speakers jockeying for attention. Shortly thereafter, about halfway through her sermon, Shabih-uzZahra suddenly interrogates her audience. She almost seamlessly maintains the tone and rhetorical style she ascribes to Imam Jafarus-Sa¯diq, whom she has just depicted instructing his own stunned followers, yet now she unmistakably addresses the audience before her. ‘Are you perplexed?!’ ‘No!’ several shout. ‘You’re not tired? Because today, no matter what, I must finish up my topic of Lailat-il-qadr, the night of power.’

Deceptive Simplicity: Lessons in Modesty Our next example immediately follows this declaration. One of its most notable features is the use of simple prose punctuated by rhyme to explain and simplify another message the listening women should take to heart. Now, the Quran says ‘lailat il qadr’. It wasn’t recognized; people could not identify what it was. Lailat-il-qadr was not recognized by people. And what is the significance of Lailat-il-qadr?! The night of Lailat-il-qadr is not just an excuse to light up lanterns or set up illuminations, it’s not for the purpose of distributing sweets or for presenting gifts within the home! Rather, Lailat-il-qadr is an occasion and a time for the acknowledgment of Fatima!

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Here local ‘customs’ of decorations, gift-giving and celebration, as opposed to meditation on deeper religious messages, come in for a bit of criticism. Since the nineteenth century, many South Asian Islamic reformists have suggested that the world of possibly Indicised religious custom is a realm especially appealing to, and thus, perpetuated by Muslim women.16 As Shabih lightly chides her audience, rhyme reinforces memorably what lailat-il-qadr is, and what it is not. For the activities Shabih trivialises, she uses the phrases, naam nahiñ and kaam nahiñ. The counterposed expressions are naam hai and muqaam hai. Here again we can identify a ‘preaching’ style that blends straightforward diction with rhyme and short formulaic, well integrated sentences. The next dialogue highlighted here depicts a charged exchange between the Prophet and his daughter. Its placement as the penultimate of about 10 vignettes or narratives within the episodic sermon makes it a significant bridge to the thundering conclusion of the sermon’s didactic segment. It is also the single example of Shabih representing Fatima’s own speech. The anecdote’s salient point is Fatima’s modest hesitance to let a male guest of the Prophet enter her home when she is there, even though the guest is blind. Shabih’s audience relishes this lesson, their comments and exclamations revealing that they know beforehand how perfectly Fatima will behave when put to the test. ‘If you want to summon forth the first page, the pre-eminent example, first you’ll have to look to the character of Fatima’:

‘Subh.a¯nallah!’17 ‘Daughter, may I come in?’

‘Wa¯h, wa¯h!’ “Who’s stopping you father, dear? This is your home. Please enter.” “Daughter, a blind companion is with me.” There was a pause. He asked again, “Daughter, may I come in?”’

‘Ah! Hmmmm!’ The listening women now issue a joint exclamation, a thrilled hum of recognition at the quandary that Fatima faces. The audience, in fact, perks up rather noticeably.

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‘“Father, I yearn to make obeisance at your feet. Please enter. Who is stopping you? This is your very own home.”’ ‘‘‘Daughter, I also have a blind companion along with me,” his voice came again’.

‘Hmmmmm!’ ‘It’s not that the Prophet didn’t know what was going on; he knew absolutely everything, but … he wanted to demonstrate the stature of Fatima. He wanted to demonstrate the greatness of Fatima’.

‘Salavat!’ ‘Her voice came: “Father, I’m most helpless. Father, I’m terribly helpless. My cha¯dar is so torn and patched that if I cover my face, my body shows, and if I cover my body, my face appears. Father, how can I bid the blind man to enter?” “Daughter, he’s blind. He doesn’t even have eyes”. She said, “Father dear, what does it matter if he doesn’t have eyes; I do! I do!”’

Shabih’s voice rings out exultantly. These last few lines contain dense references to themes her audience cherishes, and move the sermon forward with dialogue and action that contrasts intensely with the many stylised passages of repetition and paraphrasing. The segments of sacred text, wordplay and formulaic speech both provide a respite from lessons and anecdotes, and set the stage for them, bracketing scenes such as this one emphatically. Who can compare with Fatima’s unimpeachable modesty and chastity, when she insists upon purdah even before a blind man? This vignette has several interesting facets. The implication that female eyes could commit some impropriety indicates that modesty involves more than sheltering a woman from the male gaze. Also key to Shi’i idealisations of the Prophet’s family are the poverty and simplicity espoused by Muhammad, attested here by Fatima’s torn and patched cloak. More potent, though, is the subtext concerning the penetrating vision wielded by the Prophet’s family. Just as Muhammad has supernatural knowledge, including the ability to know or ‘see’ Fatima’s total purity, the imams perceive past, present and future, hold ‘manifest knowledge of all things’, and exercise ‘vision with the heart’.18 Fatima’s extreme interpretation of modesty, her true ‘eyes’, echoes the imams’ special ability to ‘see’. It is noteworthy, of course, that Fatima Zahra’s verbal statements and Shabih’s implications

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about her physical comportment are gendered embodiments of modesty. Rather than declarations that exhibit overt authority or challenge listeners, it is the exemplarity of Fatima’s deferential behaviour that testifies to her authoritative status. As Max Weiss has pointed out in the context of Lebanese Shi’i sm, ‘Shi’i doctrine has been saturated with particular interpretations of ‘correct’ gender roles and the role of gender in an adequately pious society’ (Weiss 2007). The Shi’i lore and anecdotes sprinkled liberally through Pakistani majlis lectures are excellent examples of particular interpretations of more formal textual doctrine. It makes embodied feminine piety resonant with textual interdictions.

The Heart of the Matter Shabih has thus launched her discussion of Fatima’s importance from a foundation of moral purity and intimacy with the Prophet. However, from this point the young woman takes a perspective on Fatima’s centrality that is increasingly abstract and mystical, less grounded in social interaction. Parallels among hidden meanings, Shi’i Islam as the true Islam and the powerful veiled Fatima are made somewhat more explicit. As Shabih develops this trajectory, she inserts more frequent declarations in the first person, although she continues to allude to a broad range of authority figures including Fatima herself, specific verses of the Quran, and a body of ‘Sunni and Shi’i scholars’. ‘Listeners…’ ‘Blessings in the name of Her Honour, the mistress of women, Her Honour, Lady Fatima Zahra!’ one of the robust-voiced poetry reciters cries out. ‘Allahumma .saleh ‘ala Muh.ammadin va a¯l-e Muh.ammad!’

Shabih-uz-Zahra resumes her discussion of lailat-il-qadr, still speaking loudly but very, very rapidly: ‘Folks, why was the example of Fatima given through lailat-ul-qadr? There are other terms, “Tree of the Great Lady”, ‘Abundance’ (kausar), the verse of Kubra. As many of these names as there are in the Quran, I declare to you, they are names of Jana¯b-e Sayyidah.’ (Jana¯b-e Sayyidah is very common epithet for Fatima, especially in Shi’i story literature.)

‘No doubt!’

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The ‘Tree of the Great Lady’, shujarah-e sayyidah, is possibly meant to recall one of the ‘blessed’ or ‘pure’ trees mentioned in the Quran, as in for example the shujarah mubarakah in sura 24:35. That verse lends itself to an interpretation venerating Muhammad’s lineage and his daughter specifically: ‘Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The similitude of His light is as a niche wherein is a lamp. The lamp is in a glass. The glass is as it were a shining star. (This lamp is) kindled from a blessed tree…’19 The scholar of Islam David Pinault points out that, starting with early Hadith literature, this verse has been a rich source of interpretation and analogy in Shi’ism (Pinault 2001: 64–65). The light imagery that pervades it has also had a special resonance in majlis texts over the centuries. Just as Muharram poetry frequently refers to the ‘light of the lamp’ of faith, of Islam, kept alive by the imams, the idea of a lamp on earth kindled by a ‘blessed tree’ serves as a potent Shi’i symbol for faith, belief, Islam, kept alive by Fatima’s lineage. The ‘lamp’ and ‘glass’ also are imbued with qualities that mesh with the meanings of part of Fatima’s name, Zahra¯: ‘shining,’ ‘bright’, ‘white’, ‘resplendent’. Shabih (whose own name means ‘replica of Zahra’) develops her exegesis of the hidden meaning of the Quranic text lailat-ul-qadr, with ‘night’ as synonymous with Fatima, against this very familiar idea of Fatima Zahra as white and pure. I maintain that such details are both resonant with the Shi’i tradition and with the particular context of Pakistan in which one grounds Shi’i claims to Islam as much through theological argumentation and ritual enactment, as through insisting upon one’s rights as citizens of Pakistan. Shabih’s reference to kausar resonates with sura 108: ‘Lo! We have given thee Abundance; So pray unto thy Lord and Sacrifice. Lo! It is thy insulter (and not thou) who is without posterity’. Some commentaries assert that ‘disbelievers used to taunt the Prophet with the fact that he had no son, and therefore none to uphold religion after him’ (Pickthall 1977: 734). In the Shi’i view, the person of Fatima as the source of the imamite lineage would refute this taunt, embodying the ‘abundance’ of the Quranic text. In the majlis context, Shabih apparently equates Fatima with ‘the tremendous token’, kubra, of sura 79:18–22, ‘ implying that those who disavow her importance turn their faces from Allah: ‘And say (unto him): Hast thou (will) to grow (in grace?) Then I will guide thee to thy Lord and thou shalt fear (Him). And he showed him the tremendous token. But he denied and disobeyed’. These verses are embedded in

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a passage about Moses’ attempts, at Allah’s behest, to warn Pharaoh away from his wickedness. Shabih now further develops the theme of the Prophet’s family’s hidden but vital presence in the Quran. ‘There is no segment [of the Quran] that doesn’t relate the virtues of this household. Please recite the salavat’.

‘Allahumma s.aleh ‘ala Muh.ammadin va a¯l-e Muh.ammad!’ ‘But lailat-il-qadr was not recognized, it could not be identified what night lailat-il-qadr was. And, up until today, the history of the world is testament to the fact that lailat-il-qadr has not been recognized by people. Sunni and Shi’i scholars are agreed that it hasn’t been established whether the verse lailat-il-qadr means the night of the twenty-seventh of Ramza¯n, the night of the fifteenth of Shaba¯n, the night of the twentyfirst of Ramza¯n, or the night of the nineteenth of Ramza¯n. So, lailat-il-qadr was not recognized by people’.

Shabih’s voice then slows profoundly: ‘Now, I put it to you that if we had attained true knowledge of Fatima, then every Muslim would have the faith that Fatima held after the Prophet [passed on].’

‘Allahumma s.aleh ‘ala Muh.ammadin va a¯l-e Muh.ammad!’ ‘And even such a world as has turned its face from Fatima’s way, a world that has rejected it, and will continue to reject it, could have had faith just the same [as Fatima’s]. Its faith would have been the same’.

‘This is true …’ ‘All creation could have been [willingly] abandoned, if true knowledge of Fatima had been attained. All creation could have been abandoned, and Fatima would not have been abandoned. All creation could have ground to a halt, and Fatima would not have been eliminated’.

One of the implications here is that Islam would have remained true or pure if ordinary believers had maintained the faith and readiness to sacrifice even in the face of anguish that Fatima did (she knew, for example, of Husain’s fate at Karbala, though she died before the event). On another level, though, a distinction is again being reinforced

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between those, Shias, who acknowledge Fatima as a mystic power and an intercessor and the larger world that ‘rejected’ Fatima as an authority in her own right.

Power Plays: Assertions and Disclaimers of Authority Despite the range of Shabih’s material and her theatrics, the audience eventually becomes a bit restless. Even as she builds to a rousing comparison of Fatima with lailat-il-qadr itself, low mumblings among some of the women become too disruptive for her taste: Lailat-il-qadr is a vessel, a receptacle for all of the verses of the Quran, for all of the chapters of the Quran. I am compelled, then, to say — PAY ATTENTION TO ME!! — that Jana¯b-e Fatima, Fatima, is … the … name … of the source of any of the imams that have attained the level of the imamate, or of any of the saints that have attained the level of sainthood. The name of the source of all of the imams, with the exception of Ali, from Imam H.asan on up through the last imam, is … Fatima. Recite the salavat!

The curt scolding she looses on the chatterers, most some 30 years her senior, suggests nothing so much as an exasperated schoolteacher in a roomful of irrepressibly naughty pupils. In another, later personal interjection, however, Shabih proffers a disclaimer in a tone far less dramatic than in the rest of the sermon, when she shifts from the ‘virtues’ segment of her sermon to the ‘sufferings’ portion. But I have taken much time, and I myself am still just a schoolgirl. The Nurturer bestows effectiveness upon those who preach of Muhammad’s family according to their abilities. According to their individual abilities. If anyone is able to understand some of this information or just listen to it, many thanks to them. Please recite the salavat together. So, listeners, the subject of lailat-il-qadr is moving towards its conclusion. In tomorrow’s majlis, God willing, we’ll continue to progress towards our theme. Please just recite the salavat together.

These expressions of humility might initially suggest a hedging, shifting or negotiation strategy in the ritualised speech of the Muharram majlis, the sort of disclaimers that folklorist and linguistic anthropologist Richard Bauman has shown can signal ‘partial’ or unartful ‘performances’, by speakers in contexts where ‘the act of speech

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is framed as display’ (Baumann 1993: 182–96). The disclaimers uttered by female majlis preachers, though, are also typically formulaic acknowledgments of where real authority lies, with Allah or revered religious personages. Certainly religious orators around the world offer similar deferential gestures that publicly attribute their talent or inspiration to the almighty. Yet ultimately, Shabih — not unlike the demure Fatima of her anecdote — may well be pointing to personal gifts that are anything but inadequate. Disclaimers of personal power or capacity in effect imply that the zakirah’s oratorical gifts, if appreciated, are divinely inspired, and thus still possibly a testament to some kind of special status on the part of the speaker. The sermon, with its variation of voices, delivery styles and intimate or remote authority intermittently shifts oratorical authority to the sacred realm but also asserts the zakirah’s authority over her listeners. We have seen that in mourning assembly sermons, quoted speech is more mysterious, poetic and stylised than segments in which the preacher hectors her audience or situates herself as, for example, ‘a simple schoolgirl’ or ‘an ordinary woman’. A blurring of the linguistic devices featured in constructed speech and the preacher’s ‘own’ pronouncements, however, can reduce the distance between the voices of religious authority and female majlis participants. In contrast, the preacher’s formulaic chanting of Quranic verses at the beginning of the mourning assembly, as well as her heightened animation and expressive rising and falling intonation when she recreates the imams’ speeches, mitigate her ‘responsibility’ for these powerful utterances though it is she who produces the words.

Revisiting Ritual Speech The notion of ‘ritual speech’ or ‘ritualised speech’ can link voice, authority and gender, but it does not accommodate all of Shabih’s rhetorical strategies. The young preacher, for example, strikingly emphasises ‘translation’ and explanation of the very subject matter and terminology she exalts as specialised and obscure. Her drive to make lessons accessible counterbalances the complex array of oral and written sources of authority she deploys. And popular constructions of uneducated and especially, female majlis congregations play a major role in how she and other preachers generally frame and transcreate their source material. Aside from performed sermons, there exist whole genres of written literature intended explicitly for the edification of women. Prominent among the inexpensive booklets available from

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Shi’i shops are works that foreground the ‘brave women of Karbala’ (particularly Hazrat Zainab) as role models, and collections of scripted sermons ‘for women’ by respected male orators. The zakirah typically draws on these familiar materials, as well as Arabic texts. In contrast, many case studies by linguistic anthropologists that pertain to ritual speech seem to analyse exclusively oral traditions. A number of the elements scholars such as Du Bois consider broadly characteristic of ritual speech — a special ritual register, borrowed elements, euphemism and metaphor, semantic–grammatical parallelism, marked voice quality — appear in the majlis sermon (Du Bois 1986: 317–68). Yet, in the majlis, translation — of Arabic texts into Urdu, of lofty teachings into prescriptions for everyday behavior, of intricate sets of symbols into revered but personalised characters — is a consistent priority. Translation accompanies a recognition of the bounds of listeners’ capabilities (or ‘wits’), in contrast to the imam’s virtually limitless capabilities. In the ethnographic and sociolinguistic data Du Bois surveys, however, the poetics and paralanguage of ritual speech often result in ‘obscurity in meaning, even for those members of the culture for whom the ritual is being carried out’ (ibid.: 318). The accessibilty of majlis addresses, I suggest, corresponds to a high degree of general participation on the part of listeners relative to the rituals of oracles, divination and divine mediation that many analysts of ritual speech discuss. While Shabih vaunts ideas of esotericism and inner or hidden meanings — especially as expressed through images of veiling and purity — the sermon’s success hinges more on audible, verbal, emotional participation and validation than on mystery and inaccessibility. A majlis audience’s interjections and responses may be limited or formulaic but they frequently suggest zeal, aesthetic discrimination and individual initiative. They suggest that the audience is aware of the various ways Shabih works to exalt the Shi’i tradition in a conflict ridden milieu, even taking it outside this framework to the transhistorical, while at the same time instantiating the singularity of feminine piety within the tradition itself. They are aware and keep pace with her shifting field of references in which she places herself alternatively in the foreground and in the background to allow her to enact a voice that is both hers and that of the tradition. This interactive dynamic sets the majlis apart from ritual contexts that feature a very wide gulf between presiding authorities and a hushed, respectful audience. But the majlis sermon also stands out from sermon-like speeches in many other cultural settings in that

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it is framed within an event that culminates in a specific ritualised, transformational act, that is, weeping for Husain. There is an extremely categorical transition from instructive, directive speech and a high proportion of citations from the Quran, historical sources, and traditions of the Prophet’s family to explicit present-tense expressions of emotional anguish shared by the family of Husain, poets, preachers and majlis audience.

Conclusion The stress zakirahs lay on simplification and exegesis generates a forum for participation even as it reinforces a construction of the female audience themselves as simple or even ignorant. Like many other zakirahs, Shabih alludes frequently to hierarchies of knowledge and to her audience’s limited perception and formal schooling. In a slight twist on this theme, a preacher I heard in Karachi upbraided her congregation, a more affluent and highly educated one than Shabih’s, for failing to have the appropriate poetry books available for her to consult. How, she asked irritatedly, could members of a ‘rare, educated group of women’, not have the marsiyah poetry of the great Mir Anis ready to hand?20 The content of Shabih’s sermon triumphantly presents the Prophet’s daughter as the very source of the imamate. Over the course of her talk, Shabih has shown how Fatima’s status is inscribed in the Quran, how it recalls Muhammad to his heavenly encounter and how it surpasses that of prophets. In the process, she has striven to appeal to women on a range of levels: she cites Quranic authority and Hadith, animatedly acts out scenes of esoteric revelations and domestic encounters and lauds the possibilities of a night on which any prayer can be fulfilled. Constantly harkening back to concepts of unity and separateness, Shabih has also posited hidden and overt texts, unity that can never be torn asunder and distinctions — especially those between Shias and Sunnis — that matter. Feminised authority is invoked, with the notion of Fatima’s power as a litmus test of Shia– Sunni differences and in a subtext that aligns the obscured nature of the true Shia understandings of the Quran with Fatima’s modesty and veiling. Fatima’s importance, Shabih shows, encompasses the male lineage of Shia imams and pervades the Quran itself. In fact Fatima is virtually presented as a part of, or a partner in, the Quran (shark-ulQur’a¯n). Her intercession is also valued in the prayers, requests and

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life-cycle rites that are especially prominent in most female piety. But although a distinct power and knowledge of her own is ascribed to Hazrat Fatima, it is almost entirely through the reported words of the Prophet and the imams that the sermon establishes and shores up her role in Shia piety. These utterances of the imams, as presented by Shabih, tend to relay maximum religious authority and limited responsibility on the part of the preacher. At the margins of the imams’ recreated utterances, though, it is possible for the speakers’ identitities to blur, suggesting that we cannot always simply indexically derive categories of women’s speech, men’s speech and prestigious or powerful speech from the identities of speakers. By the same token, the zakirah’s rhetorical positioning occasionally suggests an intriguing identification between the speaker herself and the imam, but perhaps the only point at which Shabih models Fatima’s comportment is in her claim of deference and modesty. Ultimately, while Shabih’s sermon incorporates popular, generalised assumptions about Pakistani women’s limited education and social motivations for religious participation, it also certainly challenges received wisdom about the derivative nature of women’s assemblies vis-a-vis those conducted by male orators. This sermon, and others like it, suggest strongly that there exist potent interrelationships between ideologies of gender, gendered cultural practices and certain contemporary currents in Pakistani society, notably Shia–Sunni sectarian tensions.

Notes 1. Assessments of the Shia population vary, but this is a fairly consistent estimate. In India, approximately 11 per cent of the population is Muslim, and Shias account for perhaps 10 per cent of that community. Muslims make up about 25 per cent of the total population of the subcontinent. See David Pinault (2001: 14); Moojan Momen (1985: 277) and David Pinault (2001:14). 2. Dr Azra Raza, ‘Highly Respected Community Leader, Well Known Social Worker, Begum Zaheer Ali Raza Dies in Pakistan at 82’ (e-mail obituary, 13 March 2002). ‘Anjuman-e K.hava¯ti¯n-e H.usaini¯’ means roughly ‘The Husaini Women’s Society’ or ‘The Society of Women Dedicated to Husain,’ while ‘Anjuman-e-K.hava¯ti¯n-e Shi¯‘ah’ would be the ‘Shi’i Women’s [or ‘Ladies’] Society’. 3. Diane D’Souza (1997); Gulza¯r Niga¯r K.ha¯n, personal communication, June 12, 1998. 4. Kajjan Begam, personal communication, 6 June 1997.

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5. H.aveli¯ is a word now used for a large, old-fashioned type of home, usually multi-storied, and containing a courtyard. 6. For observations on more rigid standards of ritual behavior and seclusion for sayyid women outside of the subcontinent, see Mary Elaine Hegland, ‘Political Roles of Aliabad Women: The Public-Private Dichotomy Transcended’, in Keddie and Baron (1991: 216–218). 7. The Dah Majlis (Ten Majlises) are a range of texts in Persian or Urdu based on the Iranian Mulla¯ Kama¯l-ul-di¯n Husain Wa¯i‘z Ka¯shifi¯’s famous Rawzat usShuhada (Garden of the Martyrs, 908 AH/1502 CE) (1911). Another Persian source for early Urdu majlis poems was Muhtasham Kasha¯ni¯’s sixteenthcentury marsiyah, known as the Karbala¯ -na¯ mah. Prof. Haki¯m Sayyid Muhammad Kama¯l-ul-di¯n Husain Hamda¯ni¯, in the introduction to Ya¯ zdah majlis-e Mi¯r Hasan Dehlavi¯ (1994) dates the first Urdu translation of Dah Majlis, by Fazl ‘ali¯ Fazli¯ to 1145 AH/1732 CE. According to Intiza¯r Husain, though, Ka¯li¯da¯s Gupta Raza¯ has traced a Deccani translation to 1092/1681 See Intiza¯r Husain, ‘Hindu Contribution to the Marsiya’ (2002) and Ka¯li¯da¯s Gupta Raza¯ Sha‘u¯r-e gham (unpublished booklet, n.d.). 8. Rizvi clarifies that the early 1092/1681 translation is a poetic one but also argues that prose versions existed before that offered by Fazli¯ (1145/1732), which Rizvi believes was aimed at women. See Saiyid Athar Abbas Rizvi (1986: vol. 2. 355). 9. Lailat-il-qadr, the night of power, probably refers to 27th of Ramzan when the first verses of the Quran were revealed on Mt. Hira. On this day, God’s decrees for the year are brought down to the earthly plane. This is the Quranic sura as translated by M. M. Pickthall (1977: 725). 10. Translations by Amy Bard unless otherwise noted. 11. Jane H. Hill and Judith T. Irvine (1993: 10) Also John W. Du Bois, ‘Self-evidence and Ritual Speech’, in Wallace L. Chafe and Johanna Nichols (1986). 12. For development of a stratified model of speech styles (conversation/chanting/ speech) that index different levels of speaker responsibility, see, Du Bois, ‘Self-evidence and Ritual Speech’, but also Wallace Chafe, ‘Seneca Speaking Styles and the Location of Authority’, in Hill and Irvine (1993: 73). 13. Wa-kull shay’ ahsaynahu fi¯ ima¯ m mubi¯n, from Quran 36:12, a sura well known to the audience, as it is commonly recited for the dying. ‘By his ontological status, the imam is the Gate or the Threshold that allows the passage into Divine Knowledge, the knowledge contained in the messages brought by the lawgiving prophets…each time the Quran refers, in different ways, to “those who have Knowledge”, it is alluding to the prophets and their imams in general, or else to the Fourteen Impeccables in particular’ see Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi (1994: 70). 14. See al-Majlisi¯, Muhammad Ba¯qir, Biha¯ r ul-anwar (1957: vol. 43, 54); also Muhammad ‘abd al-Baqi¯’s Quranic concordance, Al-m‘ujam al-mufharas (1968, vol. 12: 8721). 15. A key and often invoked statement attributed to various of the imams, including Ali himself. See Amir-Moezzi (1994: 5; 52–54): ‘Our teaching is arduous, very

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17. 18.

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difficult, the only ones who can understand it are a prophet sent from God, an angel of Proximity, or a faithful believer whose heart has been tested for faith by God.’ See al-Majlisi¯ (1957, vol. 52: 318). See, for example, Maulana Ashraf Ali (1905). Also pertinent are discussions of reformism, women’s customs and female education by Barbara Metcalf (1982) and Gail Minault (1998). All italicised exclamations are those of the audience. With reference to supernatural knowledge that transcends time and ‘vision with the heart’ see Amir-Moezzi (1994: 78, 40, 48, 50); the formula that posits the imam as the repository of ‘manifest knowledge of all things’ hails, again, from the Quran 36: 12. Translation by Pickthall (1977: 364). Dr Aliya Imam, PECHS imambarah, 28 May 1997.

14

Madrasa Metrics: The Statistics and Rhetoric of Religious Enrolment in Pakistan Tahir Andrabi ∗, Jishnu Das, Asim Ijaz Khwaja and Tristan Zajonc Introduction Consensus on deep determinants of terrorism eludes us even as Islamic religious schools are widely cited as important contributors to extremism. Nowhere have these statements been more strongly applied than to Pakistan, where religious schools — commonly known as madrasas — were responsible for educating the leadership of the Taliban during the 1980s. In recent years these schools have been called ‘factories of jihad’ and are commonly believed to churn out extremists by the millions. While discussions about Pakistani madrasas are deemed central to the war on terror, two distinct issues remain difficult to resolve: First, do madrasas, through their teaching and training, create terrorists by indoctrinating their students in a particular worldview? Second, are parents increasingly sending the vast majority of their children to madrasas? The first question has spurred a lively debate on both scholarly as well as popular levels. This debate is understandably complex, since, in order to determine the madrasas’ role in shaping attitudes in Pakistan, one must know a considerable amount about the students who attend these schools, the modality of instruction and the effect that this instruction may have on the beliefs of students in such institutions. Despite a long history (and reams of data) of attempts to understand the links between schooling inputs and student outcomes in public and private schools around the world, there is still considerable debate on, for instance, the importance of school funding on child test scores — starting to investigate the effects of madrasa education on madrasa-goers remains a distant possibility.

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The second question regarding the prevalence of madrasas is one of numbers and is not nearly so difficult to answer. The techniques commonly available in an economist’s toolkit are perfectly amenable to the task. These tools are widely used to estimate a mean or a proportion, such as the percentage of households below a poverty line, the percentage of children enrolled in school or the distribution of enrolment across public and private schools. They have also been used for the task of targeting, which helps isolate populations that may require special attention. For instance, programmes that are geographically targeted (providing school lunches in a village) often use regression analysis to ensure that they reach the population that benefits the most. We make three claims. First, these standard statistical tools go a long way in answering challenging questions, like the extent of enrolment in religious schools: estimating madrasa enrolment is no different from estimating enrolment in any other type of school and falls clearly within the ambit of estimating a mean or proportion; second, such tools are currently underused in research and policy reports on the topic of religious education; third, using these tools provides a startlingly different picture from the one currently taken for granted and leads to very different policy implications. In a detailed study on this topic, we applied these standard statistical tools to estimate the extent of madrasa enrolment in Pakistan and the geographical and socio-demographic correlates of such enrolment (Andrabi et al. 2006). The findings from this study showed that: (i) less than 1 per cent of Pakistani children attend madrasas, much lower than what had been previously reported; (ii) there is little evidence of the greater use of madrasas by the poor; and (iii) individualspecific rather than household factors largely determine who goes to madrasas — theories that relate household characteristics to the use of madrasas (children from poor/radical/isolated households send their children to madrasas) are therefore incomplete. This article shows how data can be used to generate important insights regarding madrasa enrolment in Pakistan and addresses several issues raised in the popular press and academic writing since the publication of the original study. It presents the main ideas from an economist’s viewpoint and serves as an invitation for further debate on the role of statistical data in answering complex social issues.1

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The Madrasa Mystery or Where do Numbers Come From? The three criteria we have applied to ensure the reliability of the statistical estimate are widely agreed upon but often forgotten. First, one should follow a strict admissibility criterion for the data — it should be publicly verifiable and collected using established statistical methodologies. Second, care should be taken to ensure that the nature of the survey instrument does not alter the magnitude of the estimate. Researchers should make sure that the framing of questions, characteristics of the respondent and affiliations of the surveyor do not lead to any significant biases. Third, wherever possible, multiple sources should be used to corroborate the estimates. In case the sources differ in their estimates, one should acknowledge and explain these differences and, if possible, address them. Each of these criteria can be met with existing data, at least in the case of Pakistan. In our study, we examined three different sources of householdbased data. The first was the ‘long’ form of the official population census in 1998, which is a large sample-based survey with information on enrolment. This survey incorporates households from both the rural and urban areas in every district in Pakistan and provides comprehensive coverage of the entire country. The Census is the primary source for population estimates and is the main document used for delimiting electoral constituencies and distributing tax revenues. The second group of sources is different rounds of the Pakistan Integrated Household Survey (PIHS) carried out in 1991, 1998 and 2001. While the geographical coverage of the data is not as extensive as the Census, the surveys contain more detailed household information on schooling and income. These data have been used extensively by researchers in both Pakistan and the United States. The PIHS is the main source for documenting enrolment in Pakistan. The third source, Learning and Educational Achievements in Punjab Schools (LEAPS), is a complete census of all households with detailed information on schooling choices in over 100 rural and peri-urban communities in three districts of the Punjab province — Attock in the north, Faisalabad in the centre and Rahim Yar Khan in the south. This survey was conducted in 2003 by our research group composed of an international team of independent academics. While the first two surveys are nationally representative and therefore can be used to present accurate enrolment numbers for the country, the advantage of the third source is that it has enrolment information after 2001,

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provides more recent data, and, as shall see below, is the only data set that allows for meaningful correlations between household attributes and the use of madrasas given the low overall prevalence. Our estimates of the total number of children enrolled in madrasas and the fraction of all enrolled children studying in madrasas are very similar across all three sources. We document three patterns of madrasa enrolment in the data. First, overall enrolment is low and children studying in madrasas account for less than 1 per cent of all enrolled children. Across the data sources, madrasa enrolments are within 0.1 percentage points of each other (Table 14.1). Second, geographically, madrasas are most popular along the western border with Afghanistan. In the rest of the country, madrasa enrolment is thinly but evenly spread (Appendix Figures 1 and 2). Third, there is no evidence in the data of a dramatic increase in madrasa enrolment during the last decade. Enrolment in madrasas decreased from 1947 onwards and then increased somewhat during the years of the resistance to the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan (see Andrabi et al. 2006). Table 14.1: Country-wide Madrasa enrolment – different sources. Data source

Madrasa enrolment

Madrasa as fraction of enroled

Census of Population, 1998 Total Male Female

159,225 111,085 48,140

0.70% 0.82% 0.53%

PIHS 1991

151,546

0.78% [0.16%]

PIHS 1998

178,436

0.74% [0.089%]

PIHS 2001

176,061

0.7% [0.093%]

Note: The table is reproduced from the original study, Andrabi and others (2006). Survey standard errors in [brackets] where applicable. The census of population covers all of Pakistan except the Federally Administered Tribal Area (FATA). Included are Punjab, Balochistan, North West Frontier Provinces (NWFP) and Sindh, plus the federal capital Islamabad and the Federally Administered Northern Areas and Azad Jammu and Kashmir (AJK). The Census of Population, 1998 estimates are based on the census ‘long-form’, which was administered on a sample basis to a large number of households. This data is representative at the district level for both rural and urban regions. The next three rows show estimates from the Pakistan Integrated Household Survey (PIHS) which is a household survey and is representative only at the provincial level for the four main provinces, which account for 97 per cent of the country’s population — Punjab, Sindh, Balochistan and NWFP.

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That data that various reporting agencies — ranging from the Pakistani government to international organisations and US-based academics — have collected at different times yield the same estimates of madrasa enrolment lends considerable credibility to our numbers. These surveys varied in the specific manner in which madrasa enrolment was determined, in the timing of the survey and in the agency that conducted the survey.2 Our estimates are therefore not sensitive to the framing of the question, when it was asked and by whom. While the data sources and statistical methodologies used can and do have shortcomings, which are discussed below, they are transparent and verifiable.

