by Dr Masooda Bano
Prime Minister Gilani has acted wisely to help reduce the tension between the judiciary and President Zardari. The government has given in to the demands of the judiciary and has conceded that senior judges should be appointed in accordance with the advice of the chief justice. The hype that resulted from President Zardari’s sudden move on Saturday to appoint senior judges to the Lahore high court in direct confrontation with the Supreme Court, as well as the responses from the oppositions both indicate display of irresponsible behaviour. It is still less than two years that political parties came back to power after eight years of Musharraf rule but it is clear that they are already forgetting the lessons as well as their pledges.
If there was one good outcome towards the end of Musharraf rule, it was the growing recognition within the political parties that they need to stand together if they are to consolidate democracy in the country. The Charter of Democracy signed by the two main parties, the PPP and the PML-N, pledged to prioritise institutionalisation of the democratic process over pursuit of short-term political interests. They pledges that, rather than undermining each other and siding with the establishment to get one party out of power, they will prefer to give each other a fair chance at running the state affairs and would stand by each other to minimise chances of military take over in future. It is true that it is the PPP, which first deviated from the Charter of Democracy and it is also true that President Zardari soon lost the trust of the opposition and the public by his habitual behaviour of defaulting on major commitments such as reinstatement of the senior judges.
However, to start calling Zardari the biggest threat to democracy, as was done by Nawaz Sharif amid the recent tension between the judiciary and the PPP, is also risky. Taking such a personalised approach to politics will again undermine the political parties as a whole and create justification for another intervention for the military. This for sure will not be a healthy development. President Zardari might be involved in cases of corruption, and might abuse public power, but he can by no means be a bigger threat to democracy in Pakistan than a military general staging a coup. This response of the PML-N to the recent crisis is thus worrying, as it suggests a reversion back to very personalised politics rather than politics of principles.
The Sharif brothers had undoubtedly gained a great deal of public respect in the last period of the Musharraf regime by standing steadfastly with the lawyers in the demand for reinstatement of the senior judges. Even after the 2008 election, Nawaz Sharif definitely stayed committed to many important issues. The party’s decision to withdraw from the coalition government when President Zardari used delaying tactics regarding reinstatement of the judges and repeal of the 17th Amendment all won the party and its leadership popular respect. It is therefore disappointing to see the party slip back to politics of personal vendetta. The Sharif brothers had promised that they have risen above that and the public appreciated them for this. To retain their image of being committed to greater public good, it is important that they refrain from making statements that risk marginalising the political process and give the military an excuse to again disrupt the political process.
As for President Zardari, his erratic behaviour and sudden moves, such as the decision to impose governor’s rule in Punjab at one point or later his attempt to appoint senior judges without consultation of the chief justice, are definitely worrying. They show a tendency for highly irresponsible behaviour, which is driven purely by his personal interests rather than those of the democratic process. This raises questions about his advisors as well as his own credentials. The PPP as a party has completely failed to present a vision of development forget about actually implementing one.
The party and its senior leadership, including President Zardari, indeed need to be put under pressure to deliver to the public. The opposition certainly needs to play a role in that as does the media. However, it is important to build this pressure in a way that creates pressure on the government to deliver rather than creating opportunities for the military to once again disrupt the democratic process. The balance between fighting for democracy and playing into the hands of the military has to carefully worked out.
Friday, February 19, 2010
A promise unfulfilled
by Muhammad Umer
Two years back, the Pakistani nation went to the polls. February 18, 2008, was pregnant with the promise of a future where democracy would resume breathing and public good would be preferred to personal gain. The day also brought the promise of a Pakistan where the rule of law would be respected, corrupt elements culled, economy put back on the right track and quality health care and education ensured. Not that people were expecting a paradise overnight but change was in the air. Hope feeds on pragmatism. Such is the nature of hope.
And the hope for change was not without reason. The people had seen several key changes in the past year, all of which were born out of a civil society movement spearheaded by lawyers and later joined by some political parties for the restoration of judges sacked in March 2007 by then army chief and president Musharraf. It was because of that movement that Musharraf doffed his military uniform, lifted the emergency rule he had imposed on the country on November 3, 2007, and allowed Benazir Bhutto and Nawaz Sharif to return from exile. As the February general election drew closer, the nation saw in it a chance to rid itself of a military dictator who had stolen from it as well as from democracy well-nigh a decade. The signing of a Charter of Democracy by Bhutto and Sharif, the archrivals of the 1990s, in 2006 had also given the impression that the country’s political leadership had finally come of age.
But things are still as bad — if not worse — as they were two years ago. The government of the PPP, which came to power by riding the wave of sympathy generated by the assassination of Bhutto, has failed to come up to the expectations of the people. It’s a party bent on destroying itself. It has already squandered a golden opportunity to revive its credibility, which was ruined by corruption charges in Bhutto’s two terms in office. President Zardari and his cronies may be shrewd enough to achieve short-term gains, but they are certainly well qualified for failure that is likely to haunt the PPP for years to come. The government’s economic performance is pungently pathetic. Almost every other commercially viable state institution is reporting losses. The country’s foreign debt has swelled past the $50 billion mark. Who will repay all those billions? Certainly not the rulers who appear to have learnt only to borrow, not to repay. Then there is the curse of cartels profiteering and proliferating at the very behest of the government whose primary job it is to ensure fiscal transparency and just distribution of resources. And don’t forget the gift of rental power projects that will make electricity, already a rare commodity in Pakistan, expensive by up to 70 per cent. Price hikes continue to break the backs of the poor as the government’s own statistics of the past two years show that living has become 50 per cent costlier. Who says the PPP leadership has an economic plan?
Zardari never tires of promising to fulfil the mission of his slain wife but he has made a mockery of the Charter of Democracy by reneging on the very promises she had made to the nation through that document. Parliament remains wreathed in the notorious 17th Amendment and reserved for political theatrics. The Supreme Court has passed several landmark judgements, including the one against the NRO, but the government is dragging its feet on implementing them. It even attempted to undermine the authority of the judiciary on February 13 when Zardari rejected the chief justice’s recommendations for the appointment of judges and appointed two judges of his own choice instead.