Absent Tools for Numbers Existing estimates of madrasa enrolment in Pakistan have been reported in mainstream American and international newspapers; reports and articles by American and international scholars affiliated with international think tanks, institutes and the government, and studies by Pakistani scholars working in Pakistan and abroad. Yet none of these studies meet the three criteria mentioned previously. Numbers on madrasa enrolment have not been subjected to the same statistical tools or scrutiny as other routine educational statistics like enrolment. All of the reports rely exclusively on secondary sources consisting mainly of reports by government ministries, intelligence agencies from Pakistan or interviews with policy-makers. None of the secondary sources use verifiable data sources or established statistical methodologies. The 9/11 Commission Report is a good example. We quote in full the passage relating to madrassahs. Pakistan’s endemic poverty, widespread corruption, and often ineffective government create opportunities for Islamist recruitment. Poor education is a particular concern. Millions of families, especially those with little money, send their children to religious schools, or madrassahs. Many of these schools are the only opportunity available for an education, but some have been used as incubators for violent extremism. According to a Karachi’s police commander, there are 859 madrassahs teaching more than 200,000 youngsters in his city alone. (2004: Section 12.2).

This report only provides a footnote quoting an interview with a police commander and does not validate the numbers provided. Similarly,

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Ahmed Rashid (2000), in his bestselling book on the Taliban, writes that ‘…in 1988 there were 8,000 madrassah and 25,000 unregistered ones, educating over half a million students’ and cites as his source (Chapter 6, fn. 13) an ‘Intelligence report presented to the cabinet of Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif in 1992’. As a result of such casual empiricism, the reported enrolment figures for madrasas vary widely, ranging from 500,000 children to 1.7 million children. These numbers often vary for the same source even over short periods of time. For example, between March 2002 and July 2002, figures for madrasa enrolment cited in the Washington Post tripled from 500,000 to 1.5 million (Appendix Table 1 presents a summary of press reports on madrasas between 2000 and 2004). While few reports present madrasa enrolment as a fraction of total enrolment, when presented there is even greater variation in these figures. The numbers range from 10 per cent (LA Times) to as large as 33 per cent (International Crisis Group). If these estimates are to be believed, the latter suggests that one out of every three children enrolled in a Pakistani school is studying in a madrasa. Tellingly, the 33 per cent estimate was the result of a transcription error — it used 1.9 million rather than 19 million as overall school enrolment — that inflated the percentage of madrasa enrolment by a factor of 10. The fact that such numbers are reported and re-reported without any ‘fact checking’ shows a lack of understanding at the analyst level of even the most basic facts about the Islamic world — such as the size of the Pakistani youth population.

Absent Tools for Theories This basic lack of understanding and consistent misrepresentation of madrasa enrolment does not prevent the proliferation of theories explaining the use of such institutions. Two views predominate. One view is that madrasas cater to the ‘radical’ youth and promote extremism through their teaching. The second is that madrasas are often the only schooling option for children in an environment where government schools have broken down and thus are part of a network of institutions that serve the underprivileged. Writing recently in Foreign Affairs, the second view is succinctly summarised by Alexander Evans: For young village kids, it may be their only path to literacy. For many orphans and the rural poor, madrasahs provide essential social

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services: education and lodging for children who otherwise could well find themselves the victims of forced labor, sex trafficking, or other abuse.

and previously, by Singer (2001): The reason for the madrassahs new centrality stems from the weakening of the Pakistani state…the madrassahs became immensely popular by targeting the lower class and refugee populations, whom the Pakistani state has failed to provide proper access to education.

There is little evidence presented to support either theory. Indeed, the conclusions from our analysis of the school choices of over 100,000 children in the districts covered under the LEAPS study suggest that schooling options and household factors have little to do with the use of madrasas. We examined three different hypotheses: (i) are the poor more likely to send their children to madrasas; (ii) is their greater use of madrasas in settlements without government schooling options; and (iii) is the greater use of madrasas among certain types of households defined by religiosity or ethnicity. Across all settlements, we found almost no relationship between poverty and the use of madrasas (Figure 14.1). The only exception was in settlements without any schooling options, where the poor used madrasas somewhat more than the rich (4 per cent of poor households sent their children to madrasas compared to 2.5 per cent for the rich). However, the drop in enrolment in any type of school for these settlements was so large that it swamped any aggregate relationship between poverty and the use of madrasas. Neither did we find that the number of children going to madrasas in settlements without other schooling options was significantly higher than in settlements with either a private or public school (or both). The confusion is, in part, explained by the difference between percentages and numbers — while in percentages, a larger proportion of those who are enrolled choose madrasas in settlements without other schooling options, it is also the case that far fewer children are enrolled in the first place when no public or private schools are available. Consequently, the total number of children using madrasas is roughly similar in all types of settlements. A prerequisite for examining the link between religiosity or ethnicity and the use of madrasas assumes that there is some way in which we can classify households appropriately. This is hard to do.

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PAKISTAN

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Figure 14.1: Number of children enrolled in religious schools, Pakistan 1998 Source: The data for the districts is based on the ‘long-form’ of the population census of 1998. The long-form is administered to a sample of households in the census and is representative at the district/rural–urban level. We classify a child as enrolled in religious school if he/she reports her ‘main field of education’ as ‘religious education’. The map is reproduced from the original study, Andrabi and others (2006).

Following recent work on African–American identity and the naming of children, one option was to define households as more likely to be ‘radically religious’ if they chose names for their children that reflected greater identification with radical causes. We thus defined households who had named their children ‘Osama’ (and related spellings) as ‘radically religious’ — this is, in part, supported by the

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relative frequency of the name, which is almost never used till 1998 and then peaks in 1998 with the embassy bombings in Kenya and Tanzania and in 2001 with 9/11. To examine the link between ethnicity and madrasa use, we classified households into ‘Pashtun’ or ‘not Pashtun’ — the classification holds particular interest given the common discourse of the greater use of madrasas among Afghans and Pashtun families. Using these definitions, we found no relationship between the relative use of madrasas and household religiosity or ethnicity. Could it be that we got it all wrong? Instead of assessing the link between specific household factors (poverty or religiosity) and the use of madrasas, an option often pursued by economists and educationalists has been to collapse all household factors into a black box and ask the extent to which all household factors could explain a phenomenon such as madrasa use. If explanations are ultimately to be found in household-level factors, it must be the case that we find some households (howsoever defined) send most of their children to madrasas while the majority send none. In fact, the data suggest the opposite with most variation within rather than across households (Figure 14.2). Tellingly, among households that send one child to a madrasa, 75 per cent send another child to a public or private school. Thus, for the LEAPS data, only 0.8 per cent of all households have all children enrolled in madrasas. Given this large variation within households, it appears that the use of madrasas is child-rather than household-specific — theories that then seek to understand madrasa enrolment through household factors are necessarily limited to explaining a small portion of the overall variation in madrasa enrolment we see in the data.3

Understanding the Data: Different Data, Different Estimates The use of estimates based on publicly available and verifiable data sources also results in much needed discussion of the pros and cons of relying on different data sources. For instance, all three sources in our study are based on surveys of households. Household surveys use specially designed education modules to ask about enrolment in different kinds of schools for a representative sample of households. There is an established tradition of using such surveys to determine enrolment numbers (examples include the educational attainment

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PA KI STA N

RELIGIOUS SCHOOL ENROLLMENT BY DISTRICT, 1998

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Figure 14.2: Percentage children enrolled in religious schools, Pakistan 1998 Source: Population Census, 1998. The percent of all enrolled children in religious schools is defined as the total number of children enrolled in religious schools divided by the total number of children enrolled in any school. The map is reproduced from the original.

site hosted by the World Bank and Eli Berman’s work on religious extremism), particularly since household surveys are the only way to count the number of children who are not attending school. Why were our estimates different from those emerging from other sources? One possible answer is that household-based surveys yield different results from establishment-based surveys. Most reports that do refer to data sources use establishment-based surveys such as

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the Ministry of Education’s directory of madrasas or lists of registered madrasas with the Ministry of Religious Affairs. While such sources carry more merit than personal interviews, further examination raises valid concerns, especially since these sources do not agree with household-based ones. There are several avenues one could pursue in trying to understand the difference in numbers between household and establishment surveys. First, separating part-time and full-time students is confusing because of the method in which the schools usually tabulate their enrolment data. Children who attend evening Quranic classes — the equivalent of Sunday schools — may be (incorrectly) labelled as madrasa students. More detailed household surveys that focus on madrasa enrolment would include modules that detail the time spent in different types of schools during the week, and this could help understand the extent of part-time madrasa use among children. Second, and this is a weakness of household surveys, children who are not affiliated with any household — such as orphans and the homeless — will not be accounted for in household surveys but will be counted within establishment data. This is a consistent problem with any household survey, including population censuses that use samples and extrapolation techniques to account for those without a fixed address. In our study, we provide an upper bound on madrasa enrolment by using the proportion of orphans in madrasas based on a single establishment survey but this is clearly a topic that requires further research. Third, even without these statistical problems, numbers from household and establishment can (and do) differ because of the different incentives that the respondents face. To the extent that madrasa funding relies on enrolment, madrasas could have a tendency to over-inflate the number of children enrolled. This has a been a consistent problem in using establishment surveys for regular schooling numbers — Kingdon (1996), for instance, has argued that public school enrolments are much higher than what emerges from household surveys because of specific reporting incentives built into the system. In Pakistan, problems with using establishment data are exacerbated since there is no clear methodology regarding the establishment based data on madrasa enrolment. Partly because of these problems, although almost every country has estimates of enrolment based on school (establishment) censuses, household censuses are generally preferable, since they allow

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an appropriate estimate for the denominator (typically the number of children in a relevant age group) to be computed accurately in the calculation of statistics such as the net enrolment rate. One of the reasons why the majority of articles written on madrasas present numbers rather than percentages is that establishment surveys cannot tell us about the relative use of different types of schools or estimate the number of children who are currently out of school. The two equivalent statements that 500,000 children are enrolled in madrasas or that 1 per cent of enrolled children study in madrasas create very different perceptions and lead to erroneous conclusions. This creation of misconception is evidenced when in a letter to the editor, Robert Templer (2005) of the International Crisis Group faults the LEAPS sample on the grounds that is based on rural areas, whereas the majority of madrasa enrolment is in urban cities. While the criticism is correct, in that the largest number of children enrolled in madrasas are in urban areas (Karachi), this is only because the population of Karachi is much larger than that of most rural districts. In terms of percentages, all top 10 districts with high madrasa enrolment are rural and Karachi is a distant 38th out of 102 districts in the country (compare, for instance, the differences in Appendix Figures 14.1 and 14.2, which map the number and percentage of children enrolled in madrasas respectively). Thus, if our interest lies in the relative use of madrasas among the population, rural areas would be given greater weight in the sample. Although there is thus a strong case for using household surveys to understand madrasa enrolment from the data perspective, it is unclear whether this is a feasible option. The very low use of madrasas among Pakistani children implies that generating data to further research on madrasa use will be an exceedingly costly proposition. Traditional sample sizes in household-based surveys (used, for instance, to understand the incidence of poverty in the PIHS) are too small to even present meaningful correlations of household factors and madrasa enrolment. In every round of the PIHS, less than 100 children are enrolled in madrasas; the only reason why we are able to present some correlations is because of an extraordinarily large survey that covered more than 80,000 households. To the extent that further evidence-based work on madrasa use is necessary, a clear discussion on the relative merits and demerits of alternate data sources is also required. A starting point is to compare and contrast the methodologies of alternate sources — which

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is possible only if all the data generated are publicly available and appropriately scrutinised. Unfortunately, while all the household surveys used in our analysis are readily accessible, none of the establishment-based data are.

No Child Left Behind Why does all this matter? In the case of madrasa enrolment, using established methodologies and verifiable data makes a big difference. Contrary to popular claims, madrasa enrolment in Pakistan is low — accounting for less than 1 per cent of total enrolment. In proportion to overall enrolment it has neither increased during the 1990s nor since the events of 9/11 and beyond. Moreover, of the less than 1 per cent of families that have at least one child in a madrasa, three-fourths have another child in a public or a private school. Belief about the high prevalence of madrasa enrolment in Pakistan is an example of conventional wisdom in the classic Galbraithian sense — we accept these flawed estimates simply because they are acceptable. However, under a more demanding empirical lens, they fail to hold up — reality is unrelated to conventional wisdom. Madrasas are not making inroads into mainstream society in Pakistan. Instead, the alternative to public schools for the average Pakistani parent is increasingly affordable schools in the private sector (Table 14.2). Currently, almost 30 per cent of the children enrolled at the primary level are going to private schools — with the highest growth in rural areas. These schools are typically ‘mom-and-pop’ managed, for profit and independent of the government system. They are affordable, with monthly tuition fees less than a day’s wage for an unskilled worker. Moreover, these private schools are very much in the business of providing mainstream education. They teach a curriculum that is similar to the government’s and are not affiliated with any religious group or movement. The vast majority of these private schools teach English, are co-educational at the primary level, and an attitudinal survey on civic values conducted by our team on third graders in these schools found no particular incidence of gender bias. The policy implications of these findings are immense. Current US policy and the aid package to Pakistan strongly emphasises madrasa reform: a Rumsfeld memo asks his staff to consider a reform to ‘entice radical madrasas to a more moderate course’. But the data suggests that the problems faced by Pakistani school-children and

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Table 14.2: Enrolled children in three districts School type Government (%) Private (%) Madrassah (%)

Data source

Attock

LEAPS LEAPS LEAPS Population Census, 1998

67.73 31.56 0.71 0.50

Faisalabad Rahim Yar Khan 71.96 27.33 0.70 0.49

71.38 24.92 3.70 1.03

Source: The table is reproduced from the original study — Andrabi and others (2006) — and is based on data from LEAPS, 2003 and Population Census, 1998. LEAPS reports school type for enroled children ages 5–15. Population Census reports field of education for children 5–14. LEAPS sample villages were randomly drawn from a list-frame of rural villages with at least one private school and thus are not representative of the district as a whole.

parents will not be solved by closing down or reforming a few vocal and prominent madrasas. We must therefore question the wisdom of a policy that makes its centrepiece a reform of that segment of the schooling system which does not educate the vast majority of Pakistani children. Improving access to quality schooling for the bulk of the Pakistani population must be the focus of any reform of education in Pakistan. A good starting point is to reinforce the ongoing national debate on ‘education for all’ in the country. We need to think deeply about poverty, gender bias and the quality of schooling in an economy that is yet to find its feet in the competitive, globalised world. An equally important focus for the national debate is the long and tedious process of restructuring the public schooling system. We need to start talking about measuring student outcomes, working with teacher unions on accountability and using the option of private schools to increase school choice for the poor. From the point of view of the Pakistani child, it is the improvement in the quality of public and private schooling, which 99 per cent attend, rather than reforms in madrasas that matters. We acknowledge that for those concerned about global security issues, absolute numbers, however small, do matter and a proactive policy toward madrasas may be deemed necessary. The first step in determining such a policy will be to generate accurate information on madrasas. Our main contention in this article has been is that this has not been done to any reasonable extent so far, can be done using existing data sources and, if done properly, leads to a very different understanding of enrolment trends and schooling choices in Pakistan.

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Date

Type of study

Numbers

L.A. Times

28 December 2000

Case-Study

8,000 madrasas

Financial Times

6 March 2001

L.A. Times L.A. Times The Washington Post The Boston Globe

12 August 2001 19 September 2001 20 September 2001

Interview with President Musharraf General article Case-Study Case-Study

10,000 madrasas, 1 million students None 18,000 in Peshawar None

4 October 2001

Case-Study

11,000 madrasas, 1 million students

Financial Times

17 October 2001

10,000 madrasas

The Philadelphia Inquirer Financial Times

9 November 2001

Discussion of meeting between Colin Powell and President Musharraf General article

The Philadelphia Inquirer

25 November 2001

The Boston Globe

29 November 2001

17 November 2001

General article and interviews General article and interviews General article

7,000–8,000 madrasas 700,000 students 4,000 Deobandi madrasas 8,000 registered + 25,000 unregistered

Reasons for Madrasa Enrolment Studied madrasa was originally set up for Afghan refugees Welfare service to the poor Welfare service to the poor Religious indoctrination Religious indoctrination Boom during Afghan war. Fills a gap due to failed government education. Religious extremism

None Religious teaching On tribal border areas, madrasas instill Islam and preach hatred for non-Muslims Fill gap in public. education, provide religious indoctrination

Tahir Andrabi, Jishnu Das, Asim Ijaz Khwaja and Tristan Zajonc

Source

„

Table 14.3: Articles on Madrasas in Pakistan major newspapers, December 2000–June 2004

10 December 2001

General article and interviews

The Philadelphia Inquirer Chicago Tribune

16 December 2001 23 December 2001

Interviews in Pishin district General article and interviews

Chicago Tribune

23 December 2001

The Boston Globe L.A. Times

25 December 2001 3 January 2002

L.A. Times

4 January 2002

The Philadelphia Inquirer Chicago Tribune The Boston Globe Chicago Tribune L.A. Times

10,000 madrasas that dominate education throughout rural Pakistan None None None

Religious indoctrination

Religious indoctrination in radical Islam Fill gap in public education, private schools too expensive. Overwhelmingly popular with Pakistan’s poor, fill a gap in public education Humanitarian aid for poor

General article and interviews General article and interviews

10s of thousands, 1 million children 5,000 madrasas

None

5 January 2002

General article and interviews News item on government

6,000 madrasas

None

13 January 2002 14 January 2002

News item on government News item + Interview

None None

None Religious indoctrination

18 January 2002 19 January 2002

Case Study News Item

None None

Radical religious indoctrination See next

Religious indoctrination. Madrasas as training ground for Afghan was with Soviet Union

Madrasa Metrics

L.A. Times

„

445

(Table 14.3 Continued)

446

(Table 14.3 Continued) Type of study

Numbers

23 January 2002

New Item

Thousands of madrasas

Chicago Tribune Washington Post

24 January 2002 14 March 2002

Case Study General article

None 500,000 plus children

Boston Globe L.A. Times

18 March 2002 23 March 2002

General article Case Study

Thousands of madrasas 3,700 (NWFP only)

Washington Post

23 April 2002

7,000 madrasas

L.A. Times

29 June 2002

General article + Case Study General article

Chicago Tribune

30 June 2002

General article

8,000 to 10,000 madrasas

Washington Post

14 July 2002

General article and interviews

10,000 madrasas 1.5 million students Rapid growth in recent years

1.5 million students

Reasons for Madrasa Enrolment Explosion during the 1980s due to Afghan refugees + Radical religious indoctrination Radical Islam Failed public educational system; Religious studies Poor children + orphans Islamic studies based on a reactionary curriculum; service to the extremely poor; failed public educational system Built for Afghan war against Soviet Union Resistance to Soviet Union + Only schooling option for boys from poor families Resistance to Soviet Union + Only schooling option for boys from poor families Resistance to Soviet Union; fighters for Kashmir; failure of public education system; social charity function

Tahir Andrabi, Jishnu Das, Asim Ijaz Khwaja and Tristan Zajonc

Date

The Philadelphia Inquirer

„

Source

10 August 2002

Report

1.5 million students from poor rural families 8,000 to 10,000 madrasas with 1.5 million students

L.A. Times

12 October 2002

Report

L.A. Times

2 February 2003

Financial Times

8 February 2003

L.A. Times

14 April 2003

Interview with Foreign Minister Mian Khursheed Mehmood Kasuri General article and interviews Report

Financial Times

19 August 2003

Expert comment

Washington Post

2 September 2003

Report

None

L.A. Times

5 March 2004

Madrasas are not the focus

Washington Post

13 June 2004

The Philadelphia Inquirer

15 June 2004

Report on politics regarding Musharraf General article and interviews General article and interviews

40,000 to 50,000 madrasas 10,000 madrasas, educate 10 per cent of all Pakistani students

10,000 madrasas 8,000 madrasas

Hardline Islamic schools

Madrasas reflect poverty of the state. Cater to poor people. Public educational system has failed None Provide education for the poor; failures in public education system Most madrasas on border with Afghanistan. Concentrates on Pashtun belt. Talks about madrasas in the Pashtun tribal belt Madrasas are not the focus Social safety net; Radical religious indoctrination Afghan refugees moving into Pakistan

Madrasa Metrics

The Times

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447

448

Tahir Andrabi, Jishnu Das, Asim Ijaz Khwaja and Tristan Zajonc

„

Appendix Enrolment by Presence of School and Expenditure

.9

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(Figure 14.1: Continued)

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449

(Figure 14.1: Continued) .5 i:1J

[2.4

--- ----- ---

2

'" & >

.3

.2

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---

---

Rs.2500-5000

Rs.5000-7500

Rs.7500- 10000

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Expenditure -

Either Public or Private ----- No Public or Private ........... Both Public and Private

Figure 14.1: Enrolment by presence of school and expenditure Source: LEAPS Population Census, 2003. Note: The figure is reproduced from the original study, Andrabi and others (2006), and shows the fraction of children enrolled (top-left) and the share of each sector in that enrolment. The figure on the top-right shows the share of madrasas, the bottom-left the share of government and the bottom-right the share of the private sector. In every figure, we show the appropriate fraction for three types of settlement — those with both a private and a public school, those with either a private or public school (including settlements with both) and those with neither a private nor a public school. These settlements were constructed through a mapping exercise in every village, and for the 125 villages in our sample, we have 253 settlements. We plot the shares against the self-reported monthly expenditures of the household. More than 95 per cent of all households fall below the Rs 7,500 to Rs 10,000 cut-off. Household Enrolment Choices

Households With Madrasa Enrolment

_ A l l Madrasa

[==:J Madrasa/Public

[==:J Madrasa/Private

[==:J Madrasa/PubliclPrivate (Figure 14.2: Continued)

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Tahir Andrabi, Jishnu Das, Asim Ijaz Khwaja and Tristan Zajonc

(Figure 14.2: Continued)

,'· If

Households With Public Enrolment

,

1.7%

".

~

74.0%

_

All Public

~ PubliciPrivate

~ PubliciMadrasa ~ PubliciMadrasa/Private

Househo lds With Private Enrolment

_ ~

All Private Private/Public

~ ~

Private/Madrasa Private/Madrasa/Public

Households Generally

_

All Madrasa

c=J

All Public

c=J c=J

All Private Mixed

Figure 14.2: Household enrolment choices

Source: LEAPS Population Census, 2003. Note: The figure is reproduced from the original study, Andrabi and others (2006) and shows enrolment choices among households with at least two enrolled children that have one or more children attending a madrasa (top-left), a government school (topright), a private school (bottom-left) and any school (bottom-right). By construction, households with private, government and madrasa enrolment (madrasa/Public/Private) must have at least three enroled children. Thus, among households with at least one child in a madrasa, close to 50 per cent have another child who is enrolled in a government school. The last graph (Households Generally) shows how prevalent every type of ho usehold is — for instance, only 0.6 per cent of all households have all children enrolled in madrasas.

Madrasa Metrics

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451

Notes ∗ We thank participants at the conference organised around the book at The Johns Hopkins University for valuable comments. We are especially grateful to Naveeda Khan, Ali Khan and Veena Das for their discussions of the material presented here. The findings, interpretations and conclusions expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent the views of the World Bank, its Executive Directors or the governments they represent. 1. Detailed analysis of the results discussed here is presented in the original study, Andrabi et al. (2006). 2. Each of our sources asks about madrasa enrolment in a slightly different but comparable way. The population census asks about field of education (‘What is name’s field of education?’) with options that include engineering, medicine, or religious education. The PIHS rounds ask, ‘What type of school is name currently attending?’ with options for government school, private school or deeni-madrasa (religious schooling). The LEAPS census directly asks, ‘Is the child enrolled in a madrasa or an Islamic education school?’ 3. This distinction is quite subtle. Ali (2005) for instance, uses village-level variation and presents correlations between village electricity and water supply in one tehsil (administrative unit) in Punjab to make inferences about the prevalence of madrasas and linkages with police reports of violent activity. Given that 75 per cent of the variation is within households (and 90 per cent within villages), Ali’s results can explain at most 10 per cent of the observed variation in madrasas enrolment.

15

Uncivil Politics and the Appropriation of Planning in Islamabad∗ Matthew Hull Introduction High-modernist state projects like Islamabad, James Scott has observed, are ‘always and to some considerable degree parasitic on informal processes, which the formal scheme does not recognise, without which it could not exist, and which it alone cannot create or maintain’ (Scott 1998: 310). In some cases, however, such projects are overcome by informal processes to the extent that they try to supersede them. I will argue that such is the case in Islamabad. Like the physical planning of the city, the initial organisation of governing institutions in Islamabad baldly manifested the new military government’s programme to promote the civil and military bureaucracies at the expense of wider political participation. Since the early 1960s, civic groups have made weak and episodic efforts to establish representative government in the city. However, without exaggerating the unity of state bureaucracies (Abrams 1988, Li 2005), it is fair to say that Islamabad has remained formally under the complete planning and administrative control of the civil bureaucracy — even during the period of representative governments from 1988 to 1999. Through an examination of government housing and mosque building, we can see that the very comprehensiveness of the formal dominance of the bureaucracy has channelled the social forces of the growing city into the uncivil politics of informal processes of the bureaucracy. Institutions of civil society were unable to prevent the initial establishment of Islamabad and have since had little impact on its development. By contrast, politics within the bureaucratic arena, while rarely challenging the planned order of the city openly, has fundamentally reshaped this by appropriating the fruits of planning or even the planning process itself. Islamabad was established following the military coup of General Ayub Khan in 1959, after years of debate on the 1952 plan by the

Uncivil Politics and the Appropriation of Planning in Islamabad

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Swedish firm Merz Rendel Vatten for a new capital area in Karachi. The 1952 plan ‘emphasized the desirability of promoting as close a contact as possible between the state administration and the economic and cultural functions’ (Lindstrom and Ostnas 1967 [1952]: 36). In rejecting Karachi, the new military government declared that ‘the capital is to be a capital city only, without non-official civilian population located in it and pulling the central administration in different directions’ (Doxiadis Associates 1960b: 54). Instead of a representative municipal government, a powerful government agency, the Capital Development Corporation (CDC) was created to plan and administer the new city. Costantinos Doxiadis, the project’s Greek modernist architect–planner, declared that Islamabad was ‘to be created without any commitments to the past’ (Doxiadis 1965: 26). The unity of the physical plan of Islamabad was an icon of the single-mindedness of a modern administration attempting to isolate itself from the social influences of the present and the tenacious grip of the traditional past. The Master Plan (MP) for Islamabad called for Islamabad and Rawalpindi to expand indefinitely on parallel rays out from their nuclei, forever divided by a green belt, a major transportation artery and a linear industrial zone. A monumental national administrative area was planned to dominate a numbered and lettered grid of one- and onequarter-mile square sectors extending down a gentle slope, articulated by roads cutting through hillocks and spanning shallow gullies. Each sector was divided into a nested hierarchy of ‘communities’, each with a school, a market and a mosque commensurate with its population. In order to establish a transparent relationship between social position and physical dwelling, planners prescribed a hierarchy of state housing sizes and designs corresponding to residents’ salary level and position in the government bureaucracy. Doxiadis called Islamabad a ‘dynapolis’ (from ‘dynamic’ and ‘metropolis’) and praised the grid because it ‘can develop dynamically, unhindered into the future, into space and time’ (Doxiadis 1965: 26) (Figure 15.1). The pristine order of this plan has only been partially realised. Dense slums of construction workers, city sweepers and domestic servants crowd beside the undeveloped gullies and green spaces in the middle of almost every sector. In most neighbourhoods, several mosques jostle like disputing Protestant churches in a small New England town. State-owned houses and apartments often

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6

ISLAMABAD Master plan for the Metropolitan Area

Miles Open spaces (with some buildings) Light industry Residential area Government and shopping centres Civil, Business al Id shopping centres

///. _

Wholesale and Distribution

"""""

Figure 15.1: Master plan for the Islamabad metropolitan area (from Doxiadis 1965)

~ 9:.:,:.:

c::::::J

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bear little connection with the wealth or government rank of their occupants. Most dramatically, the boundless westward expansion envisioned by Doxiadis stalled, perhaps forever, in the 11-series of sectors, just six miles from the President’s house. Nevertheless, by comparison to the similar modernist new city projects of Brasilia and Chandigarh, which Scott (1998) has characterised as failures, Islamabad has been a success. The population has grown at a steady pace to nearly 1 million and many Pakistanis consider Islamabad to be the most beautiful and livable city in Pakistan. But should we see Islamabad in its own way as a modest failure? Are the disruptions to the Master Plan to be lamented? As I see it, they are less evidence of a failed city as of a failed authoritarianism, allowing for a broadening of participation in the fashioning of the city. These unplanned and usually illegal developments are the halting and heterogeneous introduction of different modes of creating the built environment that had been either excluded or generated by the plan itself. It is worth emphasising that these disruptions are not solely or even mainly the work of subordinate groups using the ‘weapons of the weak’ (Scott 1985). Most involve cooperation or collusion among ‘non-caste’ residents, those outside the bureaucracy, and the powerful ‘twice-born’ within it in a range of income groups — for bureaucratic planning limits everyone’s range of action, though not equally so. Furthermore, the myriad displacements of the plan are certainly attended by conflicts and inequalities the plan would suppress. We have though, a different kind of politics, neither directly challenging state policy nor working through the mechanisms we associate with civil society. Some of the developments I discuss have been attended by the roar of public protests, parliamentary speeches, letters to the editor, muck-raking press coverage and watchdog reports. However, the effective mechanisms of this sort of politics are quiet encroachment, the capture or diversion of a file, a threat of violence, a word from an influential resident, the timely occupation of a state apartment, a well-placed bribe and diligent and conspicuous prayer.

The Master Plan When Ayub Khan put the planning of the city in the hands of Constantinos Doxiadis, the latter was heading one of the largest architectural firms in Europe.1 A project as large as a new capital city was

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still barely a match for Doxiadis’s ambitions. His grand vision transcended monumentality to focus on the universal requirements of a whole society, even a civilisation. This vision required nothing less than the foundation of a new practical science, which he called ‘Ekistics’ the study of human settlements to discover the relations among nature, man, society, ‘shells’ (buildings), and ‘networks’ (communications) (Doxiadis 1968). Such a broad approach demanded an all-encompassing role for the planner: ‘He must become a scientist, carry out research, create a system of thought, devise a programme of action and carry out proper schemes of organisation in government, in industry, in production, in design’ (Doxiadis 1963: 9). For Doxiadis, egalitarian concern for the life of the common citizen required a scientific organisation of cities as a solution to the contemporary ‘urban nightmare’ of unregulated growth (1963: 19). However, the political role entailed by this technical programme converged with the authoritarian political agenda of Ayub Khan’s bureaucratic military regime. Holston has observed that modernist architects have long maintained affiliations across the political spectrum, aligning themselves with ‘whichever authority, on the Left or Right, [that] seemed capable of implementing total planning’ (Holston 1989: 42). Le Corbusier, the leading figure of modernist architecture, dedicated his major publication, The Radiant City, to ‘AUTHORITY’ (ibid.). Doxiadis, too, welcomed the establishment of political power strong enough to carry through planning programmes of massive scope. In his first major report on the Master Plan for Islamabad, using the language of technical necessity, he defined his own political role and that of his successors: ‘It is imperative to create the master builders, the people who are going to be in charge of the overall city, from its conception to the implementation of every detail. There is a necessity for a conductor of the whole orchestra which is to create the symphony. He must be a strong conductor, for he will be responsible for everything within Islamabad’ (Doxiadis Associates 1960b: 435). While Ayub Khan saw the isolation of the bureaucracy as a means to control the country, Doxiadis saw it as a means to control the city. Doxiadis declared that the city of the future must include ‘all social, all income groups and all types of functions’ (Doxiadis Associates 1960b: 108). However, he embraced the views of the Federal Capital Commission, arguing:

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the influence of the diverse in origin and cosmopolitan population of Karachi on government administration would be eliminated, if the Capital were to be a capital only without non-official civilian population located in it and pulling it in different directions... The capital should be in a place where the business community does not come into contact with administration on a social level (Doxiadis Associates 1960b: 54).

While Doxiadis proclaimed that Islamabad was to be created without any commitments to the past, the development of the Islamabad/Rawalpindi metropolitan complex lay in the tradition of British colonial city-building.2 The political programme of the bureaucratic–military government and the spatial organisation of the new metropolitan complex paralleled the British colonial government’s political objectives and the spatial orders through which it attempted to realise them. The division of the Rawalpindi/Islamabad metropolitan complex into areas for the bureaucracy, military and ‘non-official civilian population’ was a perfect spatial expression of the new regime’s vision of the polity. The absence of a spatialised racial division is certainly significant. However, this tripartite organisation is best understood in the context of pre-existing colonial patterns of bureaucratic and military control and urban configuration, wellexemplified by Rawalpindi itself. Located on the roads linking the Khyber Pass and the Kashmir Valley with the cities of Lahore and Delhi, Rawalpindi was for centuries a minor trading city and district administrative centre under the successive regimes of the Mughals, Sikhs and British. It took its current form, though on a much smaller scale, after 1880 when the British selected the site as a military centre for the forces defending the northern ‘frontier’ of the empire. In the tradition of British colonial city-building (King 1976), spacious areas for civilian authorities (‘civil lines’) and military forces (‘cantonment’) were added to the densely settled area of the indigenous city.3 Indian enclaves in civil station, the civilian governmental and residential areas, had many of the elements of the indigenous city itself. These neighbourhoods filled in the areas between civil lines/ indigenous city. The civil lines of Rawalpindi, like that of Lahore as described by Glover, ‘never attained the grid-like, tree-lined, bungalowdotted clarity’ often described for civil lines (Glover 2008). This blurring of the indigenous city and civil lines was greatly accelerated by the arrival of immigrants following partition, which brought the city to a population of 311,000 by 1960 (Ahmed 1960).