Two days later, Prime Minister Gilani issued a not-so-veiled threat to the judiciary when he told the National Assembly that the executive order signed by him in March last year for the restoration of the deposed judges needed parliament’s endorsement! Ludicrous he may have sounded, but wasn’t he essentially trying to threaten the judiciary that the executive order could be withdrawn if Zardari and his cronies facing corruption charges were not let off the hook? It was only after the Supreme Court had suspended the president’s notification of the appointment of judges and lawyers took to the streets in protest that the government realised its folly and withdrew the notification.
The country is therefore bleeding from not only terrorism and militancy but also disrespect for institutions and rule of law. It is an irony that in her article “Pakistan on the brink”, published in The Guardian newspaper’s online edition on July 24, 2007, Bhutto had criticised a similar sorry state of affairs in the Musharraf regime. She wrote: “The suppression of democracy in my homeland has had profound institutional consequences; the major infrastructural building blocs of democracy have been weakened, political parties have been marginalised, NGOs dismantled, judges sacked and civil society undermined.” But now her own party seems to be doing the very things that are inimical to democracy.
The government may have averted a disaster on the issue of judicial appointments, but pressure is growing on Gilani to achieve an uphill task – to help Zardari and his myrmidons stay in power. So we have a president, a prime minister and their ministers who are willing to do anything to cling on to power even if that requires bringing down the whole democratic system. To describe their situation, let me borrow a few words from Sir Walter Scot’s novel Kenilworth: “…he has the more need to have those about him who are unscrupulous in his service, and who, because they know that his fall will overwhelm and crush them, must wager both blood and brain, soul and body, in order to keep him aloft.”
What conclusions should we draw from this mess? That democracy doesn’t deliver and we had better be content with dictatorship? Not at all. Dictatorship has been a hemlock which has so badly stunted the growth of the plant of democracy that it would require a sustained and careful nurturing to be able to flourish on its own. We also need to broaden the concept of democracy in the context of Pakistan where it has come to mean merely elections and assemblies. The democracy we have seen so far is political democracy and that too is very limited. We need to move beyond it. We must introduce social democracy which is incomplete without a culture of tolerance and constructive criticism and economic democracy which advocates a society with equal employment opportunities and a just distribution of resources as its hallmarks. Political parties which fail to convince the electorate of the soundness of their economic plans must not be voted into parliament.
But before we reach that stage, we need to get to grips with the current mess. Opposition leader Nawaz Sharif has finally spoken against the government’s onslaught on the judiciary and its bad governance, calling Zardari as the biggest threat to democracy. We may expect some protests and an intense blame game between the PML-N and the PPP in the days to come, but Sharif’s party is too risk-calculating to go for any radical movement. It’s high time the people, especially the civil society, took the initiative to steer the course of things in a direction that will benefit the cause of democracy. They can no longer afford to remain indifferent to the ongoing political process. Their active participation in this process can make all the difference. They must act first to decide their own future before the ruling elite steals even this opportunity from them.
Two years back, the Pakistani nation went to the polls. February 18, 2008, was pregnant with the promise of a future where democracy would resume breathing and public good would be preferred to personal gain. The day also brought the promise of a Pakistan where the rule of law would be respected, corrupt elements culled, economy put back on the right track and quality health care and education ensured. Not that people were expecting a paradise overnight but change was in the air. Hope feeds on pragmatism. Such is the nature of hope.
And the hope for change was not without reason. The people had seen several key changes in the past year, all of which were born out of a civil society movement spearheaded by lawyers and later joined by some political parties for the restoration of judges sacked in March 2007 by then army chief and president Musharraf. It was because of that movement that Musharraf doffed his military uniform, lifted the emergency rule he had imposed on the country on November 3, 2007, and allowed Benazir Bhutto and Nawaz Sharif to return from exile. As the February general election drew closer, the nation saw in it a chance to rid itself of a military dictator who had stolen from it as well as from democracy well-nigh a decade. The signing of a Charter of Democracy by Bhutto and Sharif, the archrivals of the 1990s, in 2006 had also given the impression that the country’s political leadership had finally come of age.
But things are still as bad — if not worse — as they were two years ago. The government of the PPP, which came to power by riding the wave of sympathy generated by the assassination of Bhutto, has failed to come up to the expectations of the people. It’s a party bent on destroying itself. It has already squandered a golden opportunity to revive its credibility, which was ruined by corruption charges in Bhutto’s two terms in office. President Zardari and his cronies may be shrewd enough to achieve short-term gains, but they are certainly well qualified for failure that is likely to haunt the PPP for years to come. The government’s economic performance is pungently pathetic. Almost every other commercially viable state institution is reporting losses. The country’s foreign debt has swelled past the $50 billion mark. Who will repay all those billions? Certainly not the rulers who appear to have learnt only to borrow, not to repay. Then there is the curse of cartels profiteering and proliferating at the very behest of the government whose primary job it is to ensure fiscal transparency and just distribution of resources. And don’t forget the gift of rental power projects that will make electricity, already a rare commodity in Pakistan, expensive by up to 70 per cent. Price hikes continue to break the backs of the poor as the government’s own statistics of the past two years show that living has become 50 per cent costlier. Who says the PPP leadership has an economic plan?
Zardari never tires of promising to fulfil the mission of his slain wife but he has made a mockery of the Charter of Democracy by reneging on the very promises she had made to the nation through that document. Parliament remains wreathed in the notorious 17th Amendment and reserved for political theatrics. The Supreme Court has passed several landmark judgements, including the one against the NRO, but the government is dragging its feet on implementing them. It even attempted to undermine the authority of the judiciary on February 13 when Zardari rejected the chief justice’s recommendations for the appointment of judges and appointed two judges of his own choice instead.
Two days later, Prime Minister Gilani issued a not-so-veiled threat to the judiciary when he told the National Assembly that the executive order signed by him in March last year for the restoration of the deposed judges needed parliament’s endorsement! Ludicrous he may have sounded, but wasn’t he essentially trying to threaten the judiciary that the executive order could be withdrawn if Zardari and his cronies facing corruption charges were not let off the hook? It was only after the Supreme Court had suspended the president’s notification of the appointment of judges and lawyers took to the streets in protest that the government realised its folly and withdrew the notification.
The country is therefore bleeding from not only terrorism and militancy but also disrespect for institutions and rule of law. It is an irony that in her article “Pakistan on the brink”, published in The Guardian newspaper’s online edition on July 24, 2007, Bhutto had criticised a similar sorry state of affairs in the Musharraf regime. She wrote: “The suppression of democracy in my homeland has had profound institutional consequences; the major infrastructural building blocs of democracy have been weakened, political parties have been marginalised, NGOs dismantled, judges sacked and civil society undermined.” But now her own party seems to be doing the very things that are inimical to democracy.
The government may have averted a disaster on the issue of judicial appointments, but pressure is growing on Gilani to achieve an uphill task – to help Zardari and his myrmidons stay in power. So we have a president, a prime minister and their ministers who are willing to do anything to cling on to power even if that requires bringing down the whole democratic system. To describe their situation, let me borrow a few words from Sir Walter Scot’s novel Kenilworth: “…he has the more need to have those about him who are unscrupulous in his service, and who, because they know that his fall will overwhelm and crush them, must wager both blood and brain, soul and body, in order to keep him aloft.”
What conclusions should we draw from this mess? That democracy doesn’t deliver and we had better be content with dictatorship? Not at all. Dictatorship has been a hemlock which has so badly stunted the growth of the plant of democracy that it would require a sustained and careful nurturing to be able to flourish on its own. We also need to broaden the concept of democracy in the context of Pakistan where it has come to mean merely elections and assemblies. The democracy we have seen so far is political democracy and that too is very limited. We need to move beyond it. We must introduce social democracy which is incomplete without a culture of tolerance and constructive criticism and economic democracy which advocates a society with equal employment opportunities and a just distribution of resources as its hallmarks. Political parties which fail to convince the electorate of the soundness of their economic plans must not be voted into parliament.
But before we reach that stage, we need to get to grips with the current mess. Opposition leader Nawaz Sharif has finally spoken against the government’s onslaught on the judiciary and its bad governance, calling Zardari as the biggest threat to democracy. We may expect some protests and an intense blame game between the PML-N and the PPP in the days to come, but Sharif’s party is too risk-calculating to go for any radical movement. It’s high time the people, especially the civil society, took the initiative to steer the course of things in a direction that will benefit the cause of democracy. They can no longer afford to remain indifferent to the ongoing political process. Their active participation in this process can make all the difference. They must act first to decide their own future before the ruling elite steals even this opportunity from them.
The Lahore that was
by Dr Muzaffar Iqbal
“He sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammah on her brick platform opposite the old Ajaib-Ghar–the Wonder House, as the natives call the Lahore Museum. Who holds Zam-Zammah, that ‘fire-breathing dragon,’ holds the Punjab, for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conqueror’s loot.”
–Rudyard Kipling, Kim
All I wanted to do was go to the northern-most building of the Old Campus of the Punjab University, the so-called largest and the oldest seat of higher learning in Pakistan, established in 1882 by none other than our good old colonial masters–gentlemen from the British East India Company, who came as beggars of trade concessions and left as despotic rulers of a vast and uncontrollable subcontinent–in front of the Zamzama gun made famous by Rudyard Kipling. I just wanted to go to that building, which used to be my first home (certainly not second) during 1971-76, and sit in the quietness of its lawn on a certain bench and gaze at the old Bodhi tree in front of what used to be the Institute of Chemistry in those days, because that tree had a magic spell on me the very first time I saw it in the heat of the summer of 1971.
Even the thought of just being able to sit on that bench in the lawn, where I used to spend hours with friends discussing all things under the sun, was soothing. But, when I finally finished my errands in the area, I found myself at the back of the University and that added the additional attraction of being able to walk by the old library building–the General Library of the Old Campus–whose numerous shelves are still etched in my memory with all the books they used to hold in the semi-darkness of the large hall and its surrounding rooms. Looking at the red building with a certain sense of nostalgia, I was about to enter the brick-laden path from the metal gate when I had to confront, one more time, the rude awakening call of visiting Pakistan in 2010: the guards at the entrance wanted to know why I was going in the public building that used to be my first home and which was now filled with hundreds of students of a new generation whom I could see from the gate but who were unaware of the little discussion now in rapid progress at the entrance.
When he finally comprehended the purpose of my visit, the guard at the gate had to call his supervisor, who asked me the same questions, and who then went back to seek permission from some higher authority, someone who happened to be in a meeting at the time, but the supervisor let me go through the narrow opening of the gate, without further investigation. Once on the brick-laden wide path at the back of the library, I quickly walked toward the old café, our one-time haunt, now populated by another generation. The familiar trees, the left-over remains of the old memories, the old majestic buildings with their colonial trappings, the high ceilings of the hallways, a new masjid under construction on the site of the old registrar’s office, the small single-storey which used to be the university bookstore now being used for some other purpose, the still recognisable bus stop with the blue university buses ready to go to the New Campus, and beyond the metal gates, the Ajaib Ghar, the House of Wonders as Kipling would have us natives call it.
When I finally reached the desired building, now taken over by the College of Pharmacy, and entered the lawn where I wanted to sit quietly, two gentlemen arrived from nowhere and asked why I was sitting there. I was not ready for them as I was still recovering from the shock of the disappearance of my favorite Bodhi tree, which had been ruthlessly cut down from its rightful place where it had stood for over a century. When they were satisfied that I was not going to blow myself or anyone else, one of them attached himself to me “to show me the building,” whose every brick I knew. It took considerable effort to finally get rid of my self-appointed tour guide and only then I was able to take in all the changes in one big sweep: the natural wood staircase banister, which used to have a soothing affect in the semi-darkness of the hallway leading to the library, was now painted over in cheap yellow shade, the hallways were randomly filled with Iqbal’s portraits, the old chemistry laboratory still had the same Bunsen burners and the same glass acid bottles which used to be there some thirty years ago. This laboratory, where I did research for my Master’s thesis, and which used to have a metal plate on the door indicating that it was the laboratory of a British chemist, whose name I now forget, who later won the Noble Prize, was now the office of a professor.