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It was precisely this gradual intermixing that Doxiadis sought to prevent through his plan for the region. In line with his science of Ekistics, Doxiadis, unlike more conventional modernists, insisted that planners needed to understand local conditions to plan effectively. Through careful studies of Rawalpindi and the surrounding rural areas he came to understand at least the physical structures of dwellings and some of the environmental factors that contributed to them.4 However, he little comprehended the socio-cultural dimensions of urban environments of the region. While fond of the humble adequacy of rural Punjab houses (he did not examine villages as wholes), Doxiadis’s superficial study of urban areas only increased his revulsion for them. Like most planners, he disliked the haphazard development of Rawalpindi, the lack of distinction among transportation arteries, the intermixing of functions, the congestion and the lack of simple overall unity apparent from maps (Doxiadis Associates 1960a). Doxiadis bluntly argued that ‘Rawalpindi should not have any role [in the capital]. It should remain the regional center…[and] the servicing center of the capital’ (Doxiadis Associates 1960b: 244). Doxiadis wrote, ‘a green belt is provided between Islamabad and Rawalpindi in order to form a physical barrier between them’ (Doxiadis Associates 1960a: 54). Initial plans even provided for a wide military zone running parallel to the industrial zone, highway and green belt, but this was eliminated in later plans. This division loudly echoed that between New Delhi and Old Delhi and similar divisions in many other colonial cities, which represented the relation of the imperial government to its subject population and functioned to insure or reinforce the social division between rulers and ruled. There was, however, one major difference: New Delhi’s hexagonal Beaux-Arts plan was a complete whole — a symbol of imperial order and permanence, even stasis — and no provision was made for the city’s expansion or articulation with peripheral growth. By the 1950s, however, large-scale urbanisation made the management of expansion a major priority of urban planning throughout South Asia (Hull n.d.). Doxiadis planned for growth. His plan provided for the parallel, unidirectional expansion of Islamabad and Rawalpindi to insure that they would never grow together and that concentric growth would not choke the ‘centre’ of Islamabad. This programme has succeeded in keeping the two cities at a distance. The main link between Islamabad and Rawalpindi, Islamabad Highway, is a divided (normatively) four-lane road. This road is referenced in the quip frequently repeated by the car-driving

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classes: ‘Islamabad is five minutes from Pakistan’. Poorer residents, often relegated to slower modes of intercity transport such as buses and minivans, more commonly joke that ‘Islamabad is ten minutes from Pakistan’.5 In Doxiadis’s vision, the nucleus of Islamabad would remain serene, secure, and static while the city expanded indefinitely, eventually to be absorbed by what he called an ‘ecumenopolis’ (Doxiadis 1961 ), an urban blur smeared from Brussels to Beijing. For this reason, the limited set of alphabetic designations was assigned to the south-east axis, while the north-east to south-west axis of expansion was given the unlimited set of numerical designations. The grid of the Federal Capital Area, approximately 3,626 square kms annexed from the border areas of the Punjab and the North West Frontier Provinces, surrounds Rawalpindi on three sides, much as the British cantonment surrounded the indigenous city.6 The monumental ‘national administrative’ area was sited at the highest point of Islamabad, against the Margalla Hills, at the origin point of the city’s ray of extension. The President’s House, sometimes called the Presidential Palace in early newspapers, was placed on a small hill at the focal point of the main axis of Islamabad, a large avenue officially named with the honorific form of reference for Jinnah, the Khayaban-i-Quaid-i-Azam (Avenue of the Great Leader), but is commonly called simply ‘Jinnah Avenue’.7 For most of Ayub Khan’s tenure, little more than a yellow flag topped this hill. The President’s House was completed only in the late 1960s and Ayub Khan himself never occupied it, preferring to remain in Rawalpindi before moving into an undistinguished house in the elite residential area near the administrative area.8 The Federal Secretariat and the National Assembly buildings were located directly in front of the President’s House, at a lower level.9 Doxiadis conceptualised Islamabad as a hierarchy of ‘communities’, from the smallest gathering of a few people to the city as a whole. In a rationalised form of the neighbourhood unit originally developed by American planners (Hull n.d.), each sector was functionally differentiated and subdivided into a five-level hierarchy. The principle of subdivision was division into four parts, in order to preserve the geometry of the square, though irregularities of terrain often impeded the realisation of this ideal order. The sector as a whole, a class V community, was to contain between 30,000 and 40,000 people. The sector was subdivided into four quadrants, class IV communities, to

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house roughly 10,000 people. Three or four class III communities, with populations of around 2,500, were to make up each class IV community. Each class III community contained a number of class II communities, a block with a population of a hundred or more. The lowest level class I was to consist of a family or any gathering of two or more people (Doxiadis Associates 1964: 332). Doxiadis observed that geometrical orders, in particular that of the square, were prevalent in the architecture of the region from Mohenjo-Daro to the Lahore Fort (Doxiadis Associates 1961b: 139) — leaving aside the aberrant ‘old cities’ like Lahore and Rawalpindi. However, his real source was the rationalism of European modernist planning, striking in its simplicity. Good architecture demands rationalism in the city plan and this rationalism in turn requires consistency in the conception of all spaces forming the city. The room, the smallest nucleus of a house must have straight walls and these must be at right angles to each other so that they can be connected with the other rooms, otherwise there is no house. The house and its plots should have straight walls at right angles to each other so that they can be connected with other houses and other plots. The plots as a whole form a block and the blocks, too, should have straight walls at right angles to each other so that they can be connected in a rational way to the other blocks. More blocks form a neighbourhood, more neighbourhoods form a city (Doxiadis Associates 1961b: 12).

Schools, markets, mosques, medical institutions and recreational facilities commensurate with their populations are focal in every level of community (Figure 15. 2). Thus, at the centre of a class V community is a post office, fire and police station, a large mosque, clothing and food markets, and so forth. A class III centre includes a primary school, a tea house and a few shops, and sometimes a small mosque.10 Streets are numbered as, of course, are houses. Doxiadis intended that each level of community be laid out so that its boundary could be seen from its centre and the whole of its area easily imaged. Each community was to be iconic of the whole. The size, location and quality of materials of every structure and street was planned so that it would be possible to see its replication and incorporation in a higher order (Doxiadis Associates 1961b: 18).11 This ordering of space was consistent with a simplifying, totalising, external perspective on the city (de Certeau 1984; Scott 1998), which could not grasp the mohallas (neighbourhoods) of Rawalpindi. This

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ISLAMABAD-THE COMMUNITY CLASS IV.G6-1

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COMMUNITY CENTRE IV IIIIIIIIIIIIIII HANDICRAFT· LlGHT INDUSTRY COMMUNITY CENTRE III IIIIlr.IIIIIlIl OPEN SPACES ·PLAYGROUNDS FIRST COMMUNITY III UNDER DEVELOPMENT DOXIADIS ASSOCIATES

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CONSULTING ENGINEERS

Figure 15.2: Doxiadis’s plan for sector G-6-1 (Doxiadis 1965).

spatial and functional order was to be the foundation of the social order as well. ‘The structure of a residential community is that its physical pattern should be in complete accord with the social organization of the human group which is to settle there’ (Doxiadis Associates 1961a: 6). The future inhabitants of residential sectors

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were conceptualised as a population organised by the national bureaucratic hierarchy, rather than as groups formed around family, religion, tribe or ethnicity, regional affiliation, wealth — significant bases of social order in Pakistani society. Though few mohallas were homogeneous, these forms of sociality largely shaped settlement patterns of Rawalpindi’s mohallas. The social homogeneity of squatter settlements testifies to the continuing salience of such affiliations in the region. As Spaulding (1994) has shown in his study of ethnic Gujars in Islamabad, the bureaucratic process through which government housing and plots are distributed make it impossible for any group to establish itself in a particular area. Continuing a British colonial practice, planners prescribed a hierarchy of lot sizes and house designs corresponding to residents’ salary level and position in the government bureaucracy (Nilsson 1973; King 1976). The initial Master Plan provided for the construction of eight types of government houses. The correlation of house types with income, however, is misleading. The Socio-economic Survey of Rawalpindi, hastily completed in 1960, gave the planners an impressive range of information on housing and income in urban Punjab. However, the income divisions employed in the plan were not derived from this study but from the salary scale corresponding to the rank hierarchy of Pakistan’s National Civil Service. Furthermore, government houses were to be allocated on the basis of the occupant’s government rank, not on income derived from any source. Note that the rank organisation even peeks through the income-based schedule — as the highest category of house, K, was to be allocated to ‘ministers’ not specified by income. Doxiadis’s criticism of variety within house types makes clear the status basis of the housing policy. Civil servants who have more or less the same income and belong to the same class of civil service should be allocated to similar units. They should all be treated in a similar manner and on an equal basis as far as possible. Houses given, for example, to peons should all be of the same nature, of the same design and the same accommodation capacity. Otherwise, bad feelings would be created among civil servants belonging to one and the same class. (Doxiadis Associates 1960b: 24)

Even by the mid-1960s, on Doxiadis’s recommendation, the direct reference to income found in early reports had been replaced by correlations with civil service rank. The rank hierarchy of the civil service

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is now officially called the ‘Basic Pay Scale’ (BPS) — a financial designation that is somewhat misleading, since the more important role of the scale is status rather than income differentiation. ‘Grade’, the term for the rank of a government employee used in common conversation, better captures its social significance. In general, higher rank houses and larger plots for private houses were distributed within the northern sectors, with particularly high status plots found in the easternmost zones near the administrative area. The F-series of sectors, on the whole, contains government and private houses that are much larger than those of G-series sectors. However, Doxiadis’s ‘neighborhood unit’ plans do provide for a degree of integration of income groups. The neighbourhood unit was a notion developed in the US in the early twentieth century as a means to generate and represent the egalitarian and democratic community.12 In laying out the basic objectives of Islamabad, the Federal Capital Commission had proposed ‘to create neighborhoods that will foster a sense of belonging to a community and promote social cohesion’ (Federal Capital Commission 1960: 19). Drawing an implicit contrast between the modern, nationalist social divisions of government rank and the socially retrograde hierarchy of traditional Hindu India, the Federal Capital Commision feared a ‘caste system’ based on income groups (Federal Capital Commission 1960: 19). This goal limited slightly the Commission’s emphasis on the isolation of the bureaucracy. The plan for the new city, declared the Commission, would not ‘segregate completely for the distribution of incomes government servants from other groups’ (Federal Capital Commission 1960: 19, emphasis added). Over the last four decades, housing for lower-income classes has continued to be built, but Doxiadis’s original plan for a gradually integrated city stretched no further than his designs for F-6 and G-6. Even F-7 contains few smaller plots and no government housing. As Kamal Pasha, a senior CDA planner observed, ‘Over the last 20 years there has been a complete separation of income groups’. According to Pasha, mixed income projects simply cannot be pushed through nowadays. Why could it be done before? ‘Because,’ said Pasha puckishly, ‘the gora [white] sahib had the clout to push it through’. While the disappearance of this objective is clear, accounting for it is more difficult. Pasha’s explanation points to how much planning, conceived as the realisation of rational intention, is shaped by wider sociocultural trends.

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While Doxiadis envisioned the generation of community life around clusters of facilities, several government corporations brought the ‘colony’ to Islamabad. This venerable South Asian socio-spatial form located the whole grade range of employees of a single government corporation or ‘autonomous body’ in a single area. As one interlocutor put it, in a colony ‘every person is the same’. There are more than a dozen government colonies in Islamabad of various sizes, including Telephone and Telegraph, CDA, State Bank and the Police. Occupational groups outside government also made claims for colonies. Paraphrasing the report of the Federal Capital Commission, the Pakistan Times wrote, ‘civil servants and their families will constitute 90 per cent of this population as 10 percent of it must, of necessity, be other than civil servants to support and provide services’ (25 May 1960). The claim to utility could be translated into a claim for plots. The declaration that Islamabad would provide housing for those outside of but serving the bureaucracy led to a spate of demands for plots on concessional rates from a wide variety of occupational groups, including imams, journalists, washermen, writers and even hairdressers. The colony, of course, bears a striking sociological resemblance to caste neighbourhoods common in South Asia, especially through the middle of the twentieth century (Hull n.d.), since in both cases occupation is central to group definition.

The Informal Formal Government Housing Sector If the physical order of sectors and houses and common discourses about them suggest a thorough realisation of planned order, the occupancy of government housing complicates the picture. In fact, today the planned (and legally stipulated) correspondence between house type and the service rank of the occupants is rare; even rarer is the normative relation between real income and house type. While employees’ unions and neighbourhood associations have tried to change government housing policy, the divergences from the planned order of rank, income and housing have other sources — the bureaucratic separation of house allocation processes and hiring and promotion processes, the role of money and influence in the allocation process, the renting of government housing, the difficulty of evicting retired government servants and differential access to illegal remuneration. The lack of co-ordination between housing allocation and hiring processes generates an increasing divergence between house type

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and service over time. This divergence is greatest in G-6, the oldest sector, but is found in all sectors roughly in proportion to their age. Official and unofficial processes of hiring and promotion are quite variable and complex, but it can be said that they are handled by the government office in which a person is or will be employed. Allocation of housing is handled by a different office within the employee’s organisation or, in the case of federal ministries, by the Estate Office of the Ministry of Housing and Works. Allocation rules are designed to align these two different bureaucratic processes, but can rarely overcome the force of two offices acting independently. Because of financial limitations, construction of government housing in Islamabad has not kept pace with the expansion of the government since the early 1980s, limiting mobility in the government housing sector. As a consequence, a large portion of government employees are living in houses of types far below that to which the allocation rules entitle them. For example, one resident of G-6, whom I will call Ahmed, has lived in a type A house for 12 years, although in this time he has moved from grade 4 to grade 15 and is now entitled to a type D house. He keeps requesting the Estate Office — the federal government office that handles allocation of units under control of the federal ministries — however, the housing shortage, his lack of connections (sifarish), and unwillingness (and perhaps inability) to pay bribes (rishvat) has made it impossible for him to move into the class of house to which he is entitled. There are other reasons why the planned relation between the service ranks of occupants and the classification of their houses is rarely effected. While government servants are entitled to retain their quarters for six months after their retirement, few families ever leave. Responding to protests by neighbourhood groups over the last three decades, Pakistan presidents and heads of both leading political parties have promised to grant ownership rights to occupants of government houses in G-6, the oldest sector of the city. However, this has not occurred. Continuing occupancy is achieved by other means. If a son enters the government service before his father’s retirement, the allotment of the family quarter may be transferred to the son, provided the son is entitled to it by service rank — a requirement that is rarely enforced. In practice, if the father occupies a house commensurate with his service rank, the son, rarely having a rank equal to his father, lives in his father’s house — one of a higher classification than that to which he is entitled. Ironically, in cases of

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a retiring father living below his entitlement who irregularly transfers his house to his son, these two factors combine to realise the planned relation between rank of the occupant and house classification. Statistics on transfers are not available, but good estimates suggest that in G-6/1, for example, since the departure of Bengalis in 1971, less than 10 per cent of the houses have been transferred to families other than those of the original occupants.13 Residents of this area refer to themselves as owners (maliks) of their houses rather than allotees or renters (karaedars). Most have modified the front purdah (seclusion) wall and interior layouts and have typically added two more rooms at the back of the large rear courtyard. Ahmed told me that he had waited for five or six years before estimating that he would remain in the house for another 15 years — which was when he began modifying and adding to it. While he vows that he will not try to retain the house for his children after his retirement — ‘They should go out and get something better’ — he recognises that they may have no alternative. Money and influence also disturb the planned social organisation of government housing and thus also that of the city in general. By most accounts, nowadays all allocations are driven by some combination of rishvat (bribe) and sifarish (connections) — even in the rare cases in which there are no irregularities and the rules are scrupulously followed. With the right amount of money and pull, government employees can be allocated houses of virtually any class. Allocation rules, while not determining assignation directly, function as a form of market regulation that, along with the supply of housing units, determines the illegal economy of rishvat and sifarish in the government housing sector. Even if a housing unit is allocated according to service rank, the allotee’s family is often not the occupant, or the exclusive occupant. Since the 1980s, renting part or all of a government unit has increased dramatically. A large percentage of houses in G-6/1-1 have one or more rooms rented out — the estimates of residents I spoke with ranged from 60 per cent to 100 per cent. The prospect of a rental income is one reason many residents add rooms in the rear courtyard. Such rooms allow the families of renters and allotees to remain somewhat separate even while sharing a bath and a toilet.14 Male allotees living without their families — with no worries for the purdah of their wives — often rent out even the rooms of the original house to as many as five or six other men. This pattern is similar in other sectors,

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although renting is somewhat less common because of the prevalence of apartments. The unavoidable threat to purdah in apartments usually prohibits all but men living without their families from renting rooms. Violations of allocation policies and rules against renting had become so common by the early 1990s that guidelines for the recruitment of private individuals to expose these irregularities were incorporated into the 1993 Allocation Rules.15 Even when rank matches house, the wealth of the occupants of the same class of house differs widely. Illegal financial opportunities vary greatly among different government divisions. Government employees drawing the same salary may earn vastly different amounts from their service. As an example of this, one resident of G-6 pointed to some A-type houses in G-6/1-2 and said their occupants, policemen, were much wealthier than the occupants of their B-house neighbours, who live on their government salaries. The police service is an especially lucrative area of government. According to him and others, these policemen own other private houses in Islamabad that they rent out. They live in government quarters only to avoid uncomfortable questions from the Revenue department concerning the source of funds they used to buy their houses. While quarters are legally a facility of a post, government servants appropriate them. Most occupants have invested substantial resources into modification of their government dwellings. Residents in the oldest government sector, G-6, have been agitating for decades to have what they see as their customary rights to their quarters confirmed through the grant of legal ownership. While they have not been successful, several prime ministers have pledged to do it. Though legal ownership has not been granted, individual and family rights to their quarters — irrespective of government service — are recognised in both the legally sanctioned and the informal aspects of the allocation process. The ‘Out of Turn Allotment’ (OOTA), a rationalisation in both the Weberian and moral senses of the term, has been codified in the allocation rules in order to regularise the ad hoc allocation of quarters to those who are not entitled to them according to service qualifications.16 The OOTA provision is in fact one of the few provisions of the elaborate allocation rules that is regularly used. Most of the other rules rarely come into play because the CDA office that allocates housing does not have comprehensive documentation of the units under their authority. Information on each unit is contained in a file of its own.

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This system is not the result of incompetence; rather, it is well-suited to serve the networks of government employees and their friends and relations. In practice, allocation of housing units runs entirely on the local knowledge of bureaucratic functionaries and neighbours who come to know of a retirement, transfer or illegal sublet. In what we might call friendly takeovers, individuals wanting a quarter approach its current occupant. In recognition of the occupant’s right to the house, they pay him or her Rs 2,000–10,000 to move out and let them take possession (qabza). Only after settling in does the new occupant submit a letter to the government stating that he has taken possession of the quarter and petition to have it officially allotted to him. Possession is nine-tenths of the allocation so such petitions are usually accepted. The allocation office, therefore, acts more like a registrar of market transfers than an agent of those transfers in accordance with the allocation rules. Hostile takeovers take place when an individual comes to know that the allottee of a quarter either has illegally sublet it or is no longer eligible to keep it after retiring. In yet another example of the explicit codification of a practice originating outside the organisation, rules provide that the first party to bring violation to the notice of the authorities may claim the quarter. Printed forms to be completed by a claimant are available in government offices. Such claims are common but they are not often successful. Retiring officers, whose ineligibility is easily verifiable, usually negotiate with a new occupant before being forced out. Subletting is difficult to prove. The CDA officer in charge of investigating such charges told me that if his investigators ask about the clothes and other furnishing in the quarter, the allottee will simply claim they are his. If the sublettors are present, the allotee will say they are his friends and are staying free of rent. Inquiries from neighbours are of not much help either — they usually lie to protect their neighbour, especially since they themselves often sublet a portion of their quarter. However, in most cases, the officer told me, the allotee learns well in advance that an investigation is imminent and thus expects the arrival of the inspectors. This observation was borne out by the experience of a friend who was occupying a quarter allocated to an uncle of his. He and his family were summarily hustled out of the quarter when the uncle caught wind of someone having filed a claim against him. Even when such claims against illegal occupation are successful, the claimant usually ends up paying a substantial

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sum to the occupant to dissuade him from tying up the case in court for years.

Technical Planning and Sectarian Conflict The history of mosque construction and allocation in Islamabad illuminates the complex role that Pakistan state institutions play in the sectarian politics that appear to be outside the state sphere. Through involvement with mosque building in the city, the state established a new arena of competition and conflict among Islamic sects. Court cases and energetic public protests have led to the ad hoc authorisation of a few mosques but have not reshaped government policy on mosques. Unable to control this arena, Islamabad bureaucracies have clung to long-standing policies — which have effectively left the mosque allocation process in the hands of sectarian groups. Planners envisioned the population of the city as differentiated only by age, gender, income or rank. Mosques, like schools and markets, were planned based on population projections and on the catchment area — the area from which the mosque would draw namazis (worshippers). Planners in the early 1960s projected that 10 per cent of the residents of an area would attend Friday prayers and they should be expected to walk no more than about one-fourth of a mile in 10–12 minutes. Class A mosques, located at the centre of sub-sub-sectors, were to accommodate 100 namazis; class B, focal in the subsector, were to have space enough for 200–250 namazis; class C, at the centre of the sector, were to be spacious enough for around 1,000 namazis. During this period, many people claimed that Islam was the ‘ideology’ of Pakistan. Put simply, the claim was that the nation of Pakistan — with its separate West and East wings — was not grounded in a language, region or culture — none of which were shared by any majority of citizens of the new state. Rather, Pakistan was defined by a religion — a distinction many Pakistanis grudgingly admitted to me it shares with Israel. However, it was less ideology than functionality that underlay the government commitment to the provision of mosques. Officials saw Islamabad not as an Islamic city but as a city populated by Muslims.17 Implicit in the official technical treatment of mosques was an ecumenical vision of Islam as a uniform ‘religion’, all of whose followers could be served by the same institutional facilities, much as all the residents of a locality could be served by the same schools, fruit markets and tailors’ shops.

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The planned metropolitan region had over 54,000 inhabitants spread over more than 50 villages. Shrines anchored by the grave of a saint were left untouched. But like the cemeteries, most of the village mosques were demolished. However, those that were compatible with the new development plans were left intact, eventually becoming designated ‘old mosques’ in CDA parlance. From the early 1960s through the end of the 1970s, the CDA built new mosques. It turned them over to ‘mosque committees’ — made up of local residents — who then assumed responsibility for funding and appointing the mosque staff. The CDA originally planned to construct all the mosques in the city. Instead, from the 1970s, demand for mosques outpaced the ability of the CDA to provide them. Though the CDA continued to determine the location of mosques, they were often funded and constructed by mosque committees made up of local residents. The CDA described such mosques as ‘private construction’, built on a ‘self-help basis’. By 1980, only one-third of approximately 70 mosques in the developed sectors of the city had been constructed by the CDA. Records and the testimony of residents and long-time CDA officials show that up to this point there was rarely any controversy surrounding the allocation of mosques or mosque sites to committees. Residents never petitioned the CDA for a mosque in sectarian terms — as members of one or another Islamic sect. Instead, petitioners to the CDA often identified themselves simply as officers of a locality-based association. For example, one petition was submitted by the president and general secretary of ‘The Welfare Committee of Sector G-6/4-1’. As the name suggests, this association handled other neighbourhood issues as well. The construction-oriented CDA maintained no records on the sectarian affiliation of mosques, reflecting its lack of open concern for such matters. By 1980, the CDA had constructed 22 mosques that came to be affiliated with the four major Islamic maslaks or sects prevalent in the region.18 Among the Sunni sects, 11 became affiliated with the Berelvi sect, nine with the Deobandis, and one with the Ahl-e-Hadith. One mosque became Shia. There may have been informal understandings in official circles as to the eventual sectarian affiliation of these mosques. However, the sectarian affiliation of a mosque, insofar as it was seen to have one in this period, came mainly through the mosque committee’s appointment of a khatib (the official who leads Friday prayers and delivers the sermon) and muezzin (the official who gives the call to prayer) of a particular sect.

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This planning and ad hoc allocation process began to breakdown in the late 1970s with the complementary growth of sectarian politics and the state’s Islamisation programmes. Zulfikhar Ali Bhutto renewed Islamisation in the final years of his government as a way to bolster his increasingly unpopular rule. Zia ul-Haq, who came to power with the support of sections of the ulama (Islamic scholars), expanded Bhutto’s Islamisation campaign with the ostensible goal of bringing society and the state in line with sharia. As Jamal Malik (1996) has forcefully argued, however, Islamisation in Pakistan is better understood as two complementary processes aimed at legitimising state regimes: the traditionalisation — in an Islamic idiom — of state structures derived from colonialism; and the integration of relatively autonomous Islamic institutions into the state apparatus. Thus, on the one hand, federally administered zakat (alms for the poor) and ushr (agricultural tithe) systems traditionalised economic extraction by the state. On the other, the regulation of Islamic education and nationalisation of shrines and waqfs or Islamic endowments integrated these institutions into the state. On the local scale of Islamabad, Zia’s Islamisation programme targeted mosques as a response to the increasingly acrimonious conflicts over the sectarian allocation of mosque sites. In 1979 Islamabad was made a district and given its own administration under the Ministry of Interior. Through a 1981 Presidential Directive, all the mosques of the city were nationalised and placed under the authority of the Auqaf (or Islamic Endowments) Directorate of the new Islamabad administration. The Auqaf Directorate assumed operational control and financial responsibility for the mosques and all mosque staff became state employees. Many candidates for mosque posts welcomed the opportunity for state employment and the residents were happy to have the government assume financial responsibility for mosques. However, the ulama, bureaucrats and residents understood that the nationalisation of Islamabad mosques was not an effort to Islamise the state but a means to statise Islamic institutions. The measure enabled the government to control mosque activities by appointing what one internal Auqaf report called ‘non-controversial imams’ and by restricting the content of their sermons through the direct threat of official transfer.19 According to the Auqaf Directorate policy, mosque committees of ‘local residents’ were maintained in order to ‘provide participation’ and were ‘entrusted with looking after the day-to-day affairs of

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the mosque and creating a spirit of unanimity and natural cohesion amongst the community’.20 While the policies of the CDA and Auqaf were thus different, they each saw Islam as homogeneous. On the one side, the technical policies of the CDA treated Islam in terms of socio-spatial needs. On the other, the Auqaf Directorate’s Islamisation policies reduced Islam to a uniform ideology and institution of socio-political cohesion. Both of these homogenising approaches failed in their encounter with the heterogeneity of Islam in Pakistan. From the late 1970s, without authorisation from the CDA, competing sects erected numerous mosques on open land throughout the developed sectors of the city, particularly near markets, on parks and interstitial green spaces — such as the banks of seasonally flowing streams (nalas). The CDA initially treated these mosques like any other illegal construction and destroyed them.21 While sects built their own illegal mosques, they used the CDA to destroy the illegal mosques of their rivals. Sometimes groups building mosques illegally even petitioned the CDA to protect them from another group that was trying to take them over. The CDA’s demolition ‘solution’ to the mushrooming of illegal mosques was reviewed by the Federal Shariat Court in 1984. The Shariat Courts are ambiguously parallel to the secular judiciary and handle what are seen as Islamic issues. In a 1981 public education campaign, the CDA declared: ‘building house of God on earth is certainly a blessed act, but at the same time no one could be allowed to ignore principles of Shariat and Islamic orders. The sanctity of the ‘Khana-i-Khuda [house of God] is violated by constructing mosques in unsuitable places’ (Pakistan Times, 31 August 1981). While the Federal Shariat Court ruled on religious grounds that mosques should not be built on land without permission of the owner, the thrust of the ruling went the other way. The Court all but invalidated mosque demolitions, declaring, in the summary words of one Auqaf official, ‘once a mosque always a mosque’. This Shariat Court ruling was reaffirmed in 1986 by the judgment of the Council for Islamic Ideology — a state advisory body on Islamic affairs. While there are passing references to the ‘sanctity’ of mosques, the basis of the judgment was the secular legal principle of adverse possession: title to real property is acquired by some kind of continuous possession for a specified period of time. Noting that a mosque takes months to build, the Council found that a mosque

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must be considered to have been built with the tacit acceptance of government bodies charged with controlling illegal construction. An official of the Islamic Ideology Council explained to me that in light of this ruling, every existent mosque is legal. He cited a colonial precedent from 1930s Lahore where before a British magistrate was to inspect a disputed site — in advance of the final stages of legal proceedings — Muslims worked fervently through the night to construct a room complete with a roof. On inspecting the site the next day, the magistrate found a complete mosque and ruled in favour of the Muslims saying that ‘it would not be expedient to demolish the mosque’. The official also told me that the principle of adverse possession applies not only to mosques but to prayer itself. If it is permitted to say one’s prayers at a site for some time, then the site is irreversible dedicated to prayer. ‘If an owner sees people praying but does not stop them, he cannot stop them later’. However, the Council made a much more expansive claim focusing on the religious needs of Pakistanis. The Pakistani public cannot be convinced that some road or park or market etc. is more necessary than the mosque. The plan of any road, park, or market can be changed on account of a constructed mosque and there will be no objection from the public as a whole…For religious demands and considerations and in view of public enthusiasm all those mosques should be considered legal that have been built up to now on government lands.

The CDA position was also complicated by the state recognition of four maslaks or sects (Deobandi, Berelvi, Ahl-e-Hadith, Shia) in educational Islamisation initiatives. Officials saw this recognition of four maslaks as a way of limiting claims by other groups and sub-factions. Following this recognition, the Auqaf Directorate quietly acknowledged the claims of the four maslaks for mosques of their own in every locality. The CDA continued to reject out of hand petitions for regionallybased mosques — for example, one by a Baltistani religious leader. However, officials found it increasingly difficult to sustain their policy that a single mosque could serve all the residents of a locality. In recognition of the need to coordinate CDA planning and Auqaf sectarian allocation policies, the ‘Special Mosque Committee’ was formed in 1981, consisting of representatives of the CDA and Auqaf and chaired by the Secretary of the Ministry of Religious Affairs. According to a report prepared for the committee in the 1980s, the aim

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of this committee was to ‘meet the sectoral/sectarian balance necessary to maintain peace’. ‘Sectoral/Sectarian’ balance was conceived of in terms of the relative number of mosques of each sect in a given area — independent of the sectarian orientation of the population. Neither the CDA nor Auqaf had ever gathered controversial statistics on the maslaks of residents on the basis of which they could make a decision on the sectarian allocation of a mosque. In any case, identifications with maslaks are often diffuse or non-existent. Many residents do not know the maslak of the mosque they regularly attend, beyond whether it is Shia or Sunni. In considering every petition for permission to establish a mosque, the committee received reports on the provision of mosques and sectarian tensions in the neighbourhood from the Senior Superintendent of Police. The overriding objective of the committee was to avoid violence among groups, or, in bureaucratic parlance, a ‘law and order situation’. For several years the committee managed to keep the peace, but its decisions became largely irrelevant as sectarian groups increasingly occupied sites and then sought regularisation. As one CDA official observed, ‘There has been practically no involvement of the committee in mosque allocation since the early 1980s. After that it was mainly qabza [possession]. It is first come first serve, a fight on the ground’. The regularisation process itself has been regularised. Many CDA officials consider the groups that occupy mosque sites just another kind of so-called ‘qabza group’. Qabza groups are land mafias that take control of public and private land in urban Pakistan through threats of force and payoffs to government officials. The director of Urban Planning summarised a view common among more senior CDA officials. He told me that this mosque-building is nothing more than a method of grabbing land. Noting how high the land values are in the areas of the illegal mosques then said ‘The mosque provides a residence and food for the imam. Sometimes there is a school too, filled with poor students, usually from the north, whose parents are happy to get rid of a son. Maybe he teaches them a little about the Quran too!’ He described how he had once gone to a school and the students were washing the clothes of the imam and his family. He chuckled as he observed that the government then pays them money for the school, pays them to squat. Worse, he said, they are ‘using religion for politics, they incite the people in the name of religion. There is no difference, no strong difference among

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the sects in Islamabad, people don’t care much, it is the qabza group who promotes it’. He cited the Shariat Court ruling but argued that no one cares about this law: ‘the mosques, which are supposed be the most disciplined, following religious rules, but instead they are the worst violators, look any place…and you will see that the buildings jutting out are all mosques’. While rival sectarian claimants to a site have occasionally clashed violently, they more often take possession of a site by praying there conspicuously five times daily. The petitions of groups requesting allocation of a site always include a history of regular prayer. One resident of F-6/1 described to me his own failing efforts to keep his neighbourhood free of another mosque. One day he saw seven or eight men spread out reed mats and begin to say prayers on an open area behind his house. He interrupted them and asked them why they are saying namaz here when there is a mosque nearby. They apologised for disturbing him and the next week returned to a spot 50 yards away. When he again questioned them they moved another 25 yards away. ‘What can one say to them?’ he exclaimed, laughing, ‘They are not breaking the law, not doing anything wrong, not challenging your authority’. Now for seven or eight years later, they are ‘publicly recognised to have been saying their namaz there for years’. They have cleared and levelled the spot and there is a little rim of bricks. He sighed when he told me it is just a matter of time until they build a whole mosque. In new sectors, planning maps have played a direct role in shaping sectarian conflict. Both sectarian representatives and the government are trying to wrest control of mosques from local neighbourhood networks. In order to avoid clashes between sectarian groups, a 1983 Auqaf report recommended that the government build mosques in new sectors and appoint imams before the habitation of the area. While the government has never managed to do this, sectarian groups have successfully embraced this practice. Planning maps showing the future development of sectors — including the location of mosques — have played a major role in this process. Ironically, planning has facilitated the qabza operations of sectarian groups. Groups obtain confidential planning maps from CDA officials who support their sect or mosque-building in general. With the map in hand they use surveyors to determine the planned location of mosque sites in empty fields of undeveloped sectors, erect shacks with generatorpowered loudspeakers and begin to establish a record of regular prayer.

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They literally honour the plans in the breach — they squat according to plan. Built on sites planned for mosques, but lacking official approval, these mosques are designated in CDA discourse as ‘unauthorised planned mosques’ until they are regularised by the Special Mosque Committee, when they become ‘authorised planned mosques’. The maps have enabled a separation between the processes of residential settlement and mosque building. There are often very high-level people — secretaries, federal ministers, even foreign ambassadors — involved in pressuring the CDA to regularise illegal mosques. As one CDA official put it to me, ‘The sectarian representatives stay in the background. They are often just fighting for allocation. Sometimes after allocation, the group becomes silent, no one builds the mosque, beggars sleep there and say their prayers’. A dispute over a mosque in I-8 eventually resulted in a gun fight. The ensuing investigation found that all the disputants were from outside the neighbourhood. In the western sectors of Islamabad, political and bureaucratic networks rather than neighbourhood social dynamics now shape the construction and affiliation of mosques. The Auqaf Directorate’s main role today is to ascertain which group first began to pray on a site rather than determine allocation with a view toward sectarian balance. For its part, the CDA, according to one town planner, clings to its policy of ‘no discrimination’ among maslaks. ‘We examine such issues only from a technical point of view, catchment, capacity of mosque…we will not add (a mosque) to satisfy another sect’. Without retreating from a resolutely technical policy, in the mid-1980s the CDA was able to incorporate sectarian claims into the Master Plan by raising the projected per centage of namazis in a population from 10 per cent to 20 per cent, thus doubling the number of mosques planned for the city. Under pressure from rival sectarian groups, the CDA and Auqaf sometimes duck responsibility by passing cases back and forth: the CDA requests the Auqaf to make the decision based on sectarian allocation policy; the Auqaf requests the CDA to make the decision based on technical criteria. Illegal mosque construction and sectarian conflict over the control of existing mosques are not unique to Islamabad (Khan this volume). However, the statising and graphic representation of mosques in Islamabad literally constitute sites of sectarian conflict — bringing the politics of sectarian conflict much more within the bureaucratic arena than elsewhere in less regulated urban areas of Pakistan.

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Bushes and Grass Virtually every aspect of planning and regulation in Islamabad has incorporated aspects of the process they aim to control. The trade in the blueprints of private houses is yet another example. Most houses in the urban region through the 1960s were built by contractors who worked from rough sketches and the regular input of owners. In contrast, Islamabad building codes required that plans drawn up by a licensed architect be submitted to the CDA. One goal of this code was to compel compliance with regulations; another objective was to insure the uniqueness of each house. Ironically, the CDA architecture record store room has provided a supply of readymade plans for reproduction. At the prompting of clients who have admired a particular house, architects buy these blueprints from CDA staff in control of the record room for Rs 500–1,000, change the names on them and sell them to clients for Rs 7,000–10,000. There are now at least nine reproductions of one large, white, pillared house placed on prominent road which was featured in a popular television serial drama as the residence of a very rich family. (Architects told me people would often come in and tell them they want to live in a ‘White House’ or a ‘house like Bill Clinton’s’). This trade in blueprints is such a common practice that in conversation with me, one architect marked it as a point of pride that his firm usually designs houses from scratch. One rough measure of the scale of traffic in house plans is provided by statistics compiled by an officer in the architecture directorate showing that an architectural firm with just one architect produced 396 plans in 1997. The stalled western expansion of the city is the most dramatic result of the inescapable entanglement of the bureaucracy with the world beyond its offices. Doxiadis’s vision of unhindered expansion has gone no further than the 11-series of sectors. The CDA has been unable to take possession of the land in the west because the villagers have rejected the compensation packages on offer — which are based on 1958 land values adjusted for inflation, a tiny fraction of the value of the land today. Initially, under martial law regulations and the CDA Ordinance, villagers opposed to expropriation or to the specific compensation award had neither political nor legal recourse. In the 1970s, the populist government of Zulfikhar Ali Bhutto allowed the courts to hear petitions challenging the compensation policy, but the villagers lost in every case. Decades of public protests and

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sympathetic press coverage, particularly in Urdu publications, have also failed to change CDA compensation policy. Stifled in the political and legal domains, the large number of villagers who staffed the lowest rungs of the CDA brought the conflict into the heart of bureaucratic process. In collusion with CDA officials, they fabricated documents, specifically a large number of false but authorised lists, demolition certificates and review orders. These documents fantastically magnified the number of claims for compensation for built structures and earned the villagers (and their colleagues in the CDA) many times more than what they would have received legally. These fraud schemes have turned the most basic bureaucratic technologies against the bureaucracy itself. A CDA director told me that in 1997, 95 per cent of the normatively confidential files dealing with these cases were literally in the hands of the villagers and their associates who controlled how they were used. The CDA has often found itself in court attempting to disavow its own records. A report on the situation in 1993 recommended that the remaining false claims should be paid immediately as attempts to dispute them through audits of the lists simply added to the number of claimants. ‘No fresh lists’, the report warned. While the fraud became public knowledge in 2000, the military government has been no more successful in resolving it. But there is increasingly less at stake in doing so. In 1993, recognising the difficulty of resolving the dispute, the CDA gave up its struggle to acquire nearly a third of the territory slated for government development. This land has been zoned for development by private corporations and housing societies. But private developers are facing many of the same problems while trying to acquire land. Building in this area is mostly proceeding plot by plot — much as it would in Rawalpindi or any other Pakistan city — generating the ‘organic’ growth Islamabad was to transcend. The future lanes and streets of this area will almost certainly follow the banks and footpaths that have divided the agricultural fields of the region for centuries. It is important not to overstate the extent to which the sorts of practices I have described have undermined the Master Plan and the institutional operations of the CDA. Through the 11-series of sectors, the main elements of Doxiadis’s vision have been realised. The CDA employs thousands and — along with the Islamabad Capital Territory Administration under the Interior Ministry — controls the majority of municipal regulation, despite sporadic calls for a representative government for the city. However, the transformation of government

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housing allocation into an informal process, the return of mosques to the play of sectarian politics within the bureaucracy and especially, the astonishing halt to planned development in the west show that the making of the city has been transformed by socio-political processes that the plan aimed to exclude. Crucially, these processes engage the bureaucracy at every point. The plan succeeded in confining political participation to the bureaucratic arena itself rather than provoking successful opposition to it through the mechanisms of civil society — representative institutions, interest groups and the press. And yet, over its four-decade history, the city did not separate the bureaucracy from society but rather drew that society within the bureaucracy itself. The more the bureaucracy tried to dominate the wider socio-cultural terrain, the more it began to resemble that terrain. Bureaucratic institutions, as they plunge into socio-cultural processes formerly organised by different principles and means, are inevitably transformed through that engagement. Institutions of civil society in Pakistan are much more vibrant and influential than the history of military rule might suggest. However, the attempt of state bureaucracies to dominate the order of the Islamabad and the complementary marginalisation of civil society politics cast in sharp relief modes of participation in government that are also found elsewhere in Pakistan. On a hill to the south of the city is Shakarparian, a garden overlook named for the village that once occupied the site, acquired in the early, less complicated years of Islamabad. The focus of the garden is a large map of the Islamabad region, a garden gridded by poured concrete lines. The closely cropped grass in sector squares iconically figures Islamabad as a giant, well-ordered garden. In contrast, Rawalpindi, the older city to the south, is represented by an unruly mass of unclipped bushes covering an irregular area in the midst of the grid. Perhaps CDA gardeners might one day pull up many of the map garden’s concrete lines and plant bushes, which are much heartier than grass.

Notes ∗ This article is based on research supported by the Social Science Research Council and the American Institute of Pakistan Studies. This article is greatly indebted to the insights and assistance of Kamal Pasha, Zaffar Javed Iqbal, Zubair Osmani, Khaled Khan Toru and Amjhad Farooq. I am also grateful for the valuable comments of Jishnu Das, David Gilmartin, Naveeda Khan, Chris Nelson, Margaret Wiener and the participants of the ‘Beyond Crisis’ conference at The Johns Hopkins University, and especially Krisztina Fehérváry.

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1. Doxiadis had proved himself to the new regime by quickly completing Korangi, a housing development in Karachi for the resettlement of 75,000 refugees. 2. As many have observed, there are continuities between this colonial tradition and the city-building activities of the Mughals, exemplified by Delhi, Agra, and Fatehpur Sikri. However, there are significant differences. Important cities such as Karachi, Bombay, Calcutta and Madras developed from trading settlements, but the British more often developed settlements outside existing cities upon which they depended (King 1976). 3. Glover observes about Lahore that ‘each of these three distinct zones would include elements (both human and non-human) of the other two in their midst, a fact often overlooked in studies of colonial urbanism’ (2008). This was even more the case in Rawalpindi, where the areas allocated to the civil lines and cantonment virtually surrounded the indigenous city to the south, east and west. 4. One senior planner told me that, having conducted systematic studies, Doxiadis was better informed about traditional rural and urban architecture than today’s planners. 5. Auto rickshaws, ubiquitous in Rawalpindi, are banned from this road, as from the rest of Islamabad, but tongas (horsecarts) in the break-down lane, and bicycles, often precariously balancing large loads, are common. On this road one afternoon, my car was sideswiped by an air conditioner that escaped the control of its unfortunate bicycle transporter. 6. While publicity focused on plans for the civilian population of Islamabad, as Spaulding points out (1994: 193), the army was the quiet recipient of the largest amount of land allocated to any single institution or to any single function, save that of civilian residence. 7. For one such reference to the ‘Presidential Palace’, see ‘Construction of Islamabad/Work to start in about 2 months’ (Pakistan Times, 8 August 1960). 8. In the mid-1990s, Ayub’s house was unceremoniously razed for the construction of a new house by the wealthy owner of a major hotel, in what several observers described to me as a gesture of arrogance. 9. As one senior CDA official put it, ‘The president is on the hill and the parliament is under his feet’. According to this official, Zulfikhar Ali Bhutto deployed the same height symbolism when he later insisted that a new prime minister’s residence be higher than the President’s House, ‘so you see it is on a higher hill’ to the north of the President’s House. 10. The hierarchy of communities also corresponded to modes of transportation: ‘Dynapolis is not built for man only. In it we are going to have a cohabitation of man and machines, of cars, trains, airplanes and helicopters and maybe rockets. And beyond rockets, what? It is too early to predict what class of community is to have a rocket launching base…’ (Doxiadis Associates 1960b: 136). 11. Doxiadis’s reports try to accomplish this same feat on paper. Even reports devoted to the smallest element of the plan, for example house designs, include a series of maps showing the series of communities in which the element is to be located.

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12. More specifically, American planners, closely tied to social workers, reformers and pragmatist philosophers, developed the neighborhood unit as a physical container and, more important, a template for the imagination of the social interconnectedness made invisible by ethnic difference and complex division of labor of the urbanising American society (Hull n.d.). 13. Bengali government servants left Karachi and Islamabad in the midst of the 1971 war that resulted in the secession of East Pakistan and the creation of Bangladesh. 14. While economically necessary, these rental arrangements provoke great anxieties concerning the ‘honor’ (izzat) of the female occupants — especially in men. ‘The man is very anxious’ (mard bahot fikrmand he), one resident told me. Many consider it a moral (ikhlaqi) and social (muasharati) problem, and dishonourable (baistee). Extra-marital sexual relations are rumored to be relatively common. 15. Pakistan Allocation Rules of 1993. 16. ibid. 17. While the city has had a substantial Christian population since its beginning, no churches have ever been planned by the CDA. Attempts to construct them have generated virulent protest. 18. In scholarly discourse, maslak refers to a ‘path’ within Sunni Islam rather than an independent sect. However, in the Pakistan government arena, maslak is used interchangeably with ‘sect’ to indicate a recognised subdivision of Islam, three Sunni (Ahl-e-Hadith, Deobandi, Berelvi) and the Shia as a whole. I follow this usage rather than the scholarly one. 19. I was told that the Islamabad administration has someone in the audience of every Friday sermon to monitor its content. 20. This and other un-attributed quotations come from ‘active’ files, written on by current officers and staff members of the CDA and Islamabad Capital Territory Administration. While I have full documentation of the writers, dates and official file numbers of the files I quote, I have not included this information in the references for two reasons. First, publishing reference information might expose the writers or those who kindly gave me access to the files to potential charges of wrongdoing as their actions or writings are recontextualised in a public forum. Second, while the lack of identification of these sources may lessen the scholarly authority of my account, such identification would in any case not serve the usual function of providing others with the possibility of evaluating my work in light of the actual sources. 21. While English language press described these events as ‘demolitions’ of ‘illegal’ mosques, Urdu coverage usually critically reported that the CDA ‘martyred’ (shahid kya) a mosque.

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Mosque Construction or the Violence of the Ordinary∗ Naveeda Khan Introduction I have been, for some time, preoccupied with how one can speak about neighbourhood mosques,1 about which one can say no one thing but having said a few things, see those propositions slip away into generality, even banality.2 Even works that praise mosques cannot seem to avoid this fate. Many at my research site speculated that this vulnerability of mosques to banality is equally that of my research topic. Who works on mosques when the world talks incessantly about madrasas? But it has dawned on me that this vulnerability is in the nature of the mosque itself, in its ordinariness, the necessity that guarantees its production to meet daily ritual needs but also threatens its reception by, in this instance, this scholar and her research subjects — Lahori Sunni Muslims of all ages and genders and of all walks of life. This article is an exploration of neighbourhood mosques in Lahore and their mutual entanglements with ordinary life and sectarian politics. I intend to draw out how mosques fall prey to a certain ‘violence of the ordinary’,3 which may or may not underlie sectarian politics, but which still awaits a proper account in and of itself. For me to take an account of the ordinary in its specific relationship to mosques, I need to further explore how the ordinary forms the backdrop to the building of a mosque, how the mosque inaugurates newness and what nature of newness this is, and how conformity and separation tracks these ongoing processes of mosque building.4 While it is beyond the scope of this article to draw out how one is to fall out of step with conformity and separation, I gesture to some of the ways in which they are resisted to suggest the subterranean reserves within the ordinary to be both productive and ameliorative of violence. Finally, the figure of the mosque expresses my preoccupation with material culture, of things, their production, collection and circulation, and the narratives that accrue to them. At the outset, I would only

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add that we do not yet know the full reach of things — in my case, of mosques — and what they can tell us about ourselves in relation to one another and to the world. Here, a quote from Stanley Cavell’s essay ‘The World as Things’ may be helpful in setting forth the inquiry that underlies my work. Why do we put things together as we do? Why do we put ourselves together with just these things to make a world? What choices have we said farewell to? To put things together differently, so that they quicken the heart, would demand their recollecting (2005: 280).

The Ordinary as Backdrop The closest anthropologists have gotten to the ordinary is through the concept of ‘everyday life’, which we have encountered in theorists such as Henri Lefebvre (1991) and Michel de Certeau (1984), but whose substantive contents have preoccupied us since anthropology first came to be formalised as a discipline. I am afraid that I cannot bring anthropology any closer to a definition of the ordinary. Cavell, the American philosopher most preoccupied with the ordinary, a preoccupation which he inherits from ordinary language philosophers, such as Ludwig Wittgenstein and John Austin, never provides us a definition of the ordinary. It is only in the mouths of literary figures that Cavell finds statements on the ordinary in the nature of pronouncements on ‘how things are with us’ (Cavell 2003). He, in turn, corroborates the existence of the ordinary through our myriad modes of betraying it and of being betrayed by it, all of which he calls skepticism and which he understands to be a standing threat within the ordinary (Cavell 1988). Moreover, he draws out the ongoing significance of the ordinary by showing us what we stand to gain or lose by it, differently understood in each iteration of the problem. In some instances people court madness, in others death and in others, even contemplate murder. And these may take expression in no more or less than a dizzy spell, the taste of bile in one’s mouth and the rough gesture of pushing someone aside respectively (Cavell 1982). If I cannot bring anthropology any closer to a definition of the ordinary, I will certainly try to bring out a variegated sense of it. Here, I take my cue from Cavell in seeking this sense in contemporary Urdu literature pronouncements of the ordinary, in so far as they relate to mosques in modern-day Pakistan, and in using my ethnography of three mosques in Lahore to further nuance these pronouncements. Let me further explain how this division of labour is to work in my

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article. If literature tells us that to be ordinary is to breathe air, then ethnography shows us that that air may be poisoned. If literature tells us that to be ordinary is to affect conformity, then ethnography shows how conformity comes at the heels of the aspiration to change. Finally, if literature tells us that a condition of being ordinary is to perceive things as separating from us, then ethnography shows us how we struggle to weigh things down, to hold them in place, so that we may secure our place in the world.5 Let me explain briefly how I came by these descriptions of mosques in contemporary Urdu writings, sometimes no more than a few sentences, scavenged from a short story, a novel, an autobiography and a travel account, in that order. I did not undertake a survey of Urdu literature as that was not within the scope of my research. Instead, friends, teachers and interlocutors would break into words of poetry or gesture towards specific passages of prose by way of helping me to understand something. I would take their interjections as archetypical signposts to navigate the fractured urban landscape in which I found myself in Lahore in the late 1990s, in which each mosque I took up for research seemed embroiled in some version of what is referred to in common parlance as qabza (seizure).6 Newly informed of the nuances of these sectarian struggles within mosques and reeling from the affective intensities that moved these struggles, I was puzzled by the literary accounts of mosques for they seemed to verge on the impressionistic or the naïve. Could this writer really show the building of mosques to be like breathing? Could this other author really think that only an aspiration to change was at stake in this violent scene of mosque construction? Could this author really be so naïve as to be shocked by the presence of policemen guarding mosques? But I have since come to see and respect in these accounts a determination to make wide-eyed pronouncements on the ordinary, on ‘how things are with us’, to draw out the strangeness that resides within that to which we are most accustomed. In this, the mosque is the perfect foil for the ordinary, the qabza of a mosque an occasion to explore standing threats within the ordinary. Moreover, I see my ethnography as providing a few further insights into the workings of the ordinary in order that we might ‘put things together differently, so that they quicken the heart’ (Cavell 2005: 280).

To be Ordinary is to Breathe Air… Yasmeen, my Urdu teacher and good friend, showed up one day with Ghulam Abbas’7 short story ‘Anandi’ saying that I had to read it. In it

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she had found the most astonishing scene, astonishing in its simplicity, which had revealed to her that mosque-building should be ‘like breathing’. This was a pointed criticism of the contemporary mosque scene in Lahore, perhaps all over Pakistan, in which elabourate buildings were going up, although it was never made clear if they were authorised, who was funding them and for whom they were being built. This mixture of elabourateness and secrecy gave these partially built mosques a vague air of disrepute. Yasmeen implied that the mosque-building scene in ‘Anandi’ would set the record straight for me. The story begins with municipal authorities in an unnamed city during an unspecified time in history hotly debating the merits and demerits of having a red light district in the centre of the city. To the assertion that prostitutes have a historical claim upon the city, that to remove them would in no way rid society of the institution of prostitution, the counter assertion is made that it is not possible for upstanding citizens to live alongside such creatures of depravity. The prostitutes threaten to poison the morality of future generations while currently poisoning the air with their loud chatter, bawdy behaviour and music and dance. Thus, the prostitutes find themselves displaced to the edge of the city, where the city comes face to face with jungles and to which no paved road leads. There they immediately get busy, setting up shop and hiring workers to clear the jungles, lay down roads and build lavish homes for the prostitutes and entertainment halls for their clients. In the thicket of details of the work, which come to us in lyrical prose suggesting a tempo to the work that derives from nature rather than from an industrialised society, we learn that workers amass in this locality. If they are pulled to this locality by the economy of prostitution, a smaller economy builds up around their daily requirements of food and shelter. In time, they see fit to build a small mosque to attend to their daily ritual needs. Right there, a mosque is born with the greatest economy of words and gestures. In time, and through the exertions of the prostitutes, the city grows to encircle them. In the final scene municipal authorities once again hotly debate the merits and demerits of having a red light district in the centre of the city. The future of the prostitutes is once again thrown into uncertainty. Rather, since we presumably know the outcome of this debate, the prostitutes are once again activated as catalysts for the growth of a city. Mosques, we are given to understand, naturally proliferate.

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What is it about this picture of building mosques that strikes Yasmeen as being akin to breathing? One way to look at it is to say that, as breathing is to life so building a mosque is to living as a Muslim. This sentiment is certainly ever present in all the oral narratives I gathered on mosque construction. But, to borrow some thoughts from Eve Sedgewick speaking on Marcel Proust, in particular, on the importance he gives to breathing as the a-theological operation of reincarnation within the ordinary, breathing is the opportunity to give oneself a new life. Each breath marks the possibility for a fresh beginning. So it is with mosques. To build a mosque is to inaugurate a new life. It marks the possibility for a fresh beginning. But it is no more remarkable than breathing is to humans. And, through this picture of mosque construction as akin to breathing we are inducted into both the utter ordinariness of mosques and their remarkable capacity to register the communal desire and gesture of starting afresh. This is the newness that mosques inaugurate within the register of the ordinary.

…that is Poisoned Masjid Noor in Ganeshgar, renamed Momin Town sometime in the 1970s,8 was built shortly after partition by Muslim immigrants and refugees who found themselves in a once Hindu neighbourhood of Lahore in what was now Pakistan. In addition to meeting the needs of this migrant population, the mosque was built as much to mark a new beginning in a new nation as to consolidate claims upon a Sunni enclave in what was quickly becoming a largely Shia-dominated neighbourhood.9 As the imam (prayer leader) of the mosque describes it, in 1952 some residents literally grabbed him, then a young maulvi (religious scholar) and a newcomer himself to Pakistan, placed him on an as yet bare patch of land and bid him to begin namaz ba jamaat (congregational prayer). He continued to do so while the mosque came up in fits and starts around him. He stayed the imam of Masjid Noor for over 40 years and claimed himself aptly rewarded for his services by the enduring love and respect of his neighbours. Other than those mosques that predate partition and may fall under care of the provincial Auqaf (Religious Endowment) Department or those built by the state, most mosques are built out of neighbourhood initiative in Pakistan. While in some instances the state may make grants of land, in most instances government land is simply seized. The head of the Lahore Development Authority (LDA) once

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said to me that he thought that 90 per cent of all mosques in Lahore were built on illegally seized land (or at least land whose transfer had not been completed to satisfaction to meet the bureaucratic criteria of legality). These mosques are built and maintained by mosque committees through monthly donations collected from residents of the neighbourhood. In a few cases, a prominent resident may fully support a mosque. In an even fewer number of cases mosques are supported by waqf (religious endowment), or sponsored by foreign funds or political parties beyond the scope of the neighbourhood. More recently, urban neighbourhoods developed through private initiatives come with mosques, pre-built and fully operational, as part of the services provided by the developer. In sum, it is fair to say that there exists an unwieldy patchwork of financial sources and strategies, largely unconnected to and undocumented by the state, which underwrite the building and management of mosques. The minimal bureaucratic requirement that a mosque has to meet is to have its mosque committee registered as a society under the Societies Registration Act. 10 Even articles showing the legal acquisition of land on which mosques are to be built are not deemed absolutely necessary to commence construction. Moreover, such articles may be acquired legally (through state transfer of the land to the society) or illegally (through payment to potwaris [record keepers] to insert the name of one’s mosque into the records) after the fact of the mosque being built. While the state on occasion makes noises about centralising mosque construction and management, this is not its priority. The state shares with the average Pakistani Muslim the sense that mosques are necessary yet unremarkable aspects of being Muslim and, as such, residents should take the initiative as the need presents itself. Seen in another light, residents see it as their implicit right as Muslims to build mosques as they see necessary. It is not uncommon to find three or four mosques close together in a small neighbourhood each of a different maslak (a path within the Sunni firqa [sect]). Masjid Noor bore traces of the changing fortunes of its worshippers, largely storekeepers, local businessmen and civil servants who worked in the nearby Secretariat. In its early years, it was no more than a platform upon which the men in the neighbourhood congregated for Friday prayers. As monthly collections became regularised a concrete building took shape, consisting of a covered central hall, a courtyard outside of it with an area for toilet and ablution at the back

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of the courtyard.11 The mosque committee struggled to provide basic services, such as electricity to run the fans, most importantly those that hung over worshippers standing in the courtyard. Running water was a luxury until quite recently: tanks of water were placed at a little height above the ground to generate water flows from the taps that ringed the bottom of the tank. More recently, a generous worshipper had replaced the rotting jute carpet lining the hall and the courtyard with a presumably indestructible plastic one. The most recent additions to the mosque were the aesthetic flourishes added to the façade of the building. A cement cut-out of a dome with a little minaret on each side adorned the doorway leading into the central hall. A black and white marble sign hung by the doorway bearing the name of the mosque. Underneath the name was a recent addition to the sign that stated that this mosque followed the tenets of the Ahl-i Sunnah wa Jammat exclusively. The head of the mosque committee explained to me that those words had been added to the sign very recently in order to discourage anyone other than those of the Berelvi maslak from entering the mosque. And so unravelled the latest turn in the life of Masjid Noor. Before I describe the different forces that tore at this mosque as I found it between 1997–2002, let us go back to the image of breathing by which I explained the newness a mosque inaugurates within the register of the ordinary. Building a mosque is like taking a new breath, an opportunity to start afresh. But at what point does breathing become laboured? At what point does it not seem to hold the possibility for newness any longer? And what if the air one breathes in seems to militate against breath itself? This describes an environment in the grips of qabza, when one’s words are no sooner uttered that they are wrenched from one’s mouth to take on a life of their own, when one is overheard or, conversely, when one simply cannot be heard.12 Qabza, more specifically one’s vulnerability to slipping into a state of being under the qabza of another, I argue, is an imminent threat within the ordinary. The imam of Masjid Noor, Imam Azim, now in his mid 70s, was very ill. His breath was belaboured. Yet, his quivery voice held forth in a diatribe from a body that was doubled in pain. He spoke to me about the new addition to the signage, done at his behest because he no longer felt that it was possible for those of the Deobandi maslak to pray alongside Berelvis. Before partition he had found much to recommend in Maulana Muhammad Ilyas’s Tablighi Jamaat (the

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dawa (missionary) arm of the Deobandi maslak) and had steadfastly supported the presence of Tablighis in Masjid Noor over the years. He had allowed them to pray there, to give dars (lessons), to stay there overnight while on chilla (forty day trips), and to do gasht in his neighbourhood (call the men of the household to pray in the mosque). But the Tablighi Jama’atis had betrayed the philosophy of the founder of their movement, that is, reconverting lapsed Muslims to Islam, and were no longer welcome in Masjid Noor. I never did learn the specific instance of betrayal. There were dark hints from members of the mosque committee to the effect that some among the Tablighis had tried to seize the mosque. But from what I could gather afterwards from the local police, who were surprisingly loose lipped about mosque politics in their jurisdiction, and from Tablighi Jama’atis, who were long-term residents of the neighbourhood and worshippers at Masjid Noor, this story had been invented to impose police restraint upon Tablighi gatherings in the mosque. The air from the perspective of the Tablighis was not much clearer. It was my Tablighi research assistant who had first taken me along to Masjid Noor to confirm to himself that it was the Berelvis, and not the Tablighis, who had done qabza on the mosque. After he made more inquiries and I had met and spoken with the imam and various members of the mosque committee, I was told by him that the largely Berelvi worshippers were holding Imam Azim captive. That is, in exchange for letting him stay on as an imam in the mosque in his frail state, they had imposed this new restriction on him to stop courting the Tablighi Jama’atis. Meanwhile, the Tablighis had been tagged as qabza agents, making them the object of local suspicion and fear. Nor was the imam’s reputation spotless amongst the Tablighis. I was told that he had given taqreers (lectures) in several Shia imambarahs during the month of Muharram,13 which led to him being coded as a Shia sympathiser. He was drifting towards those Berelvi practices which most showed the influence of Shiism and were frowned upon by the Deobandis for being in excess of obligatory duties (weekly nat sessions in praise of the Prophet broadcast over the loudspeaker; giarwi or monthly lavish distributions of food amongst gathered worshippers in the name of the Baghdadi saint Abdul Qadir Gilani who has a large following among the Berelvis; yearly celebrations of the Prophet’s birthday, Milad un-Nabi; and commemorations of the death of Hazrat Hussain in the Battle of Karbala during the month of Muharram).

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Ironically, it was during this time that, whilst sitting in another Berelvi mosque in Momin Town, I heard a young maulvi refer to Masjid Noor as Masjid Zarar. As an aside, Masjid Zarar was the name of the mosque built by hypocrites at the time of the Prophet Muhammad and which he was commanded to destroy by Allah. I had first become acquainted with this term in legal judgments involving the Ahmadiyya, a sect of Muslims who had been declared non-Muslims by a constitutional amendment in 1974 (Khan 2009, Asad in this volume). In these judgments, Ahmadiya places of worship were referred to as Masjid Zarar for attempting to pass as Muslim mosques. Clearly this term was not free of judgment. When I pressed the man on his use of the dreaded interpellation he explained that the imam’s past close association with Tablighi Jama’atis made the mosque not quite what it claimed itself to be, that is, a Berelvi mosque. The imam kept things close to his chest despite the young man’s repeated efforts to learn the real status of the mosque and to recruit the imam into Berelvi influenced party politics, specifically that of the JUP (Jamiatul Ulama-e Pakistan). It is helpful here to recount how and why I came to study Masjid Noor. As I mentioned earlier, I only chanced upon the mosque through my Tablighi research assistant. However, I had an enduring interest in Momin Town because of its past as a Hindu neighbourhood. Given the long-standing concern within Islamic reformist thought in South Asia over the pernicious influence attributed to Hinduism upon Islam, I wondered how this influence was understood and mitigated in spatial terms by Muslims inhabiting a Hindu neighbourhood. Moreover, Momin Town had of late gained the reputation of being a Shia stronghold. There was a prominent Shia imambarah in the central market of Momin Town that had witnessed numerous events of sectarian conflict and was heavily guarded by the city police and the army during the Islamic month of Muharram. Within this setting, a Berelvi mosque that had once been open to Deobandi Tablighi Jama’atis and was now embroiled in a conflict with these very same Doebandis suggested a situation ripe for analysis of how sectarian politics, more specifically, Shia–Sunni conflicts, gets folded into the ordinary life of a Sunni mosque. It soon dawned on me that despite all my efforts to learn about Masjid Noor in ways unrelated to the event of the qabza, I could not possibly grasp what was happening. Just the hint of the possibility of a qabza had had a volley effect on rumours, almost all of them about Imam Azim, setting contradictory ones off in different directions

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simultaneously. And I was being absorbed into the rumour mill. Imams in mosques in other parts of Momin Town demanded to know of my interest in Masjid Noor. My research assistant, at all times non-judgmental towards my research and circumspect in making inquiries for me, was becoming deeply involved in uncovering more and more gossip on Imam Azim leaving me worried about how I might be contributing to the tense situation. Once, the muezzin (the person who delivers the call to prayer) of Masjid Noor, a blind old man, called me a spy to my face. So after three months of work, that took me through the local police station, markets, various households and other mosques, I decided to abandon my research on Masjid Noor. A year later, on a return trip to Pakistan, this time working on how sectarian politics was implicated within the space of domesticity, I serendipitously found myself in a house in Momin Town belonging to a family of Ahl-e Hadith persuasion, the third prominent maslak in addition to the aforementioned Deobandi and Berelvi maslaks within Sunni Islam in Pakistan. In the course of my conversations with the mother and daughter it dawned on me that I was sitting at the back of Masjid Noor and that the imam they were complaining about was none other than Imam Azim. It turned out that Imam Azim had welcomed them to the neighbourhood now some 10 years ago by a loud shrill announcement over the loudspeaker that ‘wahbis’ had moved in. Ahl-e Hadith are commonly referred to as wahabis in Pakistan because of their ideological closeness to the Saudi Wahabis, but also because it is understood that the Ahl-e Hadith, in particular their political parties, research institutions, mosques and seminaries, receive funding from Saudi Arabia. Feeling sequestered in a largely Berelvi neighbourhood, the family assiduously avoided their neighbours forgoing attendance at Masjid Noor for a neighbouring Ahl-e Hadith mosque.14 The family had gained some intimacy with Imam Azim over the years through being barraged by his daily announcements over the loudspeaker. The mother and daughter clucked to indicate their disapproval over his speech, in which he often lapsed into unsavoury details of how women ought to clean themselves after menstruation, how men and women ought to undertake ablution after sex and so on. Often, the mother said, she had had to cover her daughter’s ears with her hands as her own ears burned red. Yet, it was also in the course of my long acquaintance with this Ahl-e Hadith family that I observed how disoriented they were during

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the time Imam Azim, now somewhat recovered, undertook a monthlong trip to India to do ziyarat (pilgrimage) of an important saint’s shrine in old Delhi. They would stop in the midst of conversation with me to say that the imam’s substitute recited the Quran very poorly and that they missed Imam Azim’s melodious voice. They even acknowledged that, on occasion, they had learned important things from his announcements, for instance, what dua (prayer) to say to oneself before trying for a visa to travel overseas.15 Through his daily announcements they had come to imagine they understood what preoccupied him at the moment, thus gaining unexpected insight into the inner workings of a quixotic and complex man. But for all that, the mother and daughter felt deeply resentful that Imam Azim had placed them under qabza, in their own words. They had been forced into a passive reception of his speech. They felt that his poisonous words about them disinclined their neighbours towards them. They steered clear of initiating sociality with their neighbours for fear that it would require their sons to pray at Masjid Noor — leaving them vulnerable to being publicly ostracised for the different style of prayer they adopted as Ahl-e Hadith. I had heard before the use of the term qabza as meaning the usurpation of the freedom of speech, as censorship, for instance, when Naseem sahib, an Urdu teacher of mine, complained to me that the army and the mullas (a derogatory term for religious scholars) had done qabza on public speech. Through Masjid Noor I had come to understand qabza as the material seizure of a mosque, as productive of poisonous rumours. But, as I understood it, the mother and daughter used the term qabza, as in, the imam has done qabza on us, to mean the erasure of an individual’s singular words and gestures arising from her embodiment of her maslak. These cluster of senses around the term qabza suggested to me that there was traffic between a slight and silencing, and a situation in which words are ungrounded — rendering them into rumours; between a man who slights and silences and that very man as the object of rumours about whom anything can be said and believed. Yet the switch that flips one from one condition to the other, from that of overwhelming power to powerlessness, remained a mystery to me.