I went out to the back of the building from the hallway close to my old laboratory to the small open area adjacent to another historic institution of the city: the Government College. I looked back on the high windows of what used to be my laboratory and saw two pigeons perched on the window-sill, just as they had remained sitting there in my memory all these thirty years.
“He sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammah on her brick platform opposite the old Ajaib-Ghar–the Wonder House, as the natives call the Lahore Museum. Who holds Zam-Zammah, that ‘fire-breathing dragon,’ holds the Punjab, for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conqueror’s loot.”
–Rudyard Kipling, Kim
All I wanted to do was go to the northern-most building of the Old Campus of the Punjab University, the so-called largest and the oldest seat of higher learning in Pakistan, established in 1882 by none other than our good old colonial masters–gentlemen from the British East India Company, who came as beggars of trade concessions and left as despotic rulers of a vast and uncontrollable subcontinent–in front of the Zamzama gun made famous by Rudyard Kipling. I just wanted to go to that building, which used to be my first home (certainly not second) during 1971-76, and sit in the quietness of its lawn on a certain bench and gaze at the old Bodhi tree in front of what used to be the Institute of Chemistry in those days, because that tree had a magic spell on me the very first time I saw it in the heat of the summer of 1971.
Even the thought of just being able to sit on that bench in the lawn, where I used to spend hours with friends discussing all things under the sun, was soothing. But, when I finally finished my errands in the area, I found myself at the back of the University and that added the additional attraction of being able to walk by the old library building–the General Library of the Old Campus–whose numerous shelves are still etched in my memory with all the books they used to hold in the semi-darkness of the large hall and its surrounding rooms. Looking at the red building with a certain sense of nostalgia, I was about to enter the brick-laden path from the metal gate when I had to confront, one more time, the rude awakening call of visiting Pakistan in 2010: the guards at the entrance wanted to know why I was going in the public building that used to be my first home and which was now filled with hundreds of students of a new generation whom I could see from the gate but who were unaware of the little discussion now in rapid progress at the entrance.
When he finally comprehended the purpose of my visit, the guard at the gate had to call his supervisor, who asked me the same questions, and who then went back to seek permission from some higher authority, someone who happened to be in a meeting at the time, but the supervisor let me go through the narrow opening of the gate, without further investigation. Once on the brick-laden wide path at the back of the library, I quickly walked toward the old café, our one-time haunt, now populated by another generation. The familiar trees, the left-over remains of the old memories, the old majestic buildings with their colonial trappings, the high ceilings of the hallways, a new masjid under construction on the site of the old registrar’s office, the small single-storey which used to be the university bookstore now being used for some other purpose, the still recognisable bus stop with the blue university buses ready to go to the New Campus, and beyond the metal gates, the Ajaib Ghar, the House of Wonders as Kipling would have us natives call it.
When I finally reached the desired building, now taken over by the College of Pharmacy, and entered the lawn where I wanted to sit quietly, two gentlemen arrived from nowhere and asked why I was sitting there. I was not ready for them as I was still recovering from the shock of the disappearance of my favorite Bodhi tree, which had been ruthlessly cut down from its rightful place where it had stood for over a century. When they were satisfied that I was not going to blow myself or anyone else, one of them attached himself to me “to show me the building,” whose every brick I knew. It took considerable effort to finally get rid of my self-appointed tour guide and only then I was able to take in all the changes in one big sweep: the natural wood staircase banister, which used to have a soothing affect in the semi-darkness of the hallway leading to the library, was now painted over in cheap yellow shade, the hallways were randomly filled with Iqbal’s portraits, the old chemistry laboratory still had the same Bunsen burners and the same glass acid bottles which used to be there some thirty years ago. This laboratory, where I did research for my Master’s thesis, and which used to have a metal plate on the door indicating that it was the laboratory of a British chemist, whose name I now forget, who later won the Noble Prize, was now the office of a professor.
I went out to the back of the building from the hallway close to my old laboratory to the small open area adjacent to another historic institution of the city: the Government College. I looked back on the high windows of what used to be my laboratory and saw two pigeons perched on the window-sill, just as they had remained sitting there in my memory all these thirty years.
The Lahore that was
by Dr Muzaffar Iqbal
“He sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammah on her brick platform opposite the old Ajaib-Ghar–the Wonder House, as the natives call the Lahore Museum. Who holds Zam-Zammah, that ‘fire-breathing dragon,’ holds the Punjab, for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conqueror’s loot.”
–Rudyard Kipling, Kim
All I wanted to do was go to the northern-most building of the Old Campus of the Punjab University, the so-called largest and the oldest seat of higher learning in Pakistan, established in 1882 by none other than our good old colonial masters–gentlemen from the British East India Company, who came as beggars of trade concessions and left as despotic rulers of a vast and uncontrollable subcontinent–in front of the Zamzama gun made famous by Rudyard Kipling. I just wanted to go to that building, which used to be my first home (certainly not second) during 1971-76, and sit in the quietness of its lawn on a certain bench and gaze at the old Bodhi tree in front of what used to be the Institute of Chemistry in those days, because that tree had a magic spell on me the very first time I saw it in the heat of the summer of 1971.
Even the thought of just being able to sit on that bench in the lawn, where I used to spend hours with friends discussing all things under the sun, was soothing. But, when I finally finished my errands in the area, I found myself at the back of the University and that added the additional attraction of being able to walk by the old library building–the General Library of the Old Campus–whose numerous shelves are still etched in my memory with all the books they used to hold in the semi-darkness of the large hall and its surrounding rooms. Looking at the red building with a certain sense of nostalgia, I was about to enter the brick-laden path from the metal gate when I had to confront, one more time, the rude awakening call of visiting Pakistan in 2010: the guards at the entrance wanted to know why I was going in the public building that used to be my first home and which was now filled with hundreds of students of a new generation whom I could see from the gate but who were unaware of the little discussion now in rapid progress at the entrance.