To be Ordinary is to Effect Conformity… I return to literature to seek out another pronouncement on ‘how things are with us’. But I also stay the course of qabza, thus far encountered

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in the seizure of a mosque, in the un-grounding of words and in the silencing of speech. Here we encounter qabza in its original sense of seizing land. The following extract comes from the novel Khuda Ki Basti (God’s Own Settlement) by Shawkat Siddiqi.16 It is a novel located in an unnamed urban dystopia in Pakistan in which we see the previously interlinked lives of a group of youth, girls and boys, disentangle and take off in sordid trajectories in which each in the group is preyed upon by forces rife in the world. A young man along a particular trajectory meets and befriends other young men all seized by the passion to do good for their country. We watch this development somewhat circumspectly as we have already seen the young man fail a young woman to whom he had promised love and freedom from the preys of an older lecherous man. What does this man know about doing good? A refusal to be taken in by the idealism of youth dogs Siddiqi’s descriptions of the boy’s deepening relationship with the group, now established as a society by the name of Skylarks, and their plans for developing their nation. The Skylarks decide to acquire land in a slum where they had been providing literacy classes and medical treatment free of charge. The youth in the organisation wish to build a hospital to consolidate their deepening ties to the workers who live there in their ongoing experimentation in participatory development. Shortly after they buy the land an unsavoury politician representing the slum approaches them. He asks that they acquire a license for buying medicine in excess of what they need so that he can sell the medicine in the open market. When they refuse him, he warns them of the dark forces that lurk in men and that they may be surprised yet by their friends and supporters in the slum. Overnight a mosque is built on the society-owned land by forces unseen working by cloak of darkness. The Skylarks appear at the site to find people they know and respect praying in the mosque, although by all evaluation this cannot be a mosque because it does not satisfy the legal criteria by which mosques are built, that is, through the legal acquisition of land, pious endowment and community participation. They take the matter up with the local police but suspect that the police are in cahoots with the politician. Although it should be noted that what the police sagaciously say is that, once a mosque is built one just has to go along with the fact of its being there. The young men file a case and watch its slow progress through the courts. Overnight, however, they have lost their closeness with the workers in the slum who now chastise them for not recognising the miracle

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of the mosque coming up overnight. Just as it looks like the Skylarks may be in the cusp of a legal breakthrough, of getting back their land to do with it as they had originally planned, of possibly demolishing the illegal structure built there, they are viciously attacked in the commune where they live, teach one another and plan their activities. They are severely beaten up and their abode burnt. It is clearly the workers who have attacked them perhaps at the incitement of the politician or of their own volition. At the end of this story the Skylarks abandon all hopes of continuing their work in that slum and look to do their work elsewhere. Shaukat Siddiqi never provides us an easy reading of the events that unfold in his novel. He is as cold in his description of the society of idealistic men as he is in rendering their betrayal at the hands of those they had hoped to help. We are in a dystopia in which the worst that can be imagined will occur and from which no respite is offered even in the form of a furtive hope that something unimaginable may yet stay the course of events. When the worst within a particular trajectory has happened, the trajectory loses steam and fizzles out more out of an exhaustion of possibilities than exertions countering its tendencies. This novel is, I would argue, a powerful statement on the state of conformity in which we find ourselves perpetually at home. By conformity I do not mean the condition of following convention as that is part of being in society. I mean instead a mode of thinking that re-produces the same, denying that difference may follow upon repetition (Deleuze 1995). In this instance of the novel, conformity in thinking takes two forms. First, despite all their efforts, the Skylarks are not able to provide a vision of societal change and participation in change that can grip the collective imagination. So conformity takes shape in the form of failure of the imagination of development, of providing viable alternatives to a given mode of thinking. Second, although Shaukat Siddiqi does not make this link explicit, the workers who exalt the miracle of the mosque built overnight re-enact events that founded the anti-colonial insurrectionist spirit among Muslims in early twentieth century India. This is part of the collective imagination surrounding illegally built mosques (see Hull in this volume for a reference to this event). In 1930, Muslims from all over India stole by cover of night to Lahore to build an illegal mosque in flagrant transgression of a colonial order to demolish a praying platform. This platform, viewed by the authorities as an encroachment on a main street, was transformed by Indian

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Muslims into a direct challenge to colonial authority.17 I would argue that the mosque that comes up on the Skylarks’ property activates and is animated by that earlier spirit. But when one remembers that it is this mosque that spells the demise of a possible line of flight for the workers from their circumstances, even if it be a mere amelioration of these circumstances and not their overturning, we see how conformity tracks the religious imagination to most pernicious effect. In this act we see the thoughtless abiding of a mode of thinking inspired by a once radical act.

…While Aspiring Towards Change The masjid in Gulshan was unnamed. As the only mosque that had been allowed to be built in the neighbourhood by its residents, it went by the name of ‘the mosque in Gulshan’. Gulshan was your typical planned urban neighbourhood undertaken by the LDA (Lahore Development Authority) after partition with residential plots scaled to wealth, a central market place, provisions for public services, such as a post office, a police station, a mosque, schools and a public park, all placed on an identifiable grid. In the 1970s the colonial city jail, from which the main drag along the neighbourhood got its name of Jail Road, was cleared and moved to the outskirts of the city. The colonial mental asylum stayed although its walls were raised to mark it off from the rest of the area. The area newly cleared of the jail was divided into generous plots of land that were sold at subsidised rates to top-ranking civil servants, such as retired judges and ministers. Some built their homes there. Others preferred to sell their properties at a neat profit to Lahori businessmen seeking to move out of the Walled City, where most of the commercial wealth of the city and the families associated with it were once concentrated. Civil servants, cultivating a certain modernist cosmopolitan air and comprising educated, well-travelled and nucleated families, now lived cheek by jowl with Lahori businessmen who more readily espoused a Punjabi ethos in their way of life, living and entertaining in lavish scale within joint family set ups thickened by intermarriage. It was these two subcultures that clashed over the construction and maintenance of the mosque in Gulshan, although, as we shall see, there were other divisive forces at work as well. As in such neighbourhoods, land had been allocated for a mosque in the design plans for Gulshan. Those who settled in the area in the early years of the 1970s set about registering a mosque committee and

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applying for a transfer of the land from the state to the committee at a nominal rate. A retired judge of the High Court of Lahore took the greatest initiative in planning for the mosque, going around to each house in the neighbourhood every month to secure donations to help buy the land and begin construction. Each donor was cut a chit for his/her donation to keep financial flows into the coffers of the mosque committee legitimate and transparent. The judge also called monthly meetings of the committee, often in his own home, keeping meticulous records of attendance and decisions taken at these meetings. The committee was to run itself as a public minded society, attempting to be representative of the neighbourhood, securing the consensus of its members and maintaining proper records. A constitution was written up for the society along with an eight-page document of rules and regulations guiding all aspects of the society and the mosque. The engineer put in charge of the construction plans for the mosque was similarly infused by the public spirit. Like many in the 1970s, for whom restrictions upon travel to the Middle East for work and for pilgrimage had eased, he had been to Mecca and Medina several times and had been impressed by the Prophet’s Mosque in Medina. He wanted to build a mosque to look like it. But most importantly, the engineer wanted to re-found the spirit of the mosque from the era of the Prophet. Built within the compound of the Prophet’s own residence, the mosque was famous for its openness to all, Muslims and non-Muslims, a place of public congregation, communal exchange, learning and contemplation. Towards these ends, the engineer sought to have a large mosque compound with numerous doors to encourage the flow of people in and out of it. Raised pathways smoothly delineated movement in and through the mosque of those who had undertaken ablution from those who were as yet unpurified. There were lavish provisions for ablution and toilet, different ones for those who came for daily worship and those who stopped overnight or came for longer study trips. A balance was sought between the built form and the natural environment, with gardens surrounding the mosque and a grassy courtyard to take the overflow of worshippers from the central prayer hall. Looking into the mosque from any of the doors one saw an alluring blend of architecture and greenery. The mosque committee envisioned a thorough reform of mosques in Pakistan. They wanted to hire religious scholars to run the mosque

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through a competitive process, advertising and interviewing candidates to find those who combined religious education with secular knowledge, demonstrated an interest in educating others and tremendous prowess in communication, and showed the capacity to care for the worshippers above and beyond their ritual needs. Such mosque employees would be provided housing with their families within the mosque compound, regular salaries which they would not need to supplement by taking in or going out to provide tuition and insurances and pensions to provide for their future to raise them to the stature of community leaders in equal standing with all. As the engineer once told me, ‘we wanted to transform maulvis into pastors in the Christian sense’. Additional land was bought alongside the land for the actual mosque so that someday soon these community leaders would be able to build residential schools for poor children to come, live and be educated in the shadows of the mosque. This land included enough acreage to provide for a playground for the children. The society also planned to apply for grants from the Auqaf Department, Child Welfare Department and the Department of Health to pay for an open library and medical dispensary within the compound. Customarily a mosque has a minimum of two employees — an imam (a prayer leader; the person who leads the five obligatory prayers in the day except perhaps for the Friday prayer which is usually led by the khatib [see below]) and a muezzin (the person who delivers the call to prayer). In addition, a mosque may hire on a full-time or part-time basis a khatib (sermon giver who has traditionally received more Arabic and Islamic education than an imam to better equip him to give an instructive, fluent and flawless sermon in Arabic (usually excerpts from the Quran and Hadith) supplemented by its Urdu translation and interpretation before the Friday prayer) and a qari (one who recites the Quran, that is one who has received at least enough training to render a proper recitation of the Quran and who is usually entrusted with teaching neighbourhood children how to read and recite the Quran properly). The hierarchy of these religious posts is pegged to the level of religious education, with the post of the khatib at the top followed by that of the imam, then the qari with the muezzin at the bottom of the hierarchy. Sometimes the muezzin is responsible for cleaning the mosque. Moreover, the wealth of a mosque or its support by its worshippers is suggested by the number

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of employees it has. For instance, Masjid Noor had enough funds to pay for a full-time imam and muezzin, with a qari coming by several times a week. At the mosque in Gulshan, there was a full-time khatib, an imam and a muezzin staying at the premises supplemented by a part-time qari who came on a daily basis to teach children from the neighbourhood. As mentioned earlier, most mosques nowadays have committees responsible for garnering governmental recognition for the mosque, such as acquiring the land and raising funds. There is always some tension between the committees and the employees. Some mosques are clearly dominated by their committees in which the employees defer to committee members in all decisions. In others the religious leaders may dominate the management of mosque affairs, having released themselves from committee influence by securing their financial independence. They may do so by dint of being independently wealthy, owning land in their village homes and running local businesses. Given that the mosque committee of Gulshan had such a strong reformist agenda and that they had erected an extensive hierarchy of employees in the mosque, it was not surprising that some tensions would develop between the two groups, if one can even think of them as two unified groups. One prominent form this tension took was class tension. When I arrived on the scene in 1997, I saw mosque committee members grit their teeth in frustration that the current khatib and imam were getting ahead of themselves by inviting people to attend dars (lessons) in the mosque, letting Tablighis stay in the mosque and daring to invite religious political figures to come give talks in the mosque. Yet the khatib and imam, who did not necessarily see eye to eye on things despite being of the Deobandi maslak, both felt that the committee members regularly belittled them in seeking to put them in their place. Their salaries had been frozen for years. There was an unrealistic cap on how much the committee would pay towards monthly electricity and water charges. And if this was not humiliation enough the two employees were expected to stand for hours outside the gate of the committee member in charge of paying them their salaries. Since they were given measly salaries, both had stopped going to collect them, preferring to seek employment outside. One taught Islamiyat in a local school and another worked as a qari in a posh school for boys in Lahore where he was also the cricket coach. Even so the imam remained quite deferential to the mosque committee, who spoke approvingly of his

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loyalty, read by some as his tenacious hold on his position, while the khatib was more openly dismissive of the committee. Although the qabza of the mosque in Gulshan took concrete forms, it offered no clearer narrative than that of Masjid Noor. Yet it was clear that while the eye of the storm in Masjid Noor was Imam Azim, in the case of the mosque in Gulshan it was the mosque itself in and through which social reform had been attempted that fell prey to the force of conformity. In what follows I move between the records maintained by the judge between 1975 and 1995 and conversations I had in 1999 with members of the mosque committee, the mosque employees, worshippers and neighbours to explore what form conformity took despite all efforts to put into effect genuine change. The records — no more than a half-page typed report for each meeting of the mosque committee — made note of the rise of several aberrant practices within the mosque in 1979. People had begun to say nat (poetry in praise of the Prophet) and durud sharif (a prayer specifically for the Prophet) loudly in the mosque. The mosque committee met to discuss these practices and all, except for one dissenting member, decided to disallow them. In 1999, I found out from members of the committee that the one dissenting member was a Lahori businessman from the Walled City now living in the neighbourhood. I was told that he was intent on introducing his rasm-o rawaj (customary practices) into the mosque. However, the committee soon became nonplussed that these practices continued despite the fact that they had been banned. By 1980, the mosque committee was discussing the possibility of filing a civil suit against certain unnamed neighbourhood residents who were not a part of the committee but who were seen to be interfering with the administration of the mosque through the continued propagation of disallowed practices. In 1999, the judge’s sons and daughters-in-law informed me that the businessman — now identified by the committee members as being Berelvi — had made a successful bid of qabza on the mosque. He had encouraged the then imam of the mosque to force all the worshippers to abide by Berelvi practices. All those who opposed these norms were locked out of the mosque. The records maintained by the judge note that in 1981 the committee had sought the resignation of all employees of the mosque after affiliating itself with the reputed Deobandi madrasa in Lahore, Jamia Ashrafiya. The report stated that this affiliation had been sought to secure help in finding dependable employees. I learn from the judge

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and his family that in 1999 when members of the mosque committee found themselves barred from the mosque under threat of physical harm, they approached the seminary for help, having now identified that Deobandis were the rivals of Berelvis. Help from the police had not been forthcoming. The rector of the seminary advised them not to pursue a civil case as it was unclear what constituted help from the government on such matters. Instead he helped mastermind a counter-qabza of the mosque. One day a truck pulled up in front of the mosque. It was filled with young men bearing arms, who forced their way into the mosque, ejected its imam — presumably loyal to the Lahori businessman — and replaced him with the current Pathan imam. This was because the rector had advised the committee that they would do well to place a person known for his loyalty and tenacity in such a position.18 The records meanwhile tell us that the previous imam tendered his resignation and that the Jamia Ashrafia had provided a suitable replacement. However, it appears that the committee decided to file a civil suit after all. This was met by a counter suit against the new employees of the mosque by the defendants of the civil suit. The police came and put the mosque under lock-and-key and later released it to the hold of the Lahori businessman, who, I am told by members of the committee, curried favour with the then District Commissioner (DC). The committee, clearly strong in legal expertise, responded by filing a writ petition against the Provincial Government, naming the police and the defendants of the civil suit. The records made no mention of the outcome of this writ petition although later I heard from the judge’s son — himself a judge — the petition was upheld and the mosque was returned in the care of the committee. The previous narrative provides the basic facts on the events of qabza between the years of 1979 and 1981 from the records and oral narratives available but those connected to the mosque continue to speak of qabza as though an ongoing event, most clearly expressed in the growing sense of the mosque committee that it had somehow lost control of its mosque and misplaced its spirit of reform with which it initiated the project of mosque-building. It now resorted to frequent rule-making as a way to enforce its picture of reform, one that no longer made sense in the changed world of the 1990s as it once did in the 1970s. In the 1980s, the records describe new struggles, this time between the mosque committee and the Pathan imam.19 Each complaint from

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the committee to the rector of the Jamia Ashrafia had him begging and pleading the case of the imam and promising to remove him as soon as new arrangements could be made. Meanwhile, the new khatib, also provided by the Jamia Ashrafia, started to give trouble. He had begun to give long political speeches during Friday prayers despite being asked to stick to the khutba and to keep it brief. In 1985, after such incidents were repeated, the committee members decided to throw out all its employees. The rector of the seminary interceded once again and helped to draw up rules of conduct for the employees asking them to refrain from party and factional politics, from the misuse of mosque property and from accepting external donations. This was the memorandum of understanding (MOU) in effect when I was there in 1999 although I heard that the khatib had long begun to scare the committee with his broadening alliances with sectarian politics. And the khatib’s bias was made evident when, in 1991, the committee members learned that he was hosting Maulana Fazlur Rehman Farooqi, the leader of the anti-Shia Sipah-e Sahaba party, for Friday prayer. In Khuda Ki Basti Shawkat Siddiqi provides us an understanding of conformity as a failure of imagination, the inability to provide alternatives to abiding modes of thinking or of unthinkingly partaking in such modes of thinking. In the case of the mosque in Gulshan, conformity, in relation to modes of thinking, arises from an impoverished picture of rule-following, of how people attach to rules or how they may be expected to attach to new rules (Cavell 1990). The efforts of the committee seem increasingly stringent attempts to generate new modes of thinking without expecting such change from themselves. Caught in this conundrum, the judge had discontinued his visits to the mosque. He could barely speak about the mosque without getting teary-eyed and upset. At one point in our conversation it seemed that he cried for the mosque. He could not fathom why one would humiliate the mosque, and thereby Allah, by having the police place a padlock on its doors. His son, who was himself a judge and who had earlier served as the liaison between the mosque committee and its employees, no longer prayed there. The Lahori businessman now prayed at a Berelvi mosque at the edge of the neighbourhood. He had tried, unsuccessfully, to build a Berelvi mosque in the neighbourhood after the mosque in Gulshan came under Deobandi control. The committee had managed to block his efforts to do so, even if they could

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not withstand the overt Deobandi influence in the mosque. The only person from the original committee who still prayed there was the engineer. He was driven to the mosque everyday by a member of his family where he parked his chair in the middle of the grassy courtyard if it was a sunny day or else dragged it into the prayer hall to perform his daily prayers. I attended prayers at the mosque on numerous Fridays and spoke with a number of worshippers. Unlike the days when the mosque was undergoing qabza and lay shorn of people, now worshippers flock there, drawn by the beauty of the mosque and the lively sermons and discussions. A few mentioned that they wished the khatib would exercise moderation on the political tone of his sermons.

A Condition of Being Ordinary is to Fear Separation From Things… Intizar Hussain has, over the course of his career, published numerous autobiographical works — the keen observations of a bystander detached from the world around him. In a famous scene from his novel Basti, in 1971, young men lounge around a café table in Karachi, sipping sodas, while Dhaka burns. This dissociated self is a signature pose of several of his characters. Yet his latest autobiographical piece, The Smoke of Lamps, is a little different. It is marked by a fierce disappointment that Pakistan has fallen from the heights it once occupied, that its cultural charms and intellectual vigour are no more. The chapters run alongside his observations on the declining decades. I focus on the last chapter titled ‘Those invalids amongst us have died’, in which a brief, startling reference to mosques comes up within the course of a long discussion on the revolution in the Lahori taste for food and the vanishing culture of the tea shop, that is, those things with which he put himself to constitute his world. At the beginning of the chapter Intizar Hussain stands surveying the street bearing the once famous and bustling Tollington Market in Lahore, now fallen into sharp disrepair. In particular he considers the disappearance of the seller of local foods and drinks who was once part of the scene. Hussain recounts with loving details the food one could once savour in this city and the drinks that could tantalise one’s palate, and how he and his companions would peruse the streets to collect such experiences. Of late, a revolution in tastes has swept away the street seller and his carts. He first senses the onset

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of this revolution when a food item, for which he would go deep into the old city of Lahore and wait in lines to eat, is served to him within the comfort of someone’s home and starts to appear with absurd regularity on everyone’s table. He senses that his taste buds do not respond to the food as they once did. Then there is the blizzard of Coca-Cola in the marketplace, followed by her family of drinks, SevenUp, Teem, and so on, exhibiting such flash and allurement that even street sellers, wishing to cash in on the cache of such drinks, start to rename local drinks as various colas. Soon the ubiquity of such drinks makes redundant local drinks and even water. In the next shift in the chapter, Intizar Hussain surveys characters, those who once made up the social milieu within the coffee houses and tea houses in Lahore. The competent poet who goes mad, the poetess who draws everyone around her, the recalcitrant critic who seeks silence in the epicentre of the noise that pulsates in the cafes. Hossain wonders where these people, these melancholic types who are to him the bearers of culture and critique, have disappeared. Some, like local drinks vendors, have taken on the personas of the modern to survive, publishing books out of their own monies rather than awaiting the slow progress of one’s work past the usual critics. Others have dropped out to pursue and enjoy the fruits of neoliberalism. Yet others, weakened by their melancholia, have simply died. Thus Hussain is left with only a few of the companions with whom he began his journey in Pakistan. However, his lost companions are not replaceable as the law of substitution does not and cannot be allowed to apply to men of culture, each unique, even idiosyncratic in specific ways. In the final shift of tone the chapter Intizar Hossain speaks of the growing number of guardsman at the sites he goes to worship. In recent years, the guardsmen have started to stand astride the mosques with guns exposed for all to see. If one takes account of the fact that in Pakistan, an Islamic nation, worship is the most insecure thing one can do then surely things have not worked out for the best in this country. The chapter ends with Intizar Hossain’s dark vision of Pakistan in an era of degeneration and devastation, as is appropriate of kalyug (the age of devastation within Hindu mythology), with the threat of a cataclysmic end augured by what he calls the ‘bomb’. It is only upon reflection on the possible relation of the three shifts in the chapter that I have come to think of the chapter as a meditation upon the value of things, of how things accrue and lose value. Here,

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the tension lies between two understandings of value, that of esteeming and that of evaluating, the former abiding by the culture of uniqueness and the latter partaking of the logic of calculation, the former marking the present that is already the past and the latter the future that is now upon us. In a shift from melancholia to rage, Hussain suggests that if evaluation and calculation has come to mean all, then perhaps we ought to take proper stock of Pakistan. Exactly what have we ‘earned’ by it? The answer is clearly ‘nothing’. The mosque, in its modern form, fearful and guarded, indexes the final era of degeneration and devastation that swiftly follows upon the first movement of value from an era of esteem to that of evaluation. Things that we once esteemed and then evaluated have separated from us and are now only moved by the destructive forces of time. New things, such as the bomb, draw us further into the vortex that is the end.

…Thus We Attempt To Weigh Things Down The third settlement, Gauhar Town, was a more recently planned suburb in the outlying areas of Lahore in which land allocations were not yet complete. The settlement had a scattering of houses intermixed with empty plots of land. Also built to accommodate the bureaucrats in Pakistan’s civil service, it catered to people at different rungs of the official hierarchy from peons (office attendants) to officers. As such it was a locality still under construction and heavy negotiation over the sociality yet to be expressed through its final built form. On one of my trips to the Lahore Development Authority, I met the potwari (registrar of land deeds) of Gauhar Town.20 I was told it was established in 1984 for low- to middle-income people. Like all such developments, the land was supposedly allotted in four ways: one portion was given to those individuals whose land was taken from them to develop the scheme, a second to individuals whose names were picked through lottery, a third portion was sold through public auction that brought in most of the LDA’s revenues, and the final portion, comprising 3 per cent of the total land stock, was given to the Chief Minister of the State to give away as he saw fit.21 In addition, the potwari claimed that there was a concerted effort to distribute the land amongst people of different occupations (although it was unclear to me how either lottery and public auction allowed for such careful demographic distribution), including those in defence, the High Court and the Supreme Court, government servants, lawyers, artists, media

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persons, journalists, sportsmen, the ulama, authors, scholars, poets, engineers, doctors, businessmen, executives and industrial labour. However, he confessed, very few plots had reached those they should have. After all, in a recent newspaper article Gauhar Town had been named as one of the new schemes with the most corrupt land allotment. In 1990, Nawaz Sharif, the then chief minister of Lahore, gave away 399 plots as political bribes of which 264 were located in Gauhar Town. Furthermore, as the potwari showed me, most mosques in this locality were built without the proper permission of the necessary authorities, whether the District Commissioner or the Lahore Development Authority and sometimes even without the knowledge and support of the residents of the various neighbourhoods. This was quite unusual for the mosques we saw earlier in the article were all built through local efforts even if these did not extend to acquiring the land legally or garnering the correct permits from the state. This suggested the intrusion of outside influence into new urban settlements such as Gauhar Town in a manner unprecedented elsewhere in Lahore.22 Thus a tour of the mosques in Gauhar Town could only be described as a journey through a regime of illegality. Some mosques were fully legal in that they were built on the plot of land allotted for this purpose with the proper articles and permits. The potwari showed me a few that were partially legal in that they were on the proper plots but built illegally. One in particular stood out as so basic as to call attention to its illegality. It comprised of an uneven platform with a single light bulb hanging by a string from a temporary thatched roof covering it. The potwari pointed out these features of illegality knowledgeably, cheerfully telling me the story of an illegal mosque that had been erected overnight on a friend’s plot in Gauhar Town. When the friend turned to him for help, the potwari showed up at the ‘two brick’ (do eent) mosque with the development plans of the Gauhar Town scheme. He opened up the map, pointed out the legally allotted space for a mosque to the mulla (religious figure) responsible for the illegal mosque and, after heavy negotiations, helped him ‘transfer’ his mosque to that site. In my attempts to understand how legality or the lack thereof was perceived by Lahoris, if it was even a problem, I went to the District Commissioner’s office to find out whether residents of such places as Gauhar Town ever complained about these illegal mosques, their presence, their activities or even the sounds emanating from the

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loudspeakers affixed to these mosques. I was given to understand that although mosque related conflicts were rife, people approached the DC’s office only in the event that their approach to the local police did not yield the expected results or when they felt that the local conditions were so compromised as to make the later a superfluous gesture. So, in some ways, mosque conflict was very much a local matter. This was also partly why so few of such cases actually showed up in the civil courts or the high court.23 Moreover, the mode of approach to the DC was in stock bureaucratic language, complaining about the disturbance to ‘law and order’ and ‘public peace’, and expressing concerns over the harm delivered to recognisable beleaguered social types, such as, ‘the sick’ and ‘the working tired’ and ‘students’. They were much like the standard letters people wrote in to newspapers complaining about similar topics and were more in the nature of flagging a problem rather than filing a complaint. Yet, a few such letters did express grave concerns over the threat to personal safety posed by mosques, more specifically by those who ran these mosques in various areas. Furthermore, I noticed that a large number of complaints to the DC’s office were anonymous, simply pointing to offending mosques. People were clearly concerned not to identify themselves. What, if anything, did they fear? I went to the Environmental Protection Agency to find out if noise pollution was a possible rubric under which complaints against such mosques were filed. However, the EPA had not received nor was it particularly receptive to complaints related to noise emanating from the mosques. The DC’s office, with the police force under it, was unofficially authorised to intervene in any disputes of this nature in a way that the EPA did not feel itself empowered. But it was through my meeting with an expert in the EPA that I was introduced to Dr Khan, her husband, a fellow scientist who was deeply enthralled by, if not implicated, in a qabza situation in their local mosque in none other than Gauhar Town. And thus I came to study this mosque in Gauhar Town, one built legally but which was undergoing qabza the entire time I was in Lahore. In what follows, I provide an account of qabza solely from the perspective of Dr Khan. I do this in part because by this time in my fieldwork, I had learned that it was not possible to get a fully fleshed out account of qabza from different positions and that attempting to do so only contributed to tensions on the ground. Furthermore, this qabza was ongoing whereas in the previous cases the qabzas were

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completed by the time I showed up. Second, what interested me in this account was Dr Khan who, by Intizar Hussain’s criteria, would appear to be a shrewd person, constantly weighing and evaluating each decision, action and outcome. Thus, according to Hussain, he was a man very much of the present era in a way contrary to Hossain who saw himself as being out of step with the times. Yet, like Hossain, he also experienced the world as that of things separating from one. However, unlike Hossain who contributes to the centrifugal nature of the era by affecting a chiliastic perspective, Dr Khan attempted to weigh things down, to put them in perspective, so as not to be similarly swept away. His faith in ‘common sense’, ‘education’, and ‘good breeding’ seemed to prevail in each turn. Yet, as in Intizar Hussain’s narrative, a thread of becoming mad, of being subsumed by the moment also ran through Dr Khan’s account, suggesting the darker undercurrents of the ordinary. Dr Khan, a short excitable man, rattled off the story of how he had come to be in Gauhar Town. He and his wife had been delayed in entering government service due to the time it took them to get their doctoral degrees. They had not been able to conceive and had legally adopted a daughter, a very unusual move within the South Asian context suggesting a couple with progressive views and a modern commitment to having nuclear families. Dr Khan calculated that if he had to wait for the seniority necessary to be offered a subsidised plot of land within an urban scheme, whose size and subsidy would be commensurate to his level within government service, then he and his wife would not be able to start their lives as an independent family until much later. Consequently, in the early 1990s they bought someone else’s plot in a private scheme in Gauhar Town, called the Punjab Government Employees Welfare Society. To explain this briefly — when plots of land of a newly developed settlement are sold in public auctions a private developer may buy up a number of them, put a wall around them, and a gate to regulate access to what is now a colony. Although this private development went by the name of Punjab Government Employees Welfare Society and was probably comprised of plots allotted by the government for its own employees, it was the case that the government had sold the whole series of plots to private developers. This was done possibly to accelerate readiness of the area for inhabitation (for the government is notoriously slow in providing public services to new settlement) as well as to generate funds for the government coffers upfront rather

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than the piecemeal way which is how monies would have trickled in if the government had sold the plots individually. Moreover, the private developer had to give the first choice of plots to government employees, the employees could do with the plots as they wished after buying them. The person from whom the Khans bought the plot was lower in rank in government service than them. Consequently, his plot was small. But the Khans calculated that this was the most they could afford as they were forced to buy the land at market rate rather than the subsidised rate at which the owner had bought it. Although this put them among a class of people with whom they did not commonly associate, they wagered that others like them would buy into the private colony and that the final neighbourhood would be more variegated than what was originally planned. As the colony became more inhabited, people needed a place to pray. The Punjab Government Employees Welfare Society, or the colony administration, had allotted a plot of land for a mosque and had collected considerable funds through monthly donations from its residents. When requested by the residents, the Society took it upon itself to build it. Being a private development, the Society had access to engineers and an extensive labour force. Here Dr Khan broke off to say ruefully that it was through his mediation, in his capacity as an educated person of high professional status held in high esteem by all, that the Society was convinced to hold elections to put together a mosque management committee. It was this action of his that created the conditions of a possibility of people to enter the committee to try to seize the mosque. At some point in time, the management of the mosque had taken on such violent overtones that the Society had to step back in and disband the committee. And now a single engineer unassociated with the colony sat in a small office in side the mosque overseeing the daily running of the mosque. One had to go to him to ask to have even a bulb replaced. The qabza was undertaken by none other than the chairman of the committee, a seemingly simple pious old man with whom Dr Khan had good relations prior to the construction of the mosque. This qabza was in the nature of a slow introduction of changes and followed by a perceptible shift in the atmosphere of the mosque and the inclinations of its committee. Dr Khan saw himself as being attentive to these slow encroachments and attempting to stave them off.

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This pious old man, whom Dr Khan respected and whom he had asked many times to lead prayers before the actual selection of a permanent imam, began to introduce ‘unsavoury practices’ into the mosque shortly after his appointment as head of the mosque committee. Among those practices, to which Dr Khan claimed he had never before been witness, included ‘decorating’ the azan with prayers to the Prophet, ‘dressing up’ the mosque in lights, and hosting nat sessions after prayers as well as celebrating Milad-un Nabi (the Prophet’s Birthday) to which he would invite prominent Berelvi politicians. Although Dr Khan was not of any of the particular religious paths within Sunni Islam in Pakistan, he knew of their existence, but it was as irrelevant to him as the fact that he knew a member of the committee was an Ahmadi. According to the law of the land, an Ahmadi in a Sunni mosque committee would suggest that he was trying to pass himself off as a Muslim, which was a punishable act. It had never crossed Dr Khan’s mind that such things should be made public. Now, upon encountering Berelvi practices he found them to be very distasteful. They seemed to him as signs of jahiliyya recalling pre-Islamic times when idolaters were preoccupied with pleasing the material manifestations of the divine. On one such public occasion within the mosque Dr Khan ripped up a poster among those liberally plastered on its walls and threw it into the waste bin. He told me that it was no more than an advertisement for a public lecture by a religious scholar turned politician, Dr Tahirul Qadiri. However, relations among the worshippers had deteriorated to such a point that someone in the committee charged him with blasphemy claiming that the poster had had the Quranic script on it. By throwing the poster into the bin Dr Khan had effectively disrespected the Quran. It was at this point that Dr Khan, a man of science, with progressive views of democracy and representative government, confident of his social status and trustful of his own instincts and analysis, felt the ground fall from beneath his feet. First, the crowds brayed at his gates. Were they humans or monsters? He picked up the phone to call the police but found the line continually busy. Was this phone turning against him as well? Were the police in on this? Then the police came to pick him up. Was he going to rot in jail somewhere? He had written an anonymous letter to the DC. Would they use that letter against him now? Dr Khan’s descriptions of experience of being charged of blasphemy resonated

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with Intizar Hussain’s description of things separating from oneself even carrying with it more ominous undertones as much more than his reputation and life was at stake here. Dr Khan recounted thankfully how common sense had finally prevailed. He was able to convince the police officers of his innocence. His education and good breeding manifest in his reasoning powers and his sober manner put into sharp contrast the jahaliyat of those who had filed a complaint against him. And it was not simply a matter of the well off against the poor, because Dr Khan was not rich whilst there were many among the worshippers in his mosque who were very rich and politically powerful. Rather, it was a case of the righteous against the resentment of the powerful and weak alike. However, he was not sure if he could as easily convince the police the next time such an event happened. At a point when most people I knew who had experienced similar seizures of their mosque would have withdrawn, Dr Khan threw himself into the struggle for the mosque heart and soul. He asked the Society, which had taken over management of the mosque, that an imam be installed who was acceptable to everyone and not just a few. He had taken to reading the religious books cited by Berelvis to be able to engage in polemics with his opponents. They were no longer simply enemies of the mosque, they were also his enemies. As he showed me the impressive book collection that he had amassed he told me that he was actually quite thankful for this terrible experience because it had brought him closer to the richness of Islamic thought. Each time I got in touch with Dr Khan, I found him further and further entrenched in the struggle. Once he told me that a whole group of Berelvi mullas had gathered in the mosque one evening apparently to take it over. By this time he had renewed his university day association with the political party Jama’at-i Islami. His political contacts sent over a few young Jama’at boys with guns who came and sorted out those mullas once and for all. Just before I left Pakistan, I called Dr Khan to say goodbye. He said that he was sorry I was leaving because the ‘drama’’ was only just beginning. A case had been filed and the fight was going public. He would not tell me more over the phone. Meanwhile I kept wondering how his wife and adopted daughter were faring. A long time ago Mrs Khan had shrugged her shoulder when I had asked her opinion of all this as if to say she couldn’t care less. She was much more preoccupied with playing with her adopted daughter. The daughter had a male caretaker, another

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unusual practice in this family. Young and sweet, he was very tender towards both the mother and daughter. It was as if a surrogate family was taking shape in the blind spot in Dr Khan’s growing surveillance of the neighbourhood and the mosque.

To Be Out of Step With Conformity and Separation The ordinary is like breathing poisoned air. The ordinary is being conformist while aspiring towards change. The ordinary is to fear things separating from you and thus to attempt to weigh them down. These are the perspectives that emerge from my exploration of the ordinary in relation to the neighbourhood mosque caught in the grips of qabza. Qabza itself contracted and swelled several times in my narrative, from the seizure of mosques to a certain vulnerability to being silenced and to having one’s words lose grounding; from the seizure of land to being held captive to conformity, in particular, the failure of imagination and expression; finally, from the seizure of everyday life, now on security alert at all times, to fearing for one’s life and sanity. These are dark perspectives indeed. What would it be to be out of step with conformity and separation? What would it take to refuse qabza in its myriad unfoldings? Let me briefly focus on three tiny gestures captured in my narrative. I do not have any explanations for why I focus on these gestures as opposed to others and why I feel that some hope may reside in them except to say that they moved me in a certain way and I wonder if they might move others as well. I attempt an analysis of these gestures to suggest what I think they may be pointing towards within the register of the ordinary. In the first ethnographic profile, of Masjid Noor, I spoke of a mother and daughter who perplexedly found themselves at home in Imam Azim’s voice, despite how that voice slandered them sometimes and shamed them at others. What does it mean to be at home with the voice of the other, the one who silences you? In the second ethnographic profile, of the masjid in Gulshan, I was struck by the engineer’s efforts to continue praying at the mosque even after all his neighbours had effectively abandoned it. What did it mean for him to stake his claim upon the mosque through prayer? Finally, even as Dr Khan seemed to be getting increasingly involved in a bitter exchange of accusations and counter-accusations he stopped in the middle of his mudslinging to reassure an Ahmadi secreted into his mosque that he would not expose him under any circumstances.

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Dr Khan seemed to feel that the way in which Pakistani Muslims had gone after Ahmadis was utterly unnecessary. What did it mean to guarantee secrecy to an individual in the middle of public exposure? In each of these gestures I find passivity as an act of resistance to the complete dissolution of social relations and modes of relatedness, as the nurturing of small enclaves of tendencies counter to the mainstream ones in the slim possibility that should circumstances change these enclaves could provide the grounds for a new beginning.

Notes ∗ The article is based on research supported by the Social Science Research Council, the National Science Foundation, Fulbright Hayes and the Wenner Gren Foundation. This write-up was supported by the United States Institute for Peace and the Lindt Fellowship from Columbia University. 1. There are many kinds of mosques differentiated by historical and symbolic importance, usage, size, patronage and architecture. The differentiation that I have found most useful and that was provided to me by my subjects in Lahore distinguishes among historical/ceremonial mosques (e.g. Badshahi Masjid in Lahore built by the Moghul Emperor Auranzeb or the Shah Faisal Mosque in Islamabad built by the Pakistani state), madrasa mosques (Masjid Banuri in Karachi or Jamia Ashrafia in Lahore where students take residence to acquire an education based on the dars-i nizami syllabus), mohalla mosques (built in neighbourhoods that pre-date the partition of 1947, such as, Masjid Noor in Lahore that I speak of below), new colony mosques (built as part of planned neighbourhoods after partition, such as the mosques in Gulshan and Gauhar Town that I also speak of below) and bread and butter mosques (contested mosques, usually illegally built by religious figures or parties in support of their personal or political interests, such as the mosque in Gulburg market, Lahore). In addition, there are prayer rooms in almost every institution or office building where people pray during their work hours. I focused my research efforts largely on mohalla and new colony mosques, these being most often built through community initiative. At present the distinction between a jami masjid (where people in a city would gather for Friday prayers) and other mosques does not hold as people most often congregate in mosques in their neighbourhoods on Fridays. I characterise a mosque as being a neighbourhood mosque for having been built through community initiative and for serving as the place for Friday prayers for those living in its vicinity. 2. Here I am thinking of statements such as, mosques are new meeting places for the community or mosques are places where men pray together, each of which seem inadequate to capturing the full force of ideas, affects, practices and effects that attend to these seemingly simple structures. 3. This phrase is borrowed from Stanley Cavell’s In Quest of the Orindary in which he speaks of the mysterious indeterminacy of the ordinary. It is from Cavell

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that I get my sense that certain things that slide too quickly to the banal yet also relate to the transcendental are located in the indeterminate zone of the ordinary. In speaking of the violence of the ordinary I do not have in mind large scale wanton or systematic destruction of lives but rather the wear and tear endemic to ordinary life, which may or may not come to blows but which retains the potential for physical and emotional harm. It is this hint of tensions underneath of things, this unspecified nature of violence, which bespeaks the mysterious indeterminacy of the ordinary. 4. ‘Newness’, ‘conformism’, ‘separation’ are concepts and precepts that I assume to cluster around the ordinary. Like the ordinary they are more amenable to demonstration than definition. 5. These perspectives on the ordinary are not as arbitrary as they may seem at first glance. It was after I had drawn these relations between specific literary pronouncements and ethnographic cases of mosques that I realised that each of these perspectives may be taken to be an attempt at answering the twentieth century question — What is society? Moreover, each mimics a distinct answer to the question that comes to us from our venerable ancestors within the social sciences. For instance, to say that the ordinary is like breathing poisoned air captures something of what Emile Durkheim said of society that it is a collective representation. By refracting Durkheim’s words through Cavell, one could read that articulation as being society is a collective illusion. To say that conformity tracks the aspiration to change captures something of Max Weber’s concern that modern society, this most revolutionary thing, could become cage-like, a prison house of the imagination. To say that a condition of the ordinary is to fear things separating from one is to capture the effect of commodity fetishism spoken of by Karl Marx wherein things appearing to have lives of their own. However, it should be noted that I am not exactly suggesting that the ordinary is society. 6. The word qabza (capture, seizure) is most often used to mean the illegal occupation of land, a distinction being maintained between professional land grabbers, said to belong to qabza groups, and those who are landless and have of necessity settled upon land other than their own, most often state owned land. However, the qabza I studied was that of mosques. Qabza applies to a mosque in two senses. A mosque may be known as a qabza mosque because it was built on land that had been illegally occupied. Or else it may have been legally (or for that matter illegally) built by a particular group of people but whose maslak (path within Sunni Islam) or in fewer cases firqa (sect within Islam) affiliation, administration, make-up of worshippers, and worship styles had since changed through it being seized by those of a different maslak. This seizure may be undertaken through physical coercion, through the replacement of mosque personnel, or else through the implantation of worship styles distinct to each maslak and firqa. I do not here go into the details around worship that delineate one maslak or firqa from another except to list the central ones that commonly signal difference: azan style and timing, additions to the azan, nat, and prayer broadcast over the loudspeaker, loud zikr vs silent dua, and various hand gestures within the namaz (prayer) itself.

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Mosques are more susceptible to seizure than, for instance, madrasas or mazhars (shrines). Mazhars, if not under the Auqaf (Religious Endowment) Department, are well entrenched within families of the original sajjada nashin (guardian) of the shrines, whereas madrasa are usually manned by teachers and students who stay and study on the premises and are vigilant against intrusions from those of other maslaks or firqas. Mosques, on the other hand, are open to all for prayer. Being community initiatives, they are loosely networked and are very often understaffed. They are vulnerable to the differences that divide people over the right mode of approach to the divine. Religiously no form of ownership may be asserted over mosques, which technically belong only to God, so the originating maslak has few opportunities to secure a mosque to itself except to register the affiliation of the mosque committee and to continually perform its affiliation through mosque decoration, prayer forms and related activities. More recently, in the last two decades, mosque administrations have taken to paying for regular guards outside of mosques. At the same time the state has also stepped up its protection of mosques against sectarian attacks (which are usually of a different nature of violence than qabza, involving bombing or indiscriminate gunning down of worshippers) so it is not uncommon to see police and even army guards outside of mosques during times of prayer and other religious gatherings. Courts, usually civil courts and in a few instances, high courts, have had little legal reserve to decide whether a mosque should be administered by one or the other maslak because it is hard to accept arguments for usurpation of property if the mosque belongs to no one and to everyone. Consequently, once a mosque has undergone qabza it is hard, although not impossible, to legally restore it to the original caretakers (in the second of the mosques I discuss there is an instance of a counter-qabza to restore the old administration). An important aspect of qabza which interested me was how it impinged upon the worshippers who used the mosque. I found this to vary depending on the worshipper’s relationship to the mosque. If it be a passersby then the issue of whether a mosque had undergone qabza or not was a matter of indifference to him. What was more important to the passersby was that the mosque undertakes ritual worship in the way he was familiar or at least allows for his form of ritual without disturbance. However, for those familiar with a mosque, its takeover, whether subtly implemented over time or forcibly enforced, was a matter of great grief usually resulting in him leaving the mosque to pray elsewhere or to build another mosque in the neighborhood more amenable to his form of worship. A few others risked personal discomfort through courting the displeasure of new mosque staff and worshippers by continuing on as before, although I found few who had done so in the qabza cases I observed or heard about (in the third and final mosque I discuss I explore the experience of one who continued to lay claim upon a mosque under such tense conditions). A final question about qabza involves its history. Cases concerning qabza are in evidence during colonial times. A common argument that has been

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made is that the straitened nature of the public sphere under the colonial regime, later inherited by postcolonial states, lent itself to a politics of difference, played out between Hindus and Muslims in the national contexts and between Muslims and Muslims within the local. However, I do not have historical data to argue the precise nature of change under the postcolonial regime except to note that Pakistanis feel that the incidence and nature of qabza changed in keeping with changing political formations and allegiances within post-colonial states. What I am much more interested in exploring in this article is not the long duree of qabza or its relation to the politics of the moment, rather its durational qualities, that is, the multiple qualities of a single time opened up by the event of the qabza (see Henri Bergson Matter and Memory [1996] for an elaboration of the notion of duration). It is precisely the temporalities that run through the event of the qabza that helps me to draw out the violence internal to the ordinary, to see how qabza goes beyond the actual seizure of mosques to bring about the difficulty of breathing, the stranglehold on the imagination and the experience of things come to life. Ghulam Abbas (1907–1983) was an Urdu short story writer of considerable renown. He worked for the BBC Urdu Language Services during the time of partition and settled in Pakistan. He also worked as a publisher and editor of children’s stories and literary journals. I have changed the names of mosques, localities and research subjects to protect their identities. However, I have tried to select pseudonyms carefully in keeping with the significance invested in names. Sunnis and Shias constitute the two major firqas (sects) within Islam. In South Asia, there are three dominant maslak (paths) within Sunni Islam, notably, the Deobandi, Berelvi and Ahl-e Hadith, arising from nineteenth century reform movements in colonial India. In addition, there are four schools of legal thought and practice within Sunni Islam — Hanafi, Hanbali, Shaifi and Maliki — of which the Sunnis in South Asia adhere to the Hanafi school. See Metcalf (1989). It was very late into my fieldwork (at the end of the first year) that I realised that there was a standing policy of getting mosques approved prior to construction through the auspices of the District Commissioner’s office, an approval process which required that all state institutions concerned (DC’s Office, LDA, Metropolitan Corporation Ltd. [MCL], Auqaf, local police) sign of on the application and attendant plans for a mosque. However, most of the mosques of my acquaintance had not gone this route. Moreover, the petitions for mosque construction at the DC’s Office were minimal and did not reflect the active projects of mosque construction around the city. A quote from R. Nath succinctly informs us of the basic architectural constituents of a mosque: ‘’Mosque’ is an aggregate of so many inspirations which it derived from divergent sources. It adopted and absorbed various elements drawn from ancient cultures of the Orient, and it is through a creative evolutionary process that such features as mihrab (niche on the wall in a mosque indicating the direction of Mecca), minbar (pulpit in a mosque, used for the delivery of the khutba, the Friday sermon), nave (the central square

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hall of a mosque), iwan (a chamber that is roofed or vaulted and open on one side facing on to the courtyard of a mosque), dome, arch, and minar [tower from which the azan, call to prayer, is delivered by the muezzin] have become its constituents’, one would add, in various combinations (1994). In addition to Nath (1994), overviews of medieval and modern mosque architecture may be found in numerous places, such as, Wheatley (2001), Hillenbrand (1995), Fethi (1995), Pereira (1994), Frishman and Khan (1994), and Ardalan (1983). For a more metaphysical and philosophical exploration of Islamic art and aesthetics, see Gonzalez (2001) and Nasr (1987). The mosques I describe in this article varied greatly in architectural style, departing significantly from the grand Sultanate or Moghul mosque style of the Indian subcontinent, such as the Badshahi Masjid in Lahore with its onion-shaped dome atop the central prayer hall flanked by two tall minarets, but conforming, through the inclusion of some basic architectural elements, to mosques in functional use in the subcontinent. See Prochazka (1986) for floor plans of Sultanate and Moghul mosque architecture and Hughes (1885) for that of ordinary mosques in India and Central Asia. Masjid Noor was a square building, open on one side onto a courtyard with the area for ablution at the back of the courtyard. A façade had been built above the central doorway into the mosque, leading directly into the built and roofed area, giving a profile of a dome with two little minarets on either side of it. It was this façade that signalled that this building was a mosque. Overall it was a generic style of mosque commonly found in the older, poorer neighborhoods that date prior to partition or immediately afterwards. Its most startling feature was the way a corner of the mosque protruded into the lane that encircled it. It was this protrusion that indicated that this mosque was built outside of the state’s imagination of the grid-like distribution of urban space, that is, it was effectively an ‘encroachment’. The masjid in Gulshan was, as I mention later, inspired by the Prophet’s mosque in Medina although it was never clear to me what nature of inspiration it was as this mosque did not have the conical green coloured dome or a single minaret towering above the dome, which are the two distinctive features of the Prophet’s mosque. Rather, like Masjid Noor, it too had a rectangle building alongside one wall of the mosque compound, a courtyard onto which this building opened and an area for ablution and toilet at the back of the courtyard. A façade of a dome with minarets also graced the doorway into the mosque indicating that this was a mosque with this façade prominent and visible from far away. When I inquired into the absence of a dome above the roofed prayer hall, I was told that besides being expensive to build and maintain, a dome severely restricted the possibility of adding additional floors to the main prayer hall as a secluded space for women worshippers, to capture the overflow of male worshippers or to house a madrasa. However, the distinctive feature of this mosque was an upraised roofed walkway that encircled the grassy courtyard and beat a path around

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the compound. The engineer responsible for this design element explained that this was to distinguish sacred from profane space, allowing worshippers and visitors to move around the mosque. Such little innovations are secreted into almost all the mosques, even those claiming to be faithful copies of older historic or religious significant predecessors. The third mosque in my ethnographic trio was completely modernist, a blunt square form built out of red bricks with a single row of blue tiles along its base and at an interesting angle to a very tall, also red brick minaret, whose distinguishing feature was that it was a square minaret rather than the round ones most in evidence amongst tall minarets in Lahore. There is considerable experimentation over modernist and now increasingly postmodernist mosque forms amongst Pakistani architects. These architects, largely drawn from the city’s elites, either advocate the careful conservation of built forms indigenous to the subcontinent or attempt experimentation in built forms in the spirit of building something unique that bears the signature of an architect. They tend to look askance at those mosques that are too clearly imitative of built forms foreign to the region or else display a heedless borrowing and pastiche of architectural elements. The depth of disdain for such ‘unplanned’ mosques is indicated by a dismissal of these mosques by a renowned architect whom I interviewed who called them ‘sodomized architecture’, a scornful reference to the mulla believed to engage in sodomy within mosques. I have found Veena Das’s description of rumors, or rather what happens to language under conditions of political turbulence or moral panic (1998), to be very productive in thinking of what happens under conditions of qabza. The first month of the Islamic lunar calendar, Muharram, is known as the month of mourning because of the commemoration of the martyrdom of Hussain at the Battle of Karbala on the tenth day of the month. It is not clear that the Ahl-e Hadith family would have sought to be integrated within the Berelvi-dominated neighbourhood even if Imam Azim had been more welcoming. Besides the theological, political and ontological issues that keep members of the different maslaks differentiated in matters of conviction and worship, there is also a running distinction maintained along the register of refinement or adab. So I often heard Deobandis or Ahl-e Hadith disdain Berelvis calling them jahil (ignorant). This accusation of jahiliyat was lobbed equally at those who may be educated and well-placed in life but whose practices appeared un-Islamic for being excessive and extravagant to Deobandis and Ahl-e Hadith. This differentiation between having adab or being jahil is, however, different and perhaps older (see Metcalf 1984) than the twentieth-century political notion of jahiliyat (era of ignorance) espoused by Maulana Abul Ala Maududi of Pakistan, and later taken up by religious scholars and leaders across the Muslim Middle East, as a pointed analysis and criticism of the secularised nature of contemporary Muslim rule (Maududi 1976). At the time I knew them the eldest son of the family was attempting to secure a tourist visa to London in order to move and work there. He finally succeeded on his third try.

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16. Shaukat Siddiqi (b. 1923, Lucknow) worked for the Times of Karachi and Morning News. He was the editor of Anjam and Musawwat. He bid farewell to editorial work and journalism in 1984 and went into writing novels and short stories. Khuda ki Basti is now on its 46th edition and has been translated into 26 languages. 17. The now complete mosque exists intact in an awkward position to the main street in Lahore to this day. 18. This plays on the myth of the martial race and their code of honor maintained of Pathans since colonial times. 19. It is perhaps not coincidental that the 1980s mark the heyday of sectarian politics, most specifically anti-Shia politics, spearheaded by Maulana Haq Nawaz Jhangvi, a Deobandi alim (religious scholar) of Jamiat-ul Ulema-e Islam (JUI), the national political party, who founded the anti-Shia group named Sipah-e Sahaba (Warriors of the Prophet’s Companions). See Ali (2000), Zaman (2001) and Jaffrelot (2002) for empirical detail and analyses of sectarian politics in the register of national politics. 20. The LDA, like many bureaucratic institutions in Pakistan, does not maintain a central database. Potwaris, such as young Shahed Iqbal, are responsible for the file on each development scheme, and appear with them whenever these files are called up. 21. This last practice was left over from the days of martial law when this quota usually went to the martial law administrator. 22. In one disputed mosque in Gauhar Town, to whose file I gained access in the DC’s office, the residents complained and I myself witnessed that worshippers were bussed in from other parts of the city (clearly students from madrasas) to fill the space to give the impression of wide public support of the mosque. Although this is a rough classification, I would saw that Masjid Noor captures the experience with mosques in the 1950s and 1960s, while the Masjid in Gulshan captures the experiences of the 1970s and 1980s, whereas the mosques in Gauhar Town articulated the experiences of the 1990s and 2000s. 23. Another reason for why such cases do not typically show up in courts is because it is very hard to represent a mosque since it belongs to all and none. Even its management committees cannot claim back a mosque after the fact of its seizure by another group because the committee has no rights of ownership over it. Cases are filed either on grounds of adverse possession or prevention of entry, which are hard to prove in court. In most cases people accept the instance of qabza and either continue attending to the mosque or shift alliances to another mosque, even building another one if need be.

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Living the Tensions of the State, the Nation and Everyday Life David Gilmartin The premise of this collection of articles, Beyond Crisis, is that we should re-examine our ideas of ‘crisis’ in order to reinvigorate the study of Pakistan as a critical field of scholarly inquiry. This is certainly not because crises are unimportant to Pakistan: the country has had many, a number of which are the focus of the articles in this volume. But in the current climate of alarm about developments in the ‘Islamic world’, the theme of crisis threatens to overwhelm, and in the process trivialise, the study of Pakistan. Held up against unexamined normative models, tropes of Pakistan as a ‘failed state’, a ‘failed nationalism’, or a ‘failed sovereignty’, in the end obscure, as Naveeda Khan argues persuasively in the Introduction, more than they reveal. This does not mean simply moving scholarship away from a focus on the state, the nation or on Pakistan’s place in international politics. There has in fact been a significant body of scholarly writing on Pakistan over the years that does not concentrate on the state or the nation as its major focus, but focuses instead on the myriad aspects of social, economic, literary and religious life that have defined the lived worlds of Pakistanis. Such work provides important perspectives that take us away from a fixation on the ‘crises’ of the Pakistani state and nation. But the aim of this volume of articles is not to move away from questions of state, nation or sovereignty. It is rather to rethink the meaning of the everyday in relation to the larger historical and contemporary issues shaping the nation and the state. For me, the greatest promise of the trajectories charted out in this volume, which are only partially articulated, is in pointing us towards the complex ways in which the realm of the state and the realm of the everyday are interrelated, not just with respect to issues of governance (to which the articles in this volume in fact devote relatively little attention), but with respect to the construction of popular identities — and, indeed, of the self. Though not all the articles engage with this,

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this is the issue that I would like to emphasise in thinking about this collection. Central to these articles is not just a consideration of the state, the nation and the everyday in Pakistan, but of the ways in which Pakistan’s existence has been defined by the oppositional and yet mutually reinforcing tensions between the nation (as an idealised construct associated with an idealised higher self) and the everyday, as an embodiment of both the parochial and the human, of hierarchy and subordination, of kinship and enmity. In this, as in much else, an understanding of Pakistan must take us back to partition — and to the larger structures of thinking that shaped Pakistan’s creation in 1947. There was at one time a group of intellectuals in Pakistan — and Pakistani nationalists — who liked to argue that Pakistan was originally created in 1947 as an ‘ideological state’. By this they meant not only that Pakistan was a new state, created on the basis of an idea (the two-nation theory), but also that this idea defined a link between a state and a particular territory that had not existed before. For these thinkers, Pakistan’s distinctive origins made it different and special, the product of a historical movement that in some ways transcended the structures of power and everyday life that shaped the territories that in fact came to comprise the country.1 It was against this backdrop, as a number of historians have argued, that many of the contradictions of Pakistan’s politics were, in the subsequent decades, articulated and contested. Ayesha Jalal’s book on Jinnah as the ‘sole spokesman’ made clear the significant tension between an idealised Muslim unity and the reality of deep political and provincial division that drove the politics of the Pakistan movement. Like other works, this book threw into stark contrast the myth of Pakistan’s founding as the expression of an idealised national voice and the reality of self-interested, parochial, everyday politics among elites, particularly in the Punjab, that shaped the politics of Pakistan’s emergence from the very beginning (Jalal 1985). By calling into question Pakistan’s ideological myths, such works drew attention to the yawning gap between ideal and reality that defined Pakistan’s creation and that has continued to shape Pakistani politics. This unveiling has, particularly since the 1970s, deeply shaped images of Pakistan as a ‘failed’ nation and a ‘failed’ state both among external observers and among many Pakistanis themselves. ‘Was Pakistan created for this reason,’ one of Kamran Ali’s Karachi protesters thus asks pointedly, ‘so that the police could play with the lives of the poor?’

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But simply pointing to such a gap between nationalist myths and ideas and the reality of everyday power and politics hardly explains the history of Pakistan, for such gaps are common to most countries, although they have assumed a distinctive form there. Rather it is in trying to move toward more complex understandings of the relationship between ideals and realities, between the state and the everyday — and, indeed, between din (faith) and dunya (world), whose unresolved tensions lay at the heart of the most compelling justifications for Pakistan’s founding (see Gilmartin 1988: Ch. 6) — that these articles open up new avenues for thinking about the country. A compelling framework for thinking about some of these issues, as they relate to everyday life, is in fact contained in Laura Ring’s recent book about life in a contemporary apartment building in Karachi (Ring 2006). Ring notes that tensions surrounding questions of gender, religion, class and ethnicity are inescapable for residents in this multi-ethnic apartment building, just as they are in Pakistani society as a whole. But her critical insight tells us that these tensions are not primarily conflicts to be resolved, but rather frameworks for the ongoing negotiations that continuously bind people together and sustain collective life. She observes that while tensions may create unease, they also hold people together in negotiations that must, simultaneously, embrace the inescapable reality of particularisms (and competing interests) on the one hand, and the appeal to universal models of virtue on the other. That is, like the tensions between ethnicities, genders and classes — or between cultured and base behaviour — the tensions between ideals and realities are ultimately constitutive of both community and of self. For all the potential for conflict (and for crisis) that they contain, tensions are thus, in Ring’s argument, not conflicts to be resolved, but frameworks for the neverending negotiations that sustain community. It is the sustaining of these tensions, not their solution, in other words, that makes social (and one might extend this to say, political) life possible. This is not to deny that tensions can lead to crises, including those that marked Pakistan’s founding. But a focus on the operation of tensions, and the oppositions on which they build, does not need to take us immediately to crisis. In fact, as many of these articles show, this is a framework that opens new windows onto Pakistani life precisely because it suggests the ongoing interconnections between the construction of the self, the construction of community and the construction of Pakistan’s larger national (and international) position

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and identity. It is in recognising the pervasive tension between ideals and realities — tensions that make collective life possible — that we can escape from narratives that are perpetually focussed on crises. At the heart of such an idea, of course, is the close connection between the construction of community and the construction of the self. The relationship between these is perhaps best discussed in Aamir R. Mufti’s article. As Mufti argues, Faiz’s lyric poetry is on one level about the simultaneous partition of India and the partition of the self that marked Pakistan’s creation. Mufti implies that no national identity could be stabilised by partition as the Pakistani self was also always defined by the larger ‘other’, the ‘Indian’ that it carried within, simultaneously denigrated and desired. Yet, if this tension was specific to partition and its Pakistani aftermath, the power of Faiz’s poetry lay in capturing the larger ‘dilemmas and complexities of a ‘Muslim’ selfhood in Indian modernity’. Central to Mufti’s analysis of Faiz’s poetry is the argument that the tensions of the self were in fact expressive of the larger political tensions inherent in Pakistan, tensions defined by ‘the complexities of culture and identity’ in relation to the modern ‘nation-state form’. It is in this sense that Mufti can aim toward a ‘lyric’ history of the subcontinent, one that puts the tensions defining the self at the centre of a history of the subcontinent and its nation-states. Here we have an illustration of Ring’s notion that such tensions do not represent problems to be overcome, but rather define the framework for linking the self to the larger social and political order. Indeed, the holding of ostensibly opposing poles in dialectical tension also figures prominently in Akbar Hyder’s discussion of the works of Muhammad Iqbal. Hyder’s work draws our attention to Iqbal’s frequent poetic evocation of the story of the martyrdom of Husain as the key to the delineation of an idealised higher Muslim self, defined, like the conflict between Husain and Yazid, by the ‘tension that exists between the virtuous and vicious side present in all individuals’. Here too a dialectic of the self was linked to a community that participated in the remembrance of Karbala, a community defined by higher ideals. Yet the significance of Iqbal’s ideas, beyond those of Faiz, lay in the fact that they came to be deeply linked to the very historical act of Pakistan’s creation. The tension that Hyder identifies in Iqbal’s evocation of Husain was one that was picked up directly by the supporters of the creation of Pakistan in the years after Iqbal’s death,

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and played a central role in framing the moral justifications for the new state. The tension between an ideal of Muslim unity (din) on the one hand and an ongoing everyday world of power relations and difference (dunya) on the other — a tension deeply embedded in Iqbal’s evocation of Karbala — came to powerfully shape the rhetorical demand for Pakistan in the 1940s as a symbolic expression of community based on higher principle, and on a higher self. Iqbal’s poetry was in fact a staple of Punjab Muslim League rhetoric.2 The irony, of course, was that even as Pakistan was strongly associated in the popular imagination with an idealised vision of the higher self delineated by Iqbal, the creation of Pakistan was achieved only within a quotidian world of colonial power politics. Yet, rather than see this as a compromise of ideals, we might as well see this as a re-enactment of the dialectic inherent in the endlessly retold story of Husain’s martyrdom at Muharram — at once a universal model standing outside time and, at the same time, a paradigmatic event commemorated every year within the mundane local worlds of patronage and power. As in Mufti’s discussion of Faiz, Hyder’s discussion of Iqbal leaves us ultimately with a vision of unresolved (and irresolvable) tensions — tensions that were not simply a product of India’s partition, but were in this case central to Pakistan’s creation and justification. Many of the articles in this volume explore the subsequent operation of such tensions in Pakistan, across a range of political and cultural realms. Tahir Naqvi’s paper, for example, examines the tensions implicit in the new Pakistani state’s positioning with respect to refugees after 1947. The position of refugees in some ways embodied the tensions between Pakistan as an ideal and as a state in search of a legitimising ‘everydayness’, for the muhajirs who fled to Pakistan were in some ways central to the idealised grounding of Pakistan as a unitary Muslim homeland and yet, at the same time, they were of necessity marginalised (and perceived by some as a threat) as the state sought to emphasise its claims to bureaucratic and legal power as a ‘normal’ state. Refugees (or muhajirs) therefore embodied, in some ways, the tensions between the extraordinary character of the state’s idealised formation (and the violence that accompanied it) and the state’s search for everyday legitimacy, an irresolvable tension that was compounded from the very beginning, as Naqvi shows, by the ethnic and provincial divisions within the country. Muhajir embodiment of such tensions is explored from a different, though related, perspective

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in the article of Iftikhar Dadi. Here we see the muhajir as himself as a site for the expression, in Urdu films, of the idealised, unmarked Pakistani citizen, simultaneously defining an ideal of being Pakistani even as he aspires, during the Ayub era, to a universal middle-class modernity. Yet, as Dadi argues, the appeal of Urdu as the language of such a national identity could not ultimately hide the ongoing importance of provincial and ethnic identities in Pakistan, particularly after 1971. The tensions between an idealised national identity on the one hand, and the everyday reality of linguistic — and equally importantly, class — differences on the other, thus stalk the films that Dadi describes. Yet, though these articles define the distinctive features of the administrative and cultural tensions surrounding the position of the refugee, or muhajir, in Pakistan, neither Naqvi nor Dadi describe crises, or even tensions that can ever be fully resolved. Rather, these are tensions that define, though in highly particular Pakistani ways, the dialectic between ideals and everyday realities that is at the heart of self-identification. Such tensions can also be seen in dramatic ways in the operation of the law in Pakistan. This is perhaps most evident in Asad A. Ahmed’s paper. The structure of colonial law inherited by Pakistan embodied a tension between ideals and realities that was, in fact, not dissimilar to that between din and dunya. Liberal law, as Ahmed notes, was built on the notion of freedom of belief and of free conscience. This was an ideal that was carried over into Pakistan in the guarantees for freedom of religion that were written into Pakistan’s constitution. Yet, the law was also built, in a variety of ways, on securing the primacy of the state and maintaining a structure of everyday power in society based on the primacy of property and of a territorial community defined by religion, not as conscience, but as external identity. The meaning of ‘religion’ (a term that could refer at once to either din, in the sense of faith and conscience, or dunya, in the sense of external practice and identity markings, or both) was thus caught up from the beginning in the contradictions that the law itself embodied. On the one hand, ‘religion’, as a form of conscience and belief defined a register that harked back to the ideals on which Pakistan was founded. Yet ‘religion’ also referred, within the structure of colonial positive law, to the externally determined identities that had provided the foundations for the administratively (and census-demarcated) communities that had bound religious politics in colonial India so critically to the state as a worldly structure.