When he finally comprehended the purpose of my visit, the guard at the gate had to call his supervisor, who asked me the same questions, and who then went back to seek permission from some higher authority, someone who happened to be in a meeting at the time, but the supervisor let me go through the narrow opening of the gate, without further investigation. Once on the brick-laden wide path at the back of the library, I quickly walked toward the old café, our one-time haunt, now populated by another generation. The familiar trees, the left-over remains of the old memories, the old majestic buildings with their colonial trappings, the high ceilings of the hallways, a new masjid under construction on the site of the old registrar’s office, the small single-storey which used to be the university bookstore now being used for some other purpose, the still recognisable bus stop with the blue university buses ready to go to the New Campus, and beyond the metal gates, the Ajaib Ghar, the House of Wonders as Kipling would have us natives call it.
When I finally reached the desired building, now taken over by the College of Pharmacy, and entered the lawn where I wanted to sit quietly, two gentlemen arrived from nowhere and asked why I was sitting there. I was not ready for them as I was still recovering from the shock of the disappearance of my favorite Bodhi tree, which had been ruthlessly cut down from its rightful place where it had stood for over a century. When they were satisfied that I was not going to blow myself or anyone else, one of them attached himself to me “to show me the building,” whose every brick I knew. It took considerable effort to finally get rid of my self-appointed tour guide and only then I was able to take in all the changes in one big sweep: the natural wood staircase banister, which used to have a soothing affect in the semi-darkness of the hallway leading to the library, was now painted over in cheap yellow shade, the hallways were randomly filled with Iqbal’s portraits, the old chemistry laboratory still had the same Bunsen burners and the same glass acid bottles which used to be there some thirty years ago. This laboratory, where I did research for my Master’s thesis, and which used to have a metal plate on the door indicating that it was the laboratory of a British chemist, whose name I now forget, who later won the Noble Prize, was now the office of a professor.
I went out to the back of the building from the hallway close to my old laboratory to the small open area adjacent to another historic institution of the city: the Government College. I looked back on the high windows of what used to be my laboratory and saw two pigeons perched on the window-sill, just as they had remained sitting there in my memory all these thirty years.
“He sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammah on her brick platform opposite the old Ajaib-Ghar–the Wonder House, as the natives call the Lahore Museum. Who holds Zam-Zammah, that ‘fire-breathing dragon,’ holds the Punjab, for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conqueror’s loot.”
–Rudyard Kipling, Kim
All I wanted to do was go to the northern-most building of the Old Campus of the Punjab University, the so-called largest and the oldest seat of higher learning in Pakistan, established in 1882 by none other than our good old colonial masters–gentlemen from the British East India Company, who came as beggars of trade concessions and left as despotic rulers of a vast and uncontrollable subcontinent–in front of the Zamzama gun made famous by Rudyard Kipling. I just wanted to go to that building, which used to be my first home (certainly not second) during 1971-76, and sit in the quietness of its lawn on a certain bench and gaze at the old Bodhi tree in front of what used to be the Institute of Chemistry in those days, because that tree had a magic spell on me the very first time I saw it in the heat of the summer of 1971.
Even the thought of just being able to sit on that bench in the lawn, where I used to spend hours with friends discussing all things under the sun, was soothing. But, when I finally finished my errands in the area, I found myself at the back of the University and that added the additional attraction of being able to walk by the old library building–the General Library of the Old Campus–whose numerous shelves are still etched in my memory with all the books they used to hold in the semi-darkness of the large hall and its surrounding rooms. Looking at the red building with a certain sense of nostalgia, I was about to enter the brick-laden path from the metal gate when I had to confront, one more time, the rude awakening call of visiting Pakistan in 2010: the guards at the entrance wanted to know why I was going in the public building that used to be my first home and which was now filled with hundreds of students of a new generation whom I could see from the gate but who were unaware of the little discussion now in rapid progress at the entrance.
When he finally comprehended the purpose of my visit, the guard at the gate had to call his supervisor, who asked me the same questions, and who then went back to seek permission from some higher authority, someone who happened to be in a meeting at the time, but the supervisor let me go through the narrow opening of the gate, without further investigation. Once on the brick-laden wide path at the back of the library, I quickly walked toward the old café, our one-time haunt, now populated by another generation. The familiar trees, the left-over remains of the old memories, the old majestic buildings with their colonial trappings, the high ceilings of the hallways, a new masjid under construction on the site of the old registrar’s office, the small single-storey which used to be the university bookstore now being used for some other purpose, the still recognisable bus stop with the blue university buses ready to go to the New Campus, and beyond the metal gates, the Ajaib Ghar, the House of Wonders as Kipling would have us natives call it.
When I finally reached the desired building, now taken over by the College of Pharmacy, and entered the lawn where I wanted to sit quietly, two gentlemen arrived from nowhere and asked why I was sitting there. I was not ready for them as I was still recovering from the shock of the disappearance of my favorite Bodhi tree, which had been ruthlessly cut down from its rightful place where it had stood for over a century. When they were satisfied that I was not going to blow myself or anyone else, one of them attached himself to me “to show me the building,” whose every brick I knew. It took considerable effort to finally get rid of my self-appointed tour guide and only then I was able to take in all the changes in one big sweep: the natural wood staircase banister, which used to have a soothing affect in the semi-darkness of the hallway leading to the library, was now painted over in cheap yellow shade, the hallways were randomly filled with Iqbal’s portraits, the old chemistry laboratory still had the same Bunsen burners and the same glass acid bottles which used to be there some thirty years ago. This laboratory, where I did research for my Master’s thesis, and which used to have a metal plate on the door indicating that it was the laboratory of a British chemist, whose name I now forget, who later won the Noble Prize, was now the office of a professor.
I went out to the back of the building from the hallway close to my old laboratory to the small open area adjacent to another historic institution of the city: the Government College. I looked back on the high windows of what used to be my laboratory and saw two pigeons perched on the window-sill, just as they had remained sitting there in my memory all these thirty years.
The latest climb-down and related matters
by Ayaz Amir
Incompetence of this high order may not be against the laws of nature. It is certainly against all known laws of politics. The credibility of this government was already poor. Now after this latest debacle over the appointment of judges it stands shot through and through. Its word already carried little weight. Who will believe it now?