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It was in the negotiation of this tension that the Ahmadis became, in a sense, cannon fodder. In the wake of the legislature’s declaration of Ahmadis as a ‘non-Muslim’ community, the courts had to struggle with these contradictory definitions of ‘religion’ as they shaped Pakistan’s identity. What is thus most noteworthy in Ahmed’s paper is his demonstration of how central the tensions inherent in liberal law continued to be to the Pakistani state, in spite of the widespread rhetorical invocation of the sharia that marked this case. This is of course in part because it is positive law that continues to provide the foundation for the structure of property in Pakistan — and thus, to a certain degree, for state power. But it is also worth emphasising that this may also be a product of the fact that the tensions of liberal law in some ways parallel the tensions between din and dunya that shaped Pakistan’s founding. In critical ways, these parallel languages, both defined by the tension between conscience and power, continue to resonate with one another. In both languages, conscience (whether embodied in faith or in the notion of internalised restraint and commitment to rules that is the heart of the rule of law) provides a focus for morality juxtaposed against the operation of everyday power. Yet the interaction between these two languages remains, of course, a site of deep tension, immensely complicating the dialectic of ideals and realities on which the Pakistani nation and state were conceptualised, and at times creating the space for the highly illiberal assertion of military power. Indeed, it is the interaction between these languages which provides perhaps the most compelling explanation for the illiberal outcome of the Ahmadi case, for here, within the context of interpretation provided by positive law, the sharia (whatever its potential grounding in individual conscience) became aligned almost wholly not with din, but with dunya, thus tipping the scales against the assertion of legal conscience in the case and grounding it almost wholly in a jurisprudence of property and power.3 Such tensions lurk only slightly beneath the surface in several other articles as well. Kamran Asdar Ali, for example, tells us about the confrontation between labourers and Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto’s government in Karachi in the early 1970s. This is a story about class conflict in newly industrialising Karachi and, ultimately, about the unwillingness of the state to accept the mobilisation of labour on a class basis as a legitimate part of the political system. But underneath this story also lies a tale of moral tensions associated with popular claims to justice, and with the state’s efforts to secure its power amidst

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economic change. Though we see relatively little reference to religion in Ali’s paper, one wonders how the language of justice was negotiated in ways that bridged the tension between the language of class and the language of din (again, as parallel assertions of higher principle in tension with the a world of political corruption, ‘feudalism’ and greed). Ali’s story, unlike Ahmed’s is, in some ways, an account of the breakdown of a framework of law for containing these tensions. Yet, we see clear evidence at the end of the ongoing ordering power of parallel tensions in making sense of what transpired. The very language of betrayal in which workers remembered Bhutto’s actions suggests a continuing juxtaposition of an ideal of justice (related, perhaps, to the expectations implicit in the creation of Pakistan?) and an assertion of the corruption of state power in the face of the worldly greed that Bhutto’s actions came to represent. Similar tensions figure prominently in Humeira Iqtidar’s discussion of the transformations in the politics of the Jama’at-i Islami in the years from Pakistan’s creation to the 1990s. As Iqtidar points out, Punjab in the mid-1940s witnessed a significant convergence in the rhetoric of the Muslim League and the Communist Party, as both gave support to the creation of Pakistan. Though the relationship between the Communists and the Muslim League was, in fact, marked by serious tension, it was built on a common vision of Pakistan as an idealised antidote both to the lower self and to a corrupt and oppressive (‘feudal’ and biradari-based) everyday political world (a parallelism prefigured in some ways, as Akbar Hyder suggests, by the thinking of Iqbal). In such a framing, personal transformation and socio-economic transformation went hand in hand. Yet, with its emphasis on culture, in sharp contradistinction to economics, Maulana Maududi’s Jama’at-i Islami moved away from such a framing. Still, the potential importance of such converging and dialectical parallels remained. Though many leaders of the Jama’at-i Islami negotiated only with difficulty the tensions between din and dunya in the face of General Zia’s blandishments in the 1980s, Iqtidar suggests how the tensions between ideals of personal social transformation and the transformation of a corrupt ‘feudalism’ continue to influence Jama’at policy and will be critical for understanding its trajectories in the future. Analysing such tensions, for all the airs of crisis that they occasionally generate, is thus quite different from positing a Pakistan in a continual state of crisis. As Ring’s work suggests, it is not the ongoing

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negotiation of tensions, however much anxiety they provoke, but the breakdown of the dialectic between oppositions that represents a real moment of crisis. No article in this collection perhaps demonstrates this more clearly than Yasmin Saikia’s article on the events and aftermath of 1971, a moment of real crisis in Pakistan. Pakistan’s breakup in 1971 represented a moment when the ongoing negotiation between ideals and everyday realities, between, in effect, a higher and lower self manifested in the organisation of the community and the body politic, broke down. Saikia’s article shows us the varying ways that Pakistani soldiers sought to deal with the meanings of this crisis. From virtually all perspectives, the war in East Pakistan encoded in retrospect a breakdown of order — and one precipitated fundamentally, one might argue, by the failure to sustain the engagement, the tension, between din and dunya. From the perspective of many West Pakistanis, the violence in East Pakistan was justified as a assault on a society where din (and the promised ideals of the founding of Pakistan) had been forgotten, and where the dunya of local politics, ethnicity and the lower self ran rampant. ‘We did not hear,’ Sahibzada Yakub Khan thus remembered, ‘the many azans rising from the pulpits of East Pakistan’. Many West Pakistanis thus justified the army’s actions in the name of ideals, with no engagement with the everyday humanity of those whom the army slaughtered. And yet, as Saikia shows, some ex-soldiers who, in the aftermath, questioned their own participation in this violence, recognised the violation that such a radical disengagement of din and dunya represented. Having lost its dialectical connection to insaniyat, or humanity, din had in fact lost its own meaning. For these ex-soldiers, it was the state of Pakistan (and, as soldiers of the state, themselves) who had lost their way by forgetting insaniyat — and thus conscience. The crisis that precipitated the slaughter of 1971 thus lay precisely in the collapse of the sustaining tension between ideals and the everyday, which alone made it possible for states, communities and individuals to morally function. In this sense, these articles point us toward a new way of thinking about what crisis means and how it relates to the ubiquitous tensions that shape the workings of any society. Tensions between the ideal and the everyday lay at the heart of Pakistan’s founding, and continue to shape state politics and everyday life in myriad ways, just as they shape conceptualisations of the self. That Pakistan has been much buffeted by regional geopolitics is beyond question. But

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focussing on narratives of Pakistan as a ‘failed state’ or a ‘failed nation’ is not likely to get to the heart of the changing conditions and ideas shaping Pakistani life. Rather, it is on understanding how tensions themselves not only disrupt, but also sustain social life that we should focus our attention. To further explore the irresolvable and intrinsic tensions of Pakistani society and Pakistani life is just one of many ongoing research agendas that these articles suggest.

Notes 1. For one example, see F. K. Khan Durrani (1983). 2. David Gilmartin, ‘A Magnificent Gift: Muslim Nationalism and the Election Process in Colonial Punjab’, (1998), and David Gilmartin, in Barbara Metcalf (forthcoming). 3. The historical transformations in the meaning of sharia in Pakistan needs to be high on the historical research agenda. As Marshall Hodgson made clear in his masterful history of Islam (1974), the sharia in Islamic history has often been closely linked to the expression of individual conscience, always in tension with the actual operation of power in the world. The significant dissociation of the sharia from conscience as it has been appropriated by the state (and earlier, linked to communalism in British India), a development in which some ulama have been complicit, needs greater historical attention.

Anthropology and the Pakistani National Imaginary Katherine Pratt Ewing Introduction The anthropology of Pakistan has, in many respects, been at the margins of the discipline, just as Pakistan itself lies at the ambiguous border between regions carved out by Western powers in the past century — the Middle East on the west and South Asia (i.e. India) to the east. With an earlier anthropology’s focus on a bound notion of culture and homeostatic social systems, research sites were mostly chosen to exemplify the key issues of the region. Thus, in India, these included Hinduism, caste, kingship, village studies and the relationship between the ‘great’ traditions at the centre and its rural ‘little traditions’. In the Middle East, core issues included Islam, acephalous political structures and the honour–shame complex. Pakistan itself was bisected, with most anthropologists who conducted ethnographic research during Pakistan’s early decades working in the tribal areas of western Pakistan, focussing on questions developed in the Middle East. The more easterly Punjab and Sind, in contrast, were transitional areas. They exemplified neither the caste-based village structure characteristic of India nor the clan-based organisation of Middle Eastern tribal areas. Therefore, there was little ethnographic work done in the villages and cities of the Punjab or Sind. One question which has preoccupied political scientists and policy-oriented scholars since the founding of Pakistan is how the processes of nation-building and state formation were faring in a country formed in 1947 and split apart in 1971. These scholars focussed on institutions such as the military, the structures of governance and civil bureaucracies, as well as on the tensions between efforts at centralisation and the centrifugal forces associated with ethnic and regional differences. Though anthropologist Clifford Geertz, working in Southeast Asia, was thinking about precisely such issues as new states, development and national ideologies as

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early as the 1960s,1 anthropologists working on Pakistan at that time found little in common with policy-oriented researchers and ignored questions surrounding the formation of new states. Only recently have anthropologists, as well as scholars in more textually based disciplines such as linguistics and Islamic studies, begun to turn their attention to these issues, raising questions about the ways that both national, transnational and global forces interact with local and everyday processes, approaching them in a manner very different from earlier policy-oriented work. This shift of attention has occurred in a disciplinary context in which the analytic focus of anthropology has turned away from static notions of local culture to dynamic cultural processes, transnational flows, political economy and relationships between the state and the local, i.e. the process of transformation itself. The concept of ‘culture’ has been deconstructed, to be replaced in many studies by the notions of power, agency and hegemony as central components of the process of constructing meaning. In this transition, processes at the borders and people at the margins have become the new exemplars of cultural dynamics. Furthermore, there has been a growing interdisciplinary appreciation of the significance of the margins for the shaping of textual traditions such as Islam (e.g. Bulliett 1994). The new generation of scholars represented in this volume have approached Pakistan with a range of questions that have the potential to speak to the new ‘centre’ of the discipline, especially given Pakistan’s highly visible role in global politics in the wake of 9/11. One preoccupation of a number of anthropologists and other scholars in this intellectual environment is the phenomenon of a ‘national imaginary’, the emotional (and often conflictual) attachment that people have to the nation, the processes by which it is constituted, and how it is experienced in the everyday.2 What are the symbols and images that resonate to the extent that they play a significant role in shaping the experience of cultural citizenship or a sense of belonging? How do these discursive processes play out locally? Participation in a national imaginary is always an ambivalent and often contested process. There are certain obvious signs that are rarely contested and operate as key components of a national identity, such as the image of Muhammad Ali Jinnah as the Quaid-e-Azam or founding father of Pakistan, and others, such as the proper relationship between Islam and the state, that reflect hotly contested issues. Pursuing ethnographic research in Pakistan during the 1970s and 1980s, I found that the pir or Sufi ‘saint’ operated as one such conflictual nexus for

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articulating the modern Pakistani subject, because the pir evoked issues surrounding the limits of proper Islam in a way that was both a matter of national policy and a central issue among ordinary people in everyday practices that were subject to scrutiny and debate, especially in marking one’s own relationship to modernity.3 I have read the articles in this volume through a similar lens, asking what are some of the images and related themes that articulate the relationship between the everyday and the state in the constitution of the Pakistani subject at the beginning of the twenty-first century and form the contours of a national imaginary, and how are these practices linked to historical memory and textual traditions? Most of the articles touch on these issues in one way or another. Thus, Syed Akbar Hyder considers how Iqbal’s writings sought to re-employ a key element in the history of — Islam, the martyrdom of Hussein — as an element of a political project for uniting and mobilising Muslims in the late colonial period that had important implications for the national ideology of Pakistan. He also traces how the minority Shia community in Pakistan has, in turn, taken up Iqbal’s interpretation as a way of challenging Sunni efforts to marginalise Pakistan’s Shia minority. Robert Rozehnal analogously examines how a postcolonial Sufi wrote a book that recasts the history of Pakistan through a Sufi idiom and at the same time took a stand in the debate about the delineation of Islam within the context of the state. Sadia Abbas examines the place of ‘Pakistan’ in the orientalist fantasies of two Western converts to Islam, Muhammad Asad and Maryam Jameela, who saw in Pakistan a space outside of the temporal flow of the modern and later criticised this Muslim society for adulterating its premodern sanctity. Each of these studies contribute to our understanding of an imaginary in which the present and the future are reconfigured in terms of a historical memory that constitutes the ‘Pakistani’ as a national subject and shapes what it means to belong to Pakistan. Most of the scholars represented in this volume look at national processes, how they are played out at the local level and how they shape local consciousness and identity. With the shift of ethnographic attention to the interaction of the national and local, there has also been a shift of research sites away from a nearly exclusive focus on rural areas to Pakistan’s major urban centres. Thus, of the scholars included in the present volume who have done ethnographic work, Naveeda Khan and Amy Bard have worked in Lahore, Oskar Verkaaik and Tahir Naqvi in Karachi and Matthew Hull in Islamabad.

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A number of images that have come to be associated, in both local and global discourses, as being constituent elements of a national imaginary emerge in these articles, include the madrasa (Islamic school), the mosque and the terrorist. Oskar Verkaaik, for example, shows how the youth in Karachi take up the identity of ‘terrorist’ in their local status contests, in a context in which local identity politics are closely tied to what Pakistan means as a nation. In post-9/11 global politics, Pakistan has taken on significance for the American public as a Muslim country which possesses a long, porous border with Afghanistan and which, despite its ties to the United States, harbours al-Qaeda operatives, sympathisers and other terrorists, who are often recruited through an extensive network of madrasas. Tahir Andrabi et al., in their article ‘Madrasa Metrics’, demonstrate the discrepancies between public perceptions of madrasa attendance that are based on such representations of Pakistan and actual attendance numbers, an issue given urgency by global media that suggest madrasas are terrorist breeding grounds. There is one very concrete image that at first glance hardly seems worthy of consideration as something that might play a major role in shaping the emotional contours of a Pakistani national imaginary, but which captured my own imagination as I read these articles: qabza. ‘Qabza’ is the act of taking possession of a specific site — variously defined as ‘seizing’, ‘occupying’, or ‘trespassing’. Naveeda Khan’s article addresses the issue of qabza most directly and centrally in connection with sectarian struggles over mosque control in Lahore, while for Matthew Hull, it is one of several mechanisms for the control of property, part of a process that has moved the planned city of Islamabad in a new direction, away from its original modernist blueprint. The term qabza resonates widely in Pakistan today, in ways that indirectly touch on themes in several of the other articles as well, and expresses at least one dimension of the pervasive sense of crisis that this volume addresses. I would like to trace out some of these resonances as an illustration of how anthropologists are approaching Pakistan by drawing together a range of sources and sites in order to articulate a discursive field that constitutes the fluid and conflictual national imaginary of Pakistan today.

Qabza as an Aspect of a National Imaginary Qabza comes up in a variety of contexts in ways that are at one level quintessentially local, involving contests over who controls a particular space at a particular point in time. The term, however, has been

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taken up in Pakistan in recent years as a trope of how things operate more generally. Qabza comes up in contexts ranging from mosques, the flood of migrants into Karachi, the social order of Islamabad, property rights and criminal trespass, the control of terrorism, and the broader issues of corruption, modernity and democratic processes. The growing visibility of ‘qabza groups’ are for many an indication of how power and networks prevail over property rights and the rule of law. Politically, the prevalence of qabza is for many symptomatic of the failures of the government and legal system to ‘modernise’. When used metaphorically, it has become a way of characterising failings of the political process itself. Naveeda Khan discusses qabza and its effects on Lahore mosques. A mosque may be founded through an act of qabza, by illegally occupying and building on land that is owned either privately or by the state. Qabza also occurs when one Sunni sect usurps control over the administration of a mosque from another, a practice in which the intensification of transnational Islamic reform movements in the past quarter century has been reflected. In either case, legal redress against such illegal appropriation is difficult to pursue, since a mosque cannot be owned in the same way that an ordinary space can be. As Khan points out, the act of building a mosque effectively dedicates that space to God, arguably taking it out of the arena of the law and courts. Such acts thus occur in an ambiguous arena, in which people labelled as thugs, land grabbers or political string-pullers are closely intertwined with the ‘miracle of the mosque coming up overnight’ (an ambiguity that Khan explores in her article). This ambiguity marks a tension in which the ideal of eliminating corruption through the bureaucratisation and legalisation of everyday life is achieved at the cost that the possibility of a miracle, or the intrusion of the divine or the spiritual into everyday life, is also eliminated. I saw a similar ambiguity and tension in my own research on shrines, especially in terms of the tensions between government efforts to regulate and control the shrines and the pirs associated with such shrines and the tendency of shrines to spring upon what ever patch of ground that a pir had chosen to reside during his life (see Ewing 1983). Such land often becomes ‘waqf’ or land dedicated to a religious purpose as a charitable endowment. The act of charitable endowment, however, can be ambiguous, generating conflicts over the legal status of such land and a kind of moral ambivalence surrounding the process. Sometimes, the pir’s choice of an abode is essentially an act

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of qabza that creates tensions and conflict, sometimes, for example, interfering with government plans to widen a road or build a hospital. In other cases, the pirs had themselves owned the land on which they were buried, and their descendants continued to own and maintain the shrine for generations, until the government appropriated the shrine and associated land to be administered by the Auqaf Department, an act which has itself been labelled qabza in some contexts, especially when the government appropriation was understood to undercut the local power and income of a hereditary pir family or when the Auqaf department takeover meant that the shrine slid into neglect and decay. The ambivalence of incursions of governmentality into the sacred spaces of pirs and shrines can thus be marked through accusations of qabza in a process closely parallel to that described by Khan in her work. Qabza is frequently used to refer to the activities of ‘qabza groups’, which use various strategies to appropriate land owned by others. In this context, it is a signifier of Pakistan’s failure to overcome the corruption that has undermined successive governments throughout its history. Pakistani newspapers are replete with articles about such groups and their activities. For example, an article about land grabbing in Lahore, headlined ‘Property Owners Beware: Qabza groups defrauding unsuspecting buyer’, described how qabza groups were able to appropriate land in ‘posh localities’ by ‘forging the documents of properties not actively monitored by the actual owners’. In this particular report, administrators agreed that this sort of fraud was possible only with the collaboration of land record officials and planned to solve the problem by computerising property records. In other words, government corruption is at the heart of the problem, but there is always the hope that further modernisation — in this case through computerisation — will solve this pervasive problem of corruption. The daily newspaper Jang, published a lengthy (14-page) special report on qabza in its English online edition (January 2007), a report which also linked its prevalence to the collaboration of government officials and even accused government agencies themselves of itself carrying out qabza on public lands, such as lands attached to shrines, selling them off to developers. Taking control of land through qabza is not only a manifestation of local struggles and local failures, but also a more pervasive problem that affects Pakistan in a global context. At a New York meeting in which several Pakistani ministers were promoting investment in Pakistan by overseas Pakistanis, one

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of the main topics of discussion was the problem of qabza groups, which take control of lands that have been purchased for investment (The Nation 2005). This was seen as a particularly acute problem for overseas investors, since they were often absentee landlords and thus especially vulnerable to illegal possession of their property. The corruptions of qabza can thus affect the financial health of Pakistan vis-á-vis international investment and global markets. Nevertheless, the ethical ambiguity of qabza that can be seen in relationship to mosques and shrines does carry over into other contexts in which there are struggles over the control of land. Thus, qabza is also associated with shanty town settlements, in which poor migrants from other parts of Pakistan who cannot gain access to housing in any other way settle on land illegally and provide crucial labour and services to their wealthier neighbours nearby. One internet blog commentator, describing a photo of a ‘kachi abaadi’ (shanty town) in Karachi hastily wrote (with grammatical looseness in the original): ‘Who is responsible for this? Is it the government which does not have a proper social benefits system in place. Or is it the hundreds of thousands of people who arrive in Karachi everyday in search of a better life. Little do they know that Karachi is one of the expensive most Places to live and they are eventually forced to do some “QABZA” and later make “KACHAY PAKKAY Ghar”. I believe its the Qabza peoples own fault that they live in such conditions’.4 This use of qabza to characterise Karachi’s growth through an influx of internal migrants is rather different than the use of the same term to characterise qabza groups who have connections to local government and are able to subvert the legal process to their own ends. In the case of shanty towns, qabza is an act forced on the needy, an act taken by those at the bottom of the social hierarchy in the face of a government’s failure to provide social benefits to those in need, resulting in areas of the city with chaotic growth lacking in basic services, while in the latter case, those in power usurp land from its rightful owners, again, because of the failure and corruption of the government. Though qabza groups are inevitably represented as evildoers in media reports, in contrast to the ambivalence of representations of qabza as enacted by the poor, Matthew Hull manages to blur this ethical divide as he analyses the unplanned growth of Islamabad, some of which occurs through qabza. He describes a process of quiet encroachment among those who have some kind of ties to local government, by

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means of the capture of a file, a threat of violence, bribe or through physical occupation (qabza). Hull sees the resultant disruptions to Islamabad’s master plan less as evidence of a failed city than of a failed authoritarianism, and he identifies a broadening of participation in the fashioning of the city, rather than simple corruption. What is striking about Hull’s perspective is that it evades the judgement of failure associated with corruption that is so pervasive in the national imaginary. Qabza can also mean the usurpation of speech, as when Naveeda Khan informs us that her Urdu teacher in Pakistan complained that the army and mullas ‘had done qabza on public speech’ (see Khan’s article in this volume). The idea of qabza has become so much a part of popular discourse that the cricket star turned politician Imran Khan (discussed for other reasons in Abbas’s chapter) called General Musharraf and his government a ‘qabza group’ that has ‘hijacked’ Pakistan, saying ‘there is no difference among elements who have grabbed land and those who are grabbing public opinion’ (Paktribune 2005a), and accusing Musharraf of perpetuating government policies that threatened the freedom, Islamic identity and sovereignty of Pakistan (Paktribune 2005b). This trope works at several levels. In a literal use of the term, he said that ‘The incidence of poverty has risen to alarming proportion due to loot and plunder spree of these Qabza groups’ (Paktribune 2005a). At another level, Imran Khan was calling for a national caretaker government and a new election, in contrast to the way that Musharraf ‘grabbed’ Pakistan in a military coup in 1999. At a third level, he drew a contrast between the founding principles of Pakistan as embodied in the Quaid-e-Azam on the one hand and Pakistani President Musharraf’s policies, on the other, which he claimed threatened to hijack these founding principles through underhanded deals with foreign governments such as the United States. Finally, he evoked the metaphorical image of ‘grabbing’ public opinion. To all of these levels of qabza and corruption, Imran Khan, like many politicians before him, promised as an antidote a new political order grounded in the principles of Islam. Imran Khan was not the first to use the trope of qabza to describe the political process. In a quick internet search, I found that Pir Pagara had used the same metaphor two months earlier, saying ‘there is neither any politician nor any political party in the country and only Qabza group is operative in the country’ (Paktribune 6 January 2007) and in quite a different context, I. A. Rehman, director of the Human

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Rights Commission of Pakistan in Lahore, had in 2003 likened the Islamist government of the NWFP to a qabza group for seeking to encroach on the central government by pushing the Shariat Bill of 2003 (Khan 2003: 3). In the latter case, the concern is that the gradual implementation of a series of laws for the enforcement of shariat will lead to the eventual Talibanisation of Pakistan at the expense of human rights and democracy. In each of these cases, the idea of qabza is placed in contrast to transparent democratic processes. Much of the affective power of a national imaginary is evoked by specific associative linkages that are repeatedly made among its components, linkages that have been forged through historical memories that are reinvoked together. Thus, the power of corruption as an image is discursively linked in some contexts to the fall of the Mughal empire in the face of the colonial power and efficacy of the West. Just as many attributed the fall of the Mughal empire in the face of the onslaught of the West to their own failure to adhere to the principles of Islam, many see bureaucratic corruption in similar terms, as a collective self-failing (Ewing 1993: 73), a sense of failure that is also linked to the aftermath of colonialism. Thus, one man I frequently interacted with during my fieldwork in the 1970s and 1980s often extolled the virtues of being a proper Muslim and denounced the corruption of the government. Then one day he told me that he had just tried to rig a standardised exam for his son, and then he said with some self-disparagement, ‘That’s the way we Pakistanis are’ (Ewing 1993: 72). When I was in Pakistan, I got the sense that in most offices and businesses, there was a pervasive sense that Pakistanis are inefficient, that Pakistani products are inferior to Western products, that Pakistani education is a pale imitation of British or American education and that corruption is pervasive.

Conclusion As Naveeda Khan suggests in her Introduction to this volume, the idiom of crisis would seem to be one of the conditions of possibility for speaking of Pakistan, ‘capturing an affect of not getting it right that constitutes belongingness in Pakistan’ (‘Introduction’, p. 1). The image of crisis is thus itself an aspect of the national imaginary. I suggest that this sense of crisis is linked with a sense of failure associated with the pervasive and continuing sense being on the periphery — on the edge of India, on the edge of the Muslim world, on the edge of modernity, a sense of periphery that was reproduced in the early anthropology of Pakistan.

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This multivalent sense of being on the periphery in turns frames political discourse as being about identifying causes for and finding solutions to the problem of failure. In public discourse, certain practices and signs, such corruption and the act of qabza, stand for the problem. Qabza resonates with the idea that corruption is rampant in Pakistan and that those in power use their personal connections and influence to undermine legal and democratic procedures. Cultural citizenship — participation in ‘the way we Pakistanis are’, as the friend I quoted above put it — seems to encourage a participation in the endless struggle to find solutions to this problem of being peripheral, by ending corruption, being a better Muslim, becoming more computerised, purifying Islam, centralising administration, rooting out terrorists, etc. The contributors to this volume have offered tools for examining how the components of this national imaginary are constructed, reproduced and taken for granted in everyday discourse. Anthropology as a discipline draws its interpretive power by carrying out fine-grained ethnographic studies of such everyday processes as they are contextualised within the broader discursive fields in which they play out. By making explicit the constraints and associative links that shape a Pakistani national imaginary, scholars can loosen these constraints and open up other ways of imagining Pakistan. New ways of framing the inevitable problems of life in a complex society can open up new ways of re-envisioning solutions to those problems.

Notes 1. Among the earliest of his articles to address these issues are: ‘The integrative revolution: primordial sentiments and civil politics in the new states’ (1963) and ‘Ideology as a Cultural System’ (1964). 2. Benedict Anderson (1991 [1983]) saw the nation as an ‘imagined community’ and attributed its formation to print capitalism. Michael Taussig has explored some of the processes that constitute the ‘magic of the state’ to its citizenry (Taussig 1996). 3. My book (Ewing 1997) sought to overcome disciplinary divides in two ways. First, it brought together attention to the impact of the state on local processes, such as national appropriations both of local shrines and of their significance, with the everyday concerns of ordinary people in urban neighborhoods and how broader processes such as transnational reformist discourses impinge on them. Second, it brought together practices of everyday life with Islamic textual traditions, looking both at the historical roots of these practices such as those of the malang (wandering ascetic) and at how texts were actually used in everyday settings. 4. http://karachi.metblogs.com/archives/2006/10/shere_in_karachi_75

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Note on the Editor Naveeda Khan is Assistant Professor of Anthropology at Johns Hopkins University. She is the recipient of grants from foundations such as SSRC, Fulbright, NSF, Wenner-Gren, American Institute of Pakistan Studies and the American Philosophical Society. She has earlier worked at the UNHCR, BRAC (Bangladesh Rural Advancement Committee, Bangladesh) and the Field Museum of Natural History, Chicago. Besides editing Beyond Crisis: Re-evaluating Pakistan, she has completed a manuscript titled The Promise of Pakistan: Skepticism and the Ordinary. She is currently working on Bangladesh.

Notes on Contributors Sadia Abbas is Assistant Professor in the Department of English at Rutgers. She works on the literature of religious conflict and postcolonial literature and theory. She has recently published ‘Other People’s History: Contemporary Islam and Figures of Early Modern European Dissent’ in Early Modern Culture. Her current project is titled Dissent and Global Muslim Fiction. Kamran Asdar Ali is Associate Professor in the Department of Anthropology at the University of Texas, Austin. He has authored of Planning the Family in Egypt: New Bodies New Selves. He has two coedited volumes with Martina Rieker: Re-exploring the Urban: Citiscapes in South Asia and the Middle East and Gendering Urban Space in the Middle East, South Asia and Africa. He is currently completing a book length monograph on Pakistani labor politics in 1950s–60s. Asad A. Ahmed is Assistant Professor in the Department of Anthropology at Harvard University. Tahir Andrabi is Associate Professor in the Department of Economics at Pomona College. His current research analyses the rise of private and religious schooling, issues of school choice and the quality of primary education in rural Punjab in Pakistan. Amy Bard is Visiting Lecturer in South Asia Studies at Wellesley College. She has published articles in the Annual of Urdu Studies (2000); Holy Tears: Weeping in the Religious Imagination (2005), and Shared Idioms, Sacred Symbols: Process, Power, and the Articulation of Religious Identities in South Asia (Routledge, forthcoming). She is completing a book manuscript on Shia Islam as articulated through popular performance. Iftikhar Dadi is Assistant Professor in the Department of History of Art at Cornell University. His interests include modern South Asian and Islamic art and visual cultures, comparative modernities and postcolonial theory. As an artist, in collaboration with Elizabeth Dadi, he has shown widely internationally. Jishnu Das is Senior Economist in the Development Research Group (Human Development and Public Services Team) at the World Bank.

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His research focuses on the interaction between households and public and private service providers, drawing upon data collected in Zambia (education), India (health and education), Pakistan (education) and Paraguay (health). Katherine Pratt Ewing is Associate Professor in the Department of Cultural Anthropology at Duke University. She has done extensive field research in Pakistan, Turkey and among Muslims in Germany and the United States. David Gilmartin is Professor in the Department of History at North Carolina State University. He has published on Muslim politics in South Asia and the creation of Pakistan, and is currently completing a manuscript on the interaction between politics, genealogy and water resources in the Indus basin. Matthew Hull is Assistant Professor at the Department of Anthropology at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. He is currently completing a book, The Government of Paper: The Materiality of Bureaucracy in Urban Pakistan, which explores governance as a semiotic and material process through the examination of writing and written artifacts in the operation of city government in Islamabad. Syed Akbar Hyder is Associate Professor of Asian Studies and Islamic Studies at the University of Texas, Austin. He has authored Reliving Karbala: Martyrdom in South Asian Memory (2006) and is co-author of Let’s Study Urdu (2007). Humeira Iqtidar is Research Fellow in the Centre of South Asian Studies at King’s College, Cambridge University. Her research engages with theories of secularisation and secularism in the context of contemporary Muslim societies. Asim Ijaz Khwaja is Associate Professor of Public Policy at Harvard University’s Kennedy School of Government. His areas of interest include economic development, corporate finance, political economy and industrial organisation. Deepak Mehta is Reader at the Department of Sociology, University of Delhi. Since 1994, he has been working on the Bombay riots of 1992–93 with his colleague Roma Chatterji. Their collection of essays titled Living With Violence: An Anthropology of Events and Everyday Life was published by Routledge in 2007.

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Aamir Mufti is Associate Professor of Comparative Literature at the University of California, Los Angeles. He is co-editor of Dangerous Liaisons: Gender, Nation, and Postcolonial Perspectives. His Enlightenment in the Colony: The Jewish Question and the Crisis of Postcolonial Culture was published in 2007. Tahir Hasnain Naqvi is a Scholar in Residence at Reed College. He has taught at Columbia, Duke and the University of California at Berkeley, where he received his doctorate in anthropology in 2006. He is working on a manuscript about autocracy, Muslim nationalism and the urban political imagination in Pakistan. Robert Rozehnal is Associate Professor in the Department of Religion Studies at Lehigh University. He has authored Islamic Sufism Unbound: Politics and Piety in Twenty-First Century Pakistan (2007). Yasmin Saikia is Associate Professor of History at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. Her book Fragmented Memories: Struggling to be Tai-Ahom in India was awarded the Srikanta Datta book prize in 2005 by the Nehru Memorial Musuem and Library, New Delhi. She has completed a book about violence in the 1971 War of Bangladesh. Oskar Verkaaik is Assistant Professor at the Research Center for Religion and Society at the University of Amsterdam. His research focuses on ethnicity, nationalism, migration and religion in Pakistan, concentrating on aspects of violence, gender and age. He has authored A People of Migrants: Ethnicity, State and Religion in Karachi and Inside the Citadel: Fun, Violence and Religious Nationalism in Hyderabad, Pakistan (1994). Tristan Zajonc is currently a Public Policy PhD candidate at Harvard University.

Index Abbas, Sadia 20, 344–69, 533 Abdur Rehman Mubashir 302, 304, 306; v Syed Amir Ali Shah 289, 298 Abraham v Abraham 281 Adorno, Theodor 31, 32, 46, 57; concept of lyric poetry 57 Afro-Asian Writers’ Association 38 Ahl-e-Hadith 481; mosque 470 Ahl-i Sunnah wa Jammat 488 Ahmadi–Muslim controversy 274 ‘Ahmadi problem’ 278 Ahmadis 18, 273, 274, 527; as imposters and frauds 299–303 Ahmadiyya identity 273–76; colonial and post-colonial state appropriations of sharia 278–81; liberal erasures and narrative of religious intolerance 276–78; outlawing Ahmadiyya: constitutionalising heterodoxy 284–86; disjuncture and difference in legal ecumene 286–90; fundamental rights vs. ‘Muslim’ rights over identity 290–96; recognising Muslims 281–84; securing the signs of Muslimness, 1983–94: Ahmadis as imposters and frauds 299–303; ordinance XX 296–99; religious practice property and public order rationales 303–305 Ahmed, Asad A. 18, 273–307, 526 Ahmed, Ghulam Mirza 273, 276, 283, 299, 301, 302, 303, 304 Ahmed, Qazi Hussain 259, 261 AIPWA see All-India Progressive Writers Association (AIPWA) Alavi, Hamza 7, 28, 146, 167, 230 Al-Badr 177 Al-Behr-ul-Ra’iq 293, 294 Al-Fatah 252 Ali, Chaudhry Mohammad 69 Aligarh Movement of Sayyid Ahmed Khan 38

Ali, Kamran Asdar 210–38, 527 All India Muslim League 61, 63, 65, 83; Day of Direct Action 68; leadership’s role in fomenting violence and displacement 69 All-India Progressive Writers Association (AIPWA) 32, 37, 39 al-Qaeda 534 Amin, Shahid 85, 211 Anari 16, 168–71, 175 Anath Bhajnavali 332, 333 Anderson, Benedict 13, 540 Andrabi, Tahir 22, 430–50 Anglo-Muhammadan law 279, 309 Anglo-Saxon judicial procedures 280 Anjuman Usatiza 260 Anthropology at the Margins of the State (Das and Poole) 9 anthropology of Pakistan, 531, 539 Arendt, Hannah 66, 67, 86 Arman 16, 155–66, 169, 172 Asad, Muhammad 20, 344, 345, 346, 348–56, 360, 365, 368, 533 ashraf 38, 39, 149 Auqaf Department 497 Auqaf Directorate 471; main role 476 Austin, John 483 avami adalat 225 awamification 248 Awami Fikri Mahaz 252 Awami League Party 182 Azad, Muhammad Husain 38 azan 273, 286, 288, 293, 296, 513, 516, 529; by kafir 294 Azim, Imam 488, 489, 490, 491, 492, 499, 511 Banerjee, Mukulika 231 Bangladesh 25; civil war with Pakistani army 3; internal colonialism 183; Mukti Bahini 177, 182, 190 Bano, Iqbal 40

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barbat o nai 34 Bard, Amy 22, 401–27, 533 Basic Pay Scale (BPS) 463 Basti (Hussain) 502 batai 246, 253 bazmiyya 38 Bengali guerilla forces 3 Bengali Hindus 27, 182 Bengal riots 69 Berelvi: maslaks 470, 476, 491; mosque, in Momin Town 490; mullas 510; worshippers 489 Bergson, Henri 24, 384, 515 Berman, Eli 439 Bhutto, Mumtaz Ali 220, 228 Bhutto, Zulfiqar Ali 17, 89, 122, 166, 170, 172, 181, 209, 210, 219, 274, 275, 331, 390, 471 ‘Blaik-Aut’ (Black-Out) 47 blasphemy 301, 304, 509 Bombay, Hindu-Indian and MuslimPakistani publics in 315; colonial archiving of hate 322–33; mythic in Samna 318–22; past and present 317; publics, law and affect 333–38; religion and masculinity 327 BPS see Basic Pay Scale (BPS) Brasilia, city project 455 British cantonment 459 British Raj 121, 385 bureaucracy: corruption 539; institutions 479; military 452; military government 457; state 452 Capital Development Authority (CDA) 23; and Auqaf sectarian allocation policies 472, 473, 476; blueprints from 477; and building codes plans 477; compensation policy 478; constructed mosques 470; destruction of illegal mosques 472; office 467; officer in charge 468; officials 474, 476, 478; Ordinance 477; to regularise illegal mosques 476; technical policies for treatment of Islam 472

Capital Development Corporation (CDC) 453 Cavell, Stanley 483 CDA see Capital Development Authority (CDA) CDC see Capital Development Corporation (CDC) Chakrabarty, Dipesh 204, 230, 237 Chandigarh, city project 455 children enrolled in school: and expenditure 448–49; household enrolment choices 449–50 Child Welfare Department 497 chilla 489 Chishti–Sabiri order 119 Chishti Sabiri sufi order 123–27 Chistiya, Sabri 12 CII see Council for Islamic Ideology (CII) Civil Service of Pakistan (CSP) 147 civil war, in Pakistan 2, 3, 69, 70, 177 Collective Bargaining Agents (CBA) 217 colonialism 471; aftermath of 539; and colonial archiving of hate 322–33; and colonial India 526; mental asylum 495 communalism: communal counterbalance, model of 74–78, 84; genocide 61, 64, 76; violence 61, 62, 70, 72, 73, 75, 320, 335 Communist Party of India (CPI) 249 Communist Party of Pakistan 37, 250 community participation 493 conformity, and separation 511 Council for Islamic Ideology (CII) 472 cross-border migration 64 CSP see Civil Service of Pakistan (CSP) Dadi, Iftikhar 12, 15, 16, 17, 27, 145–73, 526 Dajjal, worship of 352 Dar-al-Harb 249 dars 489 dasht o gulzar 34 Dast-e saba 40, 46 Dast-e tah-e sang 58

Index Das, Veena 9 dawa 489 Dawn 223 Dawood Cotton 233 Day of Direct Action 68 DC see District Commissioner (DC) Deobandi: madrasa 124; in Lahore 499; maslak 488, 491, 498 Desai, Anita 39 din 523, 527 District Commissioner (DC) 500, 505, 506 Dosheeza 151 Doxiadis, Constantinos 23, 453, 456; vision of unhindered expansion 477 dua 492 dunya 523, 525, 527 durud sharif 499 East Bengal Regiment (EBR) 185 East Pakistan 529, see also Bangladesh East Pakistani Bengalis 148, 181 ecumenopolis 459 education 507; Islamisation initiatives 473; in Pakistan, reform of 443 Ekistics 456 Elaan 152 1948 emergency 82–83 Environmental Protection Agency 506 Ernst, Carl 120 European wanderjahre 369 Evans, Alexander 435 failure: of nation 522, 530; of nationalism 522; of sovereignty 522; of state 522, 530 Faisalabad 432 Faiz, Faiz Ahmed 10, 31; Lenin Peace Prize 37–38; lyric subject and memory 40–54; poetic programme towards lyric history of India 54–58; popularity of poetry in Urdu–Hindi regions 33; verse against religious orthodoxy 44 fakirs 89, 99, 101, 110, 111 Fanon, Frantz 56

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Faridi, Shahidullah 124, 125, 127 Farooqi, Maulana Fazlur Rehman 501 Fauji Foundation 185 Federal Capital Commission 456, 463, 464 Federal Shariat Court (FSC) 280, 281, 298, 299, 300, 301, 302, 472 feminism 357, 363 Fetish, Recognition, Revolution (Siegel) 14 feudalism 245, 246, 254, 258, 261, 528 Filmindia 152 film industry, of Pakistan 145; aftermath of 1971 166–68 fiqh, Hanafi 280 fitna 283 Friday prayer 255, 469, 470, 487, 497, 501 Frontier see North West Frontier Province (NWFP) FSC see Federal Shariat Court (FSC) Gabol, Abdus Sattar 224 Gangohi, Rashid Ahmed 124, 136 The Garden of the Finzi-Continis (Gunn and Bassani) 348 gasht 489 Gauhar, Altaf 154 Gauhar Town 504, 505, 506, 507 Gazdar, Mushtaq 145, 156 Geertz, Clifford 531 gender bias 442, 443 Genette, Gérard 47 Geneva Convention 183 genocide, purification 62 Ghalib, Asadullah Khan 36 ghazal 10, 32, 34, 38, 39, 43, 54, 56 gherao 210, 217 ghinaiyya 38 Ghubare ayyam 58 Gilani, Abdul Qadir 489 git 39 Golden Age of Pakistani Urdu cinema 146 government: housing 452, 464, 466; schools 435; servants 465

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Guha, Ranajit 85, 212, 237 Gul Ahmed Textiles 233 Hakumat-i-Rabbani 254 Hali, Altaf Husain 38 heterodoxy, constitutionalising 284–86 high-modernist state projects 452 Hijrat Movement 44, 45, 249 Hindi–Urdu conflict 53 Hindu 531; Hindu-Indian and MuslimPakistani publics in Bombay 315; colonial archiving of hate 322–33; mythic in Samna 318–22; past and present 222; publics, law and affect 333–38; religion and masculinity 327; Hindu–Muslim violence in Mumbai 315–16; neighbourhood of Lahore 486 Hindu Sangathan — Saviour of the Dying Race (Shraddhanand) 324 History of India (Elphinston) 327 Hitler–Stalin Pact 37 housing: government housing sector 464; allocation of units 465; continuing occupancy 465; financial limitations 465; hostile takeovers 468–69; houses, transferred to families 466; housing shortage 465; illegal financial opportunities 467; lack of coordination between 464–65; legal ownership 467; male allotees, and purdah 466–67; modification, of government dwellings 467; money and influence, disturbances 466; out of turn allotment (OOTA) 467; physical order, of sectors and 464; qabza 468; household censuses 440; societies 478; transferred to families 466 Housing Society (Hyder) 149, 155 hubb-ul-watani 34 Hull, Matthew 22, 23, 452–79, 533, 534, 537 human immigrancy 2, 8, 26 Hussain, Hazrat 489 Hussain, Intizar 113, 502, 503, 507, 510

Hussain, Nasser 73 Hyder, Qurratulain 149 Hyder, Syed Akbar 370–97, 533 Ilyas, Maulana Muhammad 488 Imagined Community (Anderson) 13 imambarahs 407, 408, 489 imams 402, 474, 486, 490, 497, 499; of Masjid Noor 488; in mosque 489, 491; reputation 489 In Custody (Desai) 39 India: creation of ‘Muslim social’ genre in 151; ‘Muslim’ experience in 32, 56; partition of 61, 525; rise of Muslim separatism in 146 Indian cinema 150, 153, 167, 168 Indian Civil Service 147 Indian National Congress 37, 61, 68 Indian nationalism: under British colonial rule 13; unity-in-diversity formula of 33 India–Pak conflict 27 Indo-Islamic poetic tradition 57 Indo-Pakistani war 47, 59 Industrial Dispute Ordinance 215 Industrial Disputes Act of 1947 215 Industrial Relations Ordinance (IRO) 217 insaniyat, philosophy of 16, 529 Inter-Dominion Conference 65 Internal Strife and External Intervention: India’s Role in the Civil War in East Pakistan (Rizvi) 4 International Labour Organisation (ILO) 214, 215 Iqbal, Muhammad 20, 370, 524; and Karbala 20, 372–74; and Persian Sufi poetry 374–88; Shia interpellation of Iqbal 389–94; transnational and trans-sectarian significance 395–97 Iqtidar, Humeira 17, 245–62, 528 Irving, Washington 327 Islam: Islamic–Arabic civilisation 361; Islamic education 471; Islamic empires 137; Islamic Ideology Council

Index 473; Islamic idiom 471; Islamic religious schools 430; Islamic socialism 181, 253, 254, 255; Islamic spirituality 130, 131, 133, 134, 371, 372, 381, 384; Islamic world 521 Islamabad: bureaucracies 469; Doxiadis proclaim 467; Doxiadis’s vision, nucleus of 459; as dynapolis 453; establishment 452–53; financial limitations and government housing 465; focus of garden 479; government colonies in 464; government corporations brought colony to 464; green belt 458; made district and 471; master plan see master plan (MP); as modest failure 455; monumental national administrative area 459; mosque construction and allocation in 469; organic growth 478; physical plan of 453; planning and regulation in 477; report on Master Plan for 456; state bureaucracies to dominate 479; unidirectional expansion 458; western sectors of 476 Islamabad/Rawalpindi metropolitan complex 457 Islam and the Muslim Woman Today (Jameela) 358 Islam and Western Society (Jameela) 358 Islam at the Crossroads (Asad) 356, 365 Islamic Sufism Unbound (Rozehnal) 126 Islam versus the West 360 Jafry, Ali Sardar 37, 395 jagirdari nizam 245 Jahan, Rounaq 3, 28 jahiliyya 509 Jalal, Ayesha 6, 75, 172, 522 Jalsa Shaukat-e-Islam 251 Jamaat-e-Islami (JI) 17, 136, 245–48; ideological commitments 257–58; leadership styles 259–61; left and (before 1960s) 248–51; under Mian Tufayl 260; Toba Tek Singh Kissan

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Conference and Yaum-e-Shaukate-Islam 251–57 Jameelah, Maryam 20 Jamiat-i-Tanzim 324 Jamiat Ulama Hind 259 Jamiat Ulama Islam (JUI) 228 Jamiat Ulama Pakistan 252, 254 jat 168 jawans 231 jera wahway, oho hi khaway 253, 257 JI see Jamaat-e-Islami (JI) jihad: jihad-i akbar 133; jihad-i asghar 133; jihadi terrorist 23 Jinnah, Mohammad Ali 6, 68, 74, 76, 181, 250, 277, 390, 532 jiyala 89, 90 Joint Action Committee 223–24 Judaic paths to Muslim Pakistan 344– 47; imagining Pakistan 366–69; Imran Khan’s quest 347–48; Maryam Jameela’s quest 356–63; Muhammad Asad’s quest 348–56; place of the West 363–65 juridical citizenship 67 kachay pakkay ghar see qabza kachi abaadi 537 kakul o lab 34 Kaliya 90 Kalyma 276, 281, 282, 299, 300, 301, 302, 304 kalyug 503 Kapur, Geeta 151 Karachi: contemporary apartment building in 523; in early 1970s 527; flood of migrants into 535; labour struggle in (1972) 210–13; aftermath 235–36; event 219–23; industrialisation and labour 213–17; labour and ethnicity 217–19; multiple responses 226–30; paternal unions 230–32; post-event 223–26; struggle 232–35; modernity and 146–50; newly industrialising conflict in 527; population of 441; protesters

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522; rejecting capital city 453; youth and terrorism 524 Karbala 524, 525; battle of 489; context 403–406; Iqbal and 372–74; and Persian Sufi poetry 374–88; Shia interpellation of Iqbal 389–94; transnational and trans-sectarian significance 395–97 Khabardar 329, 330 Khana-i-Khuda 472 Khan, Ayub 7, 16, 17, 23, 121, 147, 154–55, 251, 252, 452, 455 Khan, Bawar 226, 231, 232, 235 Khan, Imran 20, 344, 347–48, 538 Khan, Khan Abdul Wali 228 Khan, Liaquat Ali 77, 96, 148 Khan, Mairaj Mohammad 221, 226, 234, 235 Khan, Naveeda 1–26, 482–512, 522, 533, 535 khanqahs 123, 382 Khan, Raja Ghazanfar Ali 69 Khan, Sahibzada Yakub 192, 529 Khan, Sayyid Ahmed 38 khatib 470, 497–99, 502 Khatm-e-Nabuwaat 273 Khayaban-i-Quaid-i-Azam 459 khilafat 385 khirqa 372 Khooni Cawnpur Uraf Bahadur Aurat 316–17 khuda 378 Khudai Khidmatgars 232 Khuda Ki Basti 493, 501 khudi 371, 372, 378, 379, 382, 383, 384 khun becha pani liya 225 khun ka badla khun 226 Khusro, Amir 53, 54 khutba 501 Kiernan, Victor 34 Kissan Board 246, 258, 262 ‘Koko Korina’ song 165, 166 labour: and ethnicity 217–19; Labour Organising Committee (LOC) 225,

233, 234; movement 28; policy 210; struggle in Karachi 17, 210–13; aftermath 235–36; event 219–23; GNP rates 216; industrialisation and 213–17; multiple responses 226–30; paternal unions 230–32; post-event 223–26; struggle 232–35; and working class leaders 220 Lahore: businessmen 495, 501; from Walled City 499; Lahore Development Authority (LDA) 486, 504; Lahore Resolution 75; Sunni Muslims 482; taste for food 502 lailat-il-qadr 410, 417, 423 lail-o-nahar 252 Landhi–Korangi: industrial area 213–14; trade unions 234 land mafias 474 ‘Land of the Pure’ 118 lauh o qalam 34 Learning and Educational Achievements in Punjab Schools (LEAPS) 431, 436, 441 Lefebvre, Henri 21, 483 leftist movement, in Pakistan 17 Leghari, A. K. 82 Lenin Peace Prize 37–38 Life of Mohammed (Irving) 327 Lotus 38 lyric poetry 10, 32, 38; love and its discontents 35–40; vs. society 32, 36; in Urdu 57 madrasa(s) 431; admissibility criterion for data 432; among Afghans and Pashtun families 438; among certain types of households 436; cited in the Washington Post 435; 9/11 Commission Report 434; country-wide enrolment 433; data, from reporting agencies 434; data pat-terns for 433; education 430; emphasis on reform 442; funding 440; household vs establishmentbased surveys 439; intelligence

Index report 435; low use in Pakistani children 441; Ministry of Education’s directory of 440; network 256; newspapers, articles on 444–47; in Pakistan 431, 434, 442; Pakistani children attending 431; parttime madrasa, among children 440; poverty and 436; promoting extremism 435; proportion of orphans in 440; responsible for 430; role in shaping attitudes in 430; in rural area 441; sources of household-based data 432; limitation 438; Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, during 433; terrorist breeding grounds 534; in three districts 443; through teaching 430; in urban cities 440 Magic of the State (Taussig) 9 The Magnificent Power Potential of Pakistan (Asghar) 129–38 majlis 389–94, 397, 401, 405; majlis-e ’aza, 401; sermon 401–402 The Making of Pakistan: A Study in Nationalism (Aziz) 7 Makki, Hajji Imdad Allah al-Muhajir 124 mang raha hai har insan, roti, kapra aur makan 238 Manto, Saadat Hasan 251 Manuel, Peter 167 Markazi Majlis-e-Shura 257 masjid: in Gulshan 495, 511; Masjid Noor 487, 490–92, 498, 499, 511; imam of 486, 488; neighbourhood and worshippers at 489; Masjid Zarar 490 maslak 470, 473, 474, 476, 487 master plan (MP): basic objectives of Islamabad 463; cantonment area 457; civilian governmental, and residential areas 457; Doxiadis, egalitarian concern for 456; Doxiadis’s ambitions 456; Ekistics, approach 456; F- and G-series of

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sectors 463; Federal Secretariat and National Assembly buildings 459; four-lane road 458; future inhabitants, of residential sectors 461–62; generation of community life around 464; government colonies in Islamabad 464; government houses 462; green belt, provided between 458; higher rank houses 463; Holston and Le Corbusier, role in 456; housing for lower-income classes 463; local conditions to plan 458; mohallas 462; monumental ‘national administrative’ area 459; new regime’s vision of polity 457; nucleus of Islamabad, development 459; planning of city 455; political programme 457; political role and 456; for Presidential Palace 459; private houses 463; proper schemes, of organisation 456; site as military centre for 457; sociocultural dimensions of 458; and socio-political processes 479; subdivision 459–60; technical necessity 456 Mathnawi (Rumi) 200 Maududi, Maulana Syed Abul Ala 247 maulvi (religious teacher) 36, 255, 486, 490, 497 Mazdoor Kissan Party (MKP) 226 Mazhab ka Danka 328, 330, 332, 333 MBE see Member of the British Empire (MBE) Mecca 44, 121, 379, 408, 496 Medina 44, 121, 132, 134, 138, 496 Mehta, Deepak 10, 19, 315–38 Member of the British Empire (MBE) 37 Merz Rendel Vatten firm 453 migration, cross-border 64 Milad un-Nabi 489 military governments, of Pakistan 10 Ministry of Housing and Works 465 minority Muslim provinces 64

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Beyond Crisis

Mire dil mire musafir 58 Mire hamdam, mire dost 35 Mir, Muhammad Taqi 36 Mirza Khurshid Ahmed v Government of Punjab 298, 300, 301 Mishkat-ul-Masabih 294 Mitchell, Timothy 9 MKP see Mazdoor Kissan Party (MKP) momin 373 Momin Town 490, 491 Mori araj suno 54 mosque: allocation 474; architecture and greenery 496; building 452, 482; scene in ‘Anandi’ 485; caught in grips of qabza 511; committees 487, 495, 496, 498, 499; struggled to provide 487; construction 469, 486; and management 487, 510; contemporary scene in Lahore 485; employees 497; in Gulshan 495; illegal mosque 494; construction 476; in Lahore, ethnography 483; in modern form, fearful and 504; old mosques 470; policemen guarding 483; sectarian affiliation of 470; sectarian allocation of 474; sites 471; seizure of 511; violent scene of construction 484 MP see master plan (MP) MQM see Muhajir Qaumi Movement (MQM); Muttahida Qaumi Movement (MQM) muasir tabqa 246 Mudie, Francis 80 muezzin 470, 491, 497, 498 Mufti, Aamir R. 9, 10, 31–58, 524 Mughal empire 539 Muhajir National Movement 95, 97, 104 Muhajir Qaumi Movement (MQM) 259 muhajirs 11, 12, 15, 42, 92, 95, 104, 147, 167, 218, 227, 368, 525 Muhammadanism 325 Muharram 22, 389, 402, 410, 421, 489, 490, 525

mujahidin 129, 133 Mujibur Rahman v Federal Government of Pakistan 298 Mukti Bahini 177, 182, 190 mullas 89, 105, 106, 505, 510 Murad, Waheed 155, 165 muraqaba 126 Musalman aur Maujooda Siyasi Kashmakash 250 Muslim identity 345 Muslim League see All India Muslim League Muslim Pakistan, judaic paths to 20, 344–47; imagining Pakistan 366– 69; Imran Khan’s quest 347–48; Maryam Jameela’s quest 356–63; Muhammad Asad’s quest 348–56; place of the West 363–65 Mutahida Mazdoor Federation (MMF) 221–22, 225, 228 Muttahida Qaumi Movement (MQM) 12 Nadwi, Sayyid Abu’l Hasan ‘Ali 130 Nai Kiran 154 Najma 152, 155 namaz 475; namaz ba jamaat 486; namazis 469, 476 Naqsh-e faryadi 58 Naqvi, Tahir Hasnain 11, 12, 61–85, 525, 533 Nasr, Seyyed Vali Reza 122 nat 499 National Awami Party (NAP) 226, 227, 251, 252 nationalisation of shrines 471 nationalism 370; failure in Pakistan 1 National Labour Federation 260 National Students Federation (NSF) 252 nazm 10, 38, 39 Nehru, Jawaharlal 181 neighbourhood mosques 482 neoliberalism 503 non-muhajir trade union 227

Index non-Muslim community 527 North West Frontier Province (NWFP) 78, 83, 211, 218, 227, 433, 459 NSF see National Students Federation (NSF) Oldenburg, Philip 3, 4 OOTA See out of turn allotment (OOTA) ordinance XX 296–99 out of turn allotment (OOTA) 467 pahli si mahabbat 35, 36 Pakhtunwali 231 Pakistan: citizenship rights in 67; civil war 2; colonial inheritance of 28; condition of human immigrancy in 2; continual state of crisis in 528; crisis and ontology 8–9; artificiality of state 9–13; difficulties of committing to single vision and foreignness within 13–21; everyday life 21–26; educational opportunities in 23; ethnic and religious violence during 1971 180–85; evaluations of crises 1; failure of nationalism 1; film industry of 145; aftermath of 1971 166–68; Golden Age of Pakistani Urdu cinema 146; implementation of martial law in 37; leftist movement in 17; military governments of 10; moments of crisis in 1; perpetrators talk 185– 93; politics of Sufism in 119–23; problem of belongingness in 2–8; relationship with Islam 25 Pakistan Cinema (Gazdar) 145, 156 Pakistan: Failure in National Integration (Jahan) 3 Pakistani army 3, 18, 177; use of genocide 73; voice of humanity 193–99 Pakistani education 539 Pakistani Islam 118 Pakistani madrasas 430, see also madrasa(s) Pakistani nationalists 522

„

577

Pakistan Industrial Credit and Investment Corporation 213 Pakistan Industrial Development Corporation (PIDC) 213 Pakistan Integrated Household Survey (PIHS) 432, 433 Pakistani politics 226, 228, 368, 522 Pakistani products 539 Pakistani scholars 434 Pakistani school-children, problems faced by 442–43 Pakistani schools 435 Pakistani Shia women’s gatherings 401–403; assertions and disclaimers of authority 423–24; deceptive simplicity 417–20; heart of matter 420–23; Karbala context 403–6; majlis sermon 410–11; poetry and ritual speech 411–12; preaching and represented speech 412–15; revisiting ritual speech 424–26; sermon 409–10; wisdom 415–17; women’s majlises and agency 406– 409; zakirah 410 Pakistani society 145, 227, 247, 427, 462, 523, 530 Pakistani soldiers 16, 179, 189, 190, 191, 529 Pakistani trade union 230 Pakistani Urdu films 15 Pakistani youth population 435 Pakistan Legal Decisions (PLD) 289, 301 Pakistan Movement 72 Pakistan People’s Party (PPP) 17, 89, 210, 219, 252 Pakistan-Punjab Rehabilitation Commission 78 Pakistan-Punjab Rehabilitation Council 82 Pakistan civil service 147 Pakistan constitution 526, 533 Pakistan’s creation 522, 524; and justification 525; parties’ support to 528

578

„

Beyond Crisis

Pakistan-Sindh Joint Commission 80 Pakistan-Sindh Joint Refugee Council 79 Pakistan Trade Union Federation (PTUF) 252 Pak-sar-zameen 65 Papanek, Gustav 215 partition: and chain of violence 64–65; poems 33; transfer of population in Punjab 68–69; ambiguous location of evacuation in chain of violence 71–73; passions, normality and post-partition citizen 69–71 Partition Plan Council 74 Pashtun 438; workers 218 Patel, Vallabhai 76, 77 paternal unions 230–32 Pathan imam 500, see also imams Peace Committees 79 peons 504 permanent transit camp 82 Persian Sufi poetry 374–88 peshimam 94 PIDC see Pakistan Industrial Development Corporation (PIDC) PIHS see Pakistan Integrated Household Survey (PIHS) pir (spiritual guide) 13, 93, 98, 99, 100, 111, 532, 533, 535 plan: physical planning of city 452; planned metropolitan region 470; planning maps, role in shaping sectarian conflict 475 poetry and ritual speech 411–12 police violence 17 political corruption 528 The Political System of Pakistan (Sayeed) 7 Poole, Debbie 9 potwaris 487, 504, 505 PPP see Pakistan People’s Party (PPP) The Practice of Everyday Life (de Certeau) 21 private industrialisation 213 private school, enrolment 436, see also madrasa(s); at primary level 442; teaching English 442

The Production of Space (Lefebvre) 21 ‘Progressive’ voice, in Urdu poetry 37 pro-Moscow communist party 225 Prophet Muhammad 120, 124, 132, 134, 273, 295, 301, 302, 303, 304, 395, 490; demise in 632 CE/13 AH 404; mosque in Medina 496 prostitution 475 Provincial Government 500 PTUF see Pakistan Trade Union Federation (PTUF) public school, see also madrasa(s): enrolments 436, 440; restructuring 443 Punjab Government Employees Welfare Society 507, 508 Punjabi films 16, 167, 168, 170 Punjab Muslim League 249, 525 Punjab province 390, 432 purdah 356, 358, 359, 360, 364, 419, 466, 467 qabristan 109 qabza 468, 484, 488, 490, 492, 493, 499, 508, 534–39; as act forced on needy 537; affecting financial health of Pakistan 537; associated with shanty town settlements 537; to characterise Karachi’s growth 537; and corruption 538; creating tensions and conflict 536; ethical ambiguity of 537; groups 474, 475, 535, 536, 538; of mosque in Gulshan 499; mosque undergoing 502; operations 475; on public lands 536; on public speech 538; usurpation of speech 538 Qadianis 302 qari 497, 498 qasbah 252 Qasmi, Ahmed Nadeem 167 qaum 34 qawwalis 374, 397 Quaid-e-Azam 532, 538 Quran 295, 332, 334, 353, 358, 367, 373, 381, 396, 411

Index Rabbani, Shaykh Wahid Bakhsh Sial 13, 19, 119, 127, 138; inheritance and legacy 127–29 Rahman, Sheikh Mujibur 182 Rai, Satya 68 Ramay, Hanif 148 Ram Bhakts 319 Rangila Rasool case 325, 326 Rashid, Ahmed 435 rasm-o rawaj 499 Rawalpindi: careful studies of 458; civil lines of 457; green belt, provided between Islamabad and 458; haphazard development of 458; master plan see master plan (MP); mohallas of 460, 462; socio-economic survey of 462; unclipped bushes covering 479 Raw?at us-Shuhada 409 Raza, Shamim 11, 64 Raza, Zaheer Fatima 407 Rebellion of 1857 32 refugees 436, 525; ‘agreed-area’ 63, 65; 1948 emergency 82–83; as figure of right and object of government 66–68; non-agreed 65, 74–78; surplus 82; theoretical and anthropological treatments of 66; in ‘zone of indistinction’ 84 rehabilitation, in Sindh 78–79; narrative structure of camp 81–82; ongoing and forced migration 80–81; ratio of majority and minority community 79–80; refugee problem and 82–83 religion 526; and masculinity 180, 315, 318, 327, 330, 402 religious nationalist movement 65 religious practice property and public order rationales 303–5 religious schools 431; in Pakistan: number of children, enrolled in 437; percentage children, enrolled in 439 Remembrancer of Legal Affairs (RLA) 323, 333 ressentiment 330, 331, 332, 333 Riefenstahl, Leni 154

„

579

rishvat 465, 466 Rizvi, Hasan Askari 4 The Road to Mecca (Asad) 348, 349, 353, 354, 356, 369 Rozehnal, Robert 118–39, 533 Rumi, Jalaluddin 132, 178, 180, 200, 370 Rushdie, Salman 3 Sahib, Naseem 492 Said, Edward 38 Saikia, Yasmin 16, 27, 177–202 salat 288, 293, 294 Samna 317, 318–22, 328, 334 Sar-e wadi-e Sina 42, 47, 49, 58 Saudi Arabia 18, 100, 101, 491 Sayyid Pakistani and the Wedding of the Dead (Verkaaik) 11 school: funding 430; and income 432; schooling system, reform of 443 Secrets of the Self (Iqbal) 372 sectarianism: sectarian conflict 469–76; in Pakistan 22; technical planning and 469–76; sectarian politics 469, 471, 479, 482, 490, 491, 501 Sedgewick, Eve 486 Shab-i-Barat 107, 109, 113, 114 Shahab, Qudratullah 154 Shah, Muhammad Zauqi 124, 125, 128 Sha’ir-e-Islam 288, 290, 296, 300, 302, 304, 307 Shame (Rushdie) 3 Sham-e shahryaran 58 Sharia 471, 527; Ahmadiyya identity 273–76; laws 258, 280, 283, 289, 290, 292, 293, 296, 305 Shariat Bill (2003) 539 Shariat Court 18, 475; ruling 472 Sharif, Nawaz 435, 505 shaykh 119, 122, 123, 124, 125, 127 Sheikh Chilli stories 170 Shia: community 523; dominated neighbourhood 486; imambarahs 489, 490; interpellation of Iqbal 389–94; majlises 402; Shi’an-e Husain 385; Shia–Sunni antagonism 405;

580

„

Beyond Crisis

Shia–Sunni conflicts 490; Shia– Sunni violence 390, 392, 405; sympathiser 489; theology 22; traditions 404 Shiv Sena 317, 318, 319, 321, 339 shrines 92, 99, 103, 109, 120, 122, 137, 470, 492, 535 shuddhi/sangathan 324, 325 Siddiqi, Shawkat 493, 494, 501 Siegel, James 14 sifarish 465, 466 Sikh Akali Dal 76 Simla Pact 183 Sind Hari Committee 252 Sindh Provincial League 79 Sind Industrial Trading Estate (SITE) 213, 215, 220, 221, 222, 223, 224, 229 Singh, Master Tara 76 Singh, Toba Tek 247, 251, 252, 255 Sipah-e Sahaba party 501 Sipahi ka marsia 52 Skylarks 493, 494, 495 slum 493, 494 The Smoke of Lamps (Hussain) 502 social film 150–54 socialism ka qabristan 257 Societies Registration Act 487 The Sole Spokesman: Jinnah, the Muslim League and the Demand for Pakistan (Jalal) 6 Special Mosque Committee 473, 476 Sufism: and creation of Pakistan 13; and Indo-Muslim tradition 138; politics in Pakistan 119–23; religious authority of 121; state’s relationship with 122; Sufi saint 13, 53, 120, 122 Sura an-Nisa 358 Surat al-Ikhlas 373 Surhawardy, Hussain 74 surrogate family 511 Tablighis in Masjid Noor 489 tabligh/tanzim 324

takbir (Allah-o-Akbar) 331 Taliban 99, 100, 101, 109, 430, 435 Talibanisation of Pakistan 539 Talpur, Mir Rasool Baksh 221, 224 Tarjuman ul Quran 250, 260, 266 Taufat ul awam 409 tauq o salasil 34 Tehreek-e-Insaaf 347 television serials 16, 154, 172, 477 Templer, Robert 441 territorial community 526 terrorism 98, 430, 535 terrorist 23, 89, 90, 91, 95, 97, 104, 111, 112, 113, 117, 263, 430 The Terrorist (Lambrick) 110, 111 Thackeray, Balasaheb 317, 318, 336, 337, 339 Thanvi, Shaukat 148 Thousand and One Nights 151 Toba Tek Singh Kissan Conference 251–57 trade unions 17, 212, 214, 216, 217, 218, 221, 222, 227, 228, 229, 230, 232, 235 transit camps 63, 72, 81, 83; permanent 82 Triumph of the Will (Riefenstahl) 154 tum hi Nazeer bhi aur Basheer bhi 254 Turabi, Rashid 390, 393 ulama 254, 255, 280, 281, 283, 286, 290, 292, 293, 294, 306 ul-Haq, Zia 12, 122, 129, 236, 274, 349, 368, 390 Islamisation programme 471 ummah 20, 137, 284 Ummayad Muslim Caliph, Yazid 404 unions and neighbourhood associations 464 Universal Judaism 20, 345 urban planning 458, 474 Urdu film 148 Urdu literary culture and identity 51 Urdu poetry: ‘Progressive’ voice in 37; Sufi traditions of 43 ushr systems 471

Index vanguard proletariats 231 Verkaaik, Oskar 11, 12, 89–117, 533, 534 village mosques 470, see also mosque Vishwasghat 316, 327, 328; and Rangila Rasool 316 Viswanathan, Gauri 346, 356 Wahabis, in Pakistan 491 Walled City 495, 499 waqf 279, 309, 487, 535 watan 34 Wehshi Jat 167, 168 Welfare Committee 470 West Pakistanis 4, 19, 529 West Pakistan Students Union 252 West Pakistan Waqf Properties Ordinance of 1959 121

„

581

Wittgenstein, Ludwig 483 World Bank 213, 216, 439 Wright, Theodore 66 Yaum-e-Shaukat-e-Islam 247, 251–57 Zaheer, Sajjad 37 Zaheer-ud-din v The State 298, 299, 303 Zahra, Fatima 410, 412, 420, 421 zakat 471 zakirah 22, 401, 402, 409, 410, 413, 414, 424, 425 Zebtun workers 220 Zindannama 44 Zionism 345, 355, 360, 362; Judaism 20; movement 348 ziyârat chant 406