Just days ago Prime Minister Yusuf Gilani had shown a touch of steel while speaking in the National Assembly, injecting thereby a spark of life into a virtually demoralised and lost party. But all in vain because his defiance was tied to a lost cause: the appointment of judges. Differences of interpretation there may be on this score but the bulk of legal opinion maintains that in this regard the final word is that of My Lord the Chief Justice.
A climb-down from the high position the government had taken was thus inevitable. But it is the manner of the climb-down — akin more to capitulation — which is likely to exact a heavy political price in days to come. Even on the one point where the government could have stood its ground — Justice Ramday’s ad hoc re-appointment — it has beaten a retreat. If extensions are not a good thing — there being a near-consensus in the country that we are better off without them — the Chief Justice could pertinently have been asked why Justice Ramday was so indispensable.
But by Wednesday afternoon when the CJ came calling on the PM — in itself an unusual event — any notion of standing up to anyone or for anything seemed to have deserted the PM, defiance transformed, almost miraculously, into all-out conciliation. Speaking in the National Assembly that evening, the PM was a subdued man, like someone roughly chastened by the hand of immediate experience.
Right from the start questions were asked about this government’s capacity and competence. In the wake of this latest debacle they are bound to intensify. It is not that conciliation should not have been attempted. But why the necessity in the first place to get into a mess from which the only way out was abject surrender?
Reinforcing folly is no good thing. This mantra every army recites. But self-created folly, that too repeatedly, inevitably raises questions about one’s ability and understanding.
Starry-eyed souls, no doubt clutching at straws, had convinced themselves that the PM’s stature had risen in recent days, especially when set against the ineptitude radiating from the Presidency. Alas for short-lived hopes. After this spectacular climb-down Gilani stands reduced to his original size. And it’s going to remain like this, politics being a cruel business where blown credibility is never easy to restore.
But Gillani has had his moment in the sun. Two years is about the average span of Pakistani prime ministers and he will soon be completing two years in office. What more can he have hoped for?
To his credit, he hasn’t been a Farooq Leghari to Zardari, standing staunchly by his benefactor in the storm unleashed by the NRO judgment. But standing by Zardari, because of the baggage he carries and the reputation for unrivalled skill in high financial matters he holds, is an impossible undertaking. Angels would have failed in this endeavour. How could a mere mortal have succeeded?
Any hopes of this government changing its stripes or reforming itself must now be buried. President Zardari has proved many things, none more conclusively the notion that he is incapable of change. In his praise it is said he is loyal to his friends. His record shows he is also loyal to his failings. His reputation, as mentioned above, is testimony to his skill in matters of high, and arcane, finance. But his ineptitude for government stands fully exposed.
Last February he had set out to conquer Punjab when taking advantage of Chief Minister Shahbaz Sharif’s unseating at the hands of the Dogar judiciary he imposed governor’s rule in the province. We know how that adventure ended. It might have been supposed that proper lessons had been learnt. But this February, almost as if to commemorate the memory of last year’s discomfiture, we saw a fresh adventure unfolding: this time an attempt to take on the Supreme Court, with what results we all know.
On many counts Zardari is a lucky man. Only luck could have brought him thus far. Only luck explains his rise to the presidency, no small matter even in a third world country. But his luck seems to be wearing thin. He is now in waters too deep for him and how long he manages to remain afloat is now a matter of intense speculation.
We know his legal advisers, faces virtually, all of them, out of a rogues’ gallery. Will they face any music? Not likely, given the President’s loyalty to his acolytes. Which almost makes this a Greek tragedy. You know where certain things will lead. But you cannot escape their shadow.
It wouldn’t much matter if this were just a personal tragedy. But this is also tragedy for the nation. We know the President’s proclivities, his strengths and weaknesses and where he comes from. But we are prisoners of the dynamics which have brought him to his present position. It was Hugo who said there was nothing worse than an incurable destiny.
Turning to related matters, Iftikhar Chaudry is already the most unusual Chief Justice in our history. Other high jurists have stood up to military dictators but for all their rectitude and adherence to principle they fell by the wayside and their names are only dimly remembered. Chaudry is one high judge who stood up to a dictator and not only survived to tell the tale but has been twice restored to his position. Which makes him the Pakistani Muhammad Ali. Ali won his heavyweight crown thrice. So it has been with My Lord the CJ.
In the museum of his triumphs hang many trophies, the Zardari/Gilani climb-down the latest in the list. He has still much to do and the way ahead is long and, given our national troubles, full of pitfalls. But the responsibility on his shoulders relates as much to what he should do as to what he should refrain from doing.
A fount of justice and hope for the deprived and downtrodden he must remain, and officialdom must continue to quake at the prospect of being summoned in his presence. He must remain a friend of the environment and of trees (about the most threatened things in our Republic) as he has always been. Of all wrong-doers, no matter how highly placed, he must remain the scourge.
But the time may also have come for a slave, even if an invisible one, to stand by his side and whisper into his ear, according to the Roman custom, “Remember, Caesar, thou art mortal.” Power and popular acclaim can go to anyone’s head: general, popular demagogue or even a judge. If there was a time, as his critics maintain, when he had a weakness for publicity, he is now far above the need for publicity to prop up his self-esteem. Through courage and grit, he has already carved out a unique place for himself.
One of the hallmarks of greatness is the ability to concentrate on the essential and ignore or do away with the non-essential. There are important matters before the superior courts. They should concentrate on those. It should be none of their business to fix the price of sugar or petroleum products. If the judiciary’s is to be the last word as regards judicial appointments, does it not follow that the executive authority’s word should be the final word as far as higher bureaucratic appointments are concerned? To each its own. That is the principle on which a federation runs.
It might also help to take to heart Bacon’s admonition, in his essay ‘Of Judicature’: “Judges ought to remember that their office is…to interpret law, and not to make law or give law: else will it be like the Authority claimed by the Church of Rome…” There is also much to be said for the related caveat: “An over-speaking judge is no well tuned cymbal.”
Incompetence of this high order may not be against the laws of nature. It is certainly against all known laws of politics. The credibility of this government was already poor. Now after this latest debacle over the appointment of judges it stands shot through and through. Its word already carried little weight. Who will believe it now?
Just days ago Prime Minister Yusuf Gilani had shown a touch of steel while speaking in the National Assembly, injecting thereby a spark of life into a virtually demoralised and lost party. But all in vain because his defiance was tied to a lost cause: the appointment of judges. Differences of interpretation there may be on this score but the bulk of legal opinion maintains that in this regard the final word is that of My Lord the Chief Justice.
A climb-down from the high position the government had taken was thus inevitable. But it is the manner of the climb-down — akin more to capitulation — which is likely to exact a heavy political price in days to come. Even on the one point where the government could have stood its ground — Justice Ramday’s ad hoc re-appointment — it has beaten a retreat. If extensions are not a good thing — there being a near-consensus in the country that we are better off without them — the Chief Justice could pertinently have been asked why Justice Ramday was so indispensable.
But by Wednesday afternoon when the CJ came calling on the PM — in itself an unusual event — any notion of standing up to anyone or for anything seemed to have deserted the PM, defiance transformed, almost miraculously, into all-out conciliation. Speaking in the National Assembly that evening, the PM was a subdued man, like someone roughly chastened by the hand of immediate experience.
Right from the start questions were asked about this government’s capacity and competence. In the wake of this latest debacle they are bound to intensify. It is not that conciliation should not have been attempted. But why the necessity in the first place to get into a mess from which the only way out was abject surrender?
Reinforcing folly is no good thing. This mantra every army recites. But self-created folly, that too repeatedly, inevitably raises questions about one’s ability and understanding.
Starry-eyed souls, no doubt clutching at straws, had convinced themselves that the PM’s stature had risen in recent days, especially when set against the ineptitude radiating from the Presidency. Alas for short-lived hopes. After this spectacular climb-down Gilani stands reduced to his original size. And it’s going to remain like this, politics being a cruel business where blown credibility is never easy to restore.
But Gillani has had his moment in the sun. Two years is about the average span of Pakistani prime ministers and he will soon be completing two years in office. What more can he have hoped for?
To his credit, he hasn’t been a Farooq Leghari to Zardari, standing staunchly by his benefactor in the storm unleashed by the NRO judgment. But standing by Zardari, because of the baggage he carries and the reputation for unrivalled skill in high financial matters he holds, is an impossible undertaking. Angels would have failed in this endeavour. How could a mere mortal have succeeded?
Any hopes of this government changing its stripes or reforming itself must now be buried. President Zardari has proved many things, none more conclusively the notion that he is incapable of change. In his praise it is said he is loyal to his friends. His record shows he is also loyal to his failings. His reputation, as mentioned above, is testimony to his skill in matters of high, and arcane, finance. But his ineptitude for government stands fully exposed.
Last February he had set out to conquer Punjab when taking advantage of Chief Minister Shahbaz Sharif’s unseating at the hands of the Dogar judiciary he imposed governor’s rule in the province. We know how that adventure ended. It might have been supposed that proper lessons had been learnt. But this February, almost as if to commemorate the memory of last year’s discomfiture, we saw a fresh adventure unfolding: this time an attempt to take on the Supreme Court, with what results we all know.
On many counts Zardari is a lucky man. Only luck could have brought him thus far. Only luck explains his rise to the presidency, no small matter even in a third world country. But his luck seems to be wearing thin. He is now in waters too deep for him and how long he manages to remain afloat is now a matter of intense speculation.
We know his legal advisers, faces virtually, all of them, out of a rogues’ gallery. Will they face any music? Not likely, given the President’s loyalty to his acolytes. Which almost makes this a Greek tragedy. You know where certain things will lead. But you cannot escape their shadow.
It wouldn’t much matter if this were just a personal tragedy. But this is also tragedy for the nation. We know the President’s proclivities, his strengths and weaknesses and where he comes from. But we are prisoners of the dynamics which have brought him to his present position. It was Hugo who said there was nothing worse than an incurable destiny.
Turning to related matters, Iftikhar Chaudry is already the most unusual Chief Justice in our history. Other high jurists have stood up to military dictators but for all their rectitude and adherence to principle they fell by the wayside and their names are only dimly remembered. Chaudry is one high judge who stood up to a dictator and not only survived to tell the tale but has been twice restored to his position. Which makes him the Pakistani Muhammad Ali. Ali won his heavyweight crown thrice. So it has been with My Lord the CJ.
In the museum of his triumphs hang many trophies, the Zardari/Gilani climb-down the latest in the list. He has still much to do and the way ahead is long and, given our national troubles, full of pitfalls. But the responsibility on his shoulders relates as much to what he should do as to what he should refrain from doing.
A fount of justice and hope for the deprived and downtrodden he must remain, and officialdom must continue to quake at the prospect of being summoned in his presence. He must remain a friend of the environment and of trees (about the most threatened things in our Republic) as he has always been. Of all wrong-doers, no matter how highly placed, he must remain the scourge.
But the time may also have come for a slave, even if an invisible one, to stand by his side and whisper into his ear, according to the Roman custom, “Remember, Caesar, thou art mortal.” Power and popular acclaim can go to anyone’s head: general, popular demagogue or even a judge. If there was a time, as his critics maintain, when he had a weakness for publicity, he is now far above the need for publicity to prop up his self-esteem. Through courage and grit, he has already carved out a unique place for himself.
One of the hallmarks of greatness is the ability to concentrate on the essential and ignore or do away with the non-essential. There are important matters before the superior courts. They should concentrate on those. It should be none of their business to fix the price of sugar or petroleum products. If the judiciary’s is to be the last word as regards judicial appointments, does it not follow that the executive authority’s word should be the final word as far as higher bureaucratic appointments are concerned? To each its own. That is the principle on which a federation runs.
It might also help to take to heart Bacon’s admonition, in his essay ‘Of Judicature’: “Judges ought to remember that their office is…to interpret law, and not to make law or give law: else will it be like the Authority claimed by the Church of Rome…” There is also much to be said for the related caveat: “An over-speaking judge is no well tuned cymbal.”
Pakistan’s Jinnah
By Ayesha Siddiqa
Some time ago, I had a chance to read veteran columnist Ardeshir Cowasjee’s article ‘Bring back Jinnah’s Pakistan’ in which he talked about the founding father’s liberal vision for the country.
Mr Cowasjee’s argument was that the state envisioned by Mohammad Ali Jinnah would have been governed by a different set of social norms than the one in place today.
I would like to inform the respectable writer that while he is searching for Jinnah’s Pakistan, we might be threatened with the eventuality of losing Pakistan’s Jinnah.
A journalist friend was recently presented with a historic photograph of the founding father in which he was holding his pups.
I am glad it was given to a friend rather than a foe because there is always the possibility these days that the person presenting the photograph would be accused of being a foreign agent for distributing such photographs of Jinnah.
We shouldn’t be surprised if in a few years’ time we come across a doctored photograph of the founding father in a turban and a beard to prove a certain point.
There are now devious elements who are tinkering with Jinnah — the person — and his narrative. We are being told that all those details which describe the Quaid-i-Azam as a man with western liberal habits are but a conspiracy and a figment of the imagination of enslaved minds.
We are being told that Jinnah never had a lifestyle that might not get the approval of the puritanical-religious crowd in the country. The purpose behind altering details of Jinnah’s personality is the first step towards changing the national narrative.
The next step will be to argue that Jinnah wanted a state where only a certain school of thought could live. Others would have the status of second-class citizens or be shunned, or put in jail for their alternative identity.
But why is a liberal Jinnah unpalatable to these people? Mohammad Ali Jinnah could have hidden his identity as a liberal as he concentrated on the legal case of getting a separate state for the Muslims of India.
He didn’t hide his reality or make an effort to adapt to what the majority of the people followed because in his mind the new state could allow for all creeds, castes and religions.
The Muslims of India had not struggled to move away from the dominance of one culture to the dominance of another. This would be a country where people of different religions could proudly become equal citizens.
In a speech in 1948, Jinnah had said: “We are the inheritors of these glorious traditions and are fully alive to our responsibilities and obligations as framers of the future constitution of Pakistan. In any case Pakistan is not going to be a theocratic state to be ruled by priests with a divine mission.
We have many non-Muslims — Hindus, Christians and Parsis — but they are all Pakistanis. They will enjoy the same rights and privileges as any other citizens and will play their rightful part in the affairs of Pakistan.”
Having access to modern forms of media, these characters seem to be assisted by ‘ghost warriors’ in creating a new national narrative formulated on the basis of a post-modernist agenda.
The country’s survival, hence, does not any longer depend on the struggle of its citizenry to make its political system work, but on establishing an imagined political system which these people guarantee their followers will rid the state of all its evils. Based on puritanical norms, the new political system, which they call the ideal khilafat, can do wonders.
These people are not the Taliban, nor are they even a single bunch of people. There are several layers operating at various levels and in different forms.
There are those that market the traditional religious identity and then there are others who appeal to the secular. Not to forget those who sell high doses of what they term ‘nationalism’ while pursuing a very western, liberal kind of lifestyle.
Very few people realise that the country’s national narrative is being strategically and cunningly reorganised and rewritten. The underlying norm of the new narrative is a puritanical version of religion and history.
In the process, the nation-state is being stretched and society adjusted to meet the challenges of the new version of nationalism.
What goes without saying is that there is probably very little space for those who do not conform to the description of an ‘ideal’ citizen. The description not only extends to those condemned as ‘enemies of the state’ but also others who cannot fall into the category of this description due to their peculiar caste, creed, faith, ethnicity, or other factors.
So, it is with a heavy heart that I would like to inform Mr Cowasjee that the new perimeters of citizenship define a citizen and give him/her rights on the basis of their putative relationship with religion as interpreted by a certain set of people.
This is no longer about a pluralistic state and a multi-polar polity. Therefore, the new narrative makes it imperative for this ‘gang’ of people to kidnap Pakistan’s Jinnah.
Can the honourable columnist and citizen do something about getting the founding father back? Surely, there will be those willing to fight for his recovery or even a pay ransom to do so.
Some time ago, I had a chance to read veteran columnist Ardeshir Cowasjee’s article ‘Bring back Jinnah’s Pakistan’ in which he talked about the founding father’s liberal vision for the country.
Mr Cowasjee’s argument was that the state envisioned by Mohammad Ali Jinnah would have been governed by a different set of social norms than the one in place today.
I would like to inform the respectable writer that while he is searching for Jinnah’s Pakistan, we might be threatened with the eventuality of losing Pakistan’s Jinnah.
A journalist friend was recently presented with a historic photograph of the founding father in which he was holding his pups.
I am glad it was given to a friend rather than a foe because there is always the possibility these days that the person presenting the photograph would be accused of being a foreign agent for distributing such photographs of Jinnah.
We shouldn’t be surprised if in a few years’ time we come across a doctored photograph of the founding father in a turban and a beard to prove a certain point.
There are now devious elements who are tinkering with Jinnah — the person — and his narrative. We are being told that all those details which describe the Quaid-i-Azam as a man with western liberal habits are but a conspiracy and a figment of the imagination of enslaved minds.
We are being told that Jinnah never had a lifestyle that might not get the approval of the puritanical-religious crowd in the country. The purpose behind altering details of Jinnah’s personality is the first step towards changing the national narrative.
The next step will be to argue that Jinnah wanted a state where only a certain school of thought could live. Others would have the status of second-class citizens or be shunned, or put in jail for their alternative identity.
But why is a liberal Jinnah unpalatable to these people? Mohammad Ali Jinnah could have hidden his identity as a liberal as he concentrated on the legal case of getting a separate state for the Muslims of India.
He didn’t hide his reality or make an effort to adapt to what the majority of the people followed because in his mind the new state could allow for all creeds, castes and religions.
The Muslims of India had not struggled to move away from the dominance of one culture to the dominance of another. This would be a country where people of different religions could proudly become equal citizens.
In a speech in 1948, Jinnah had said: “We are the inheritors of these glorious traditions and are fully alive to our responsibilities and obligations as framers of the future constitution of Pakistan. In any case Pakistan is not going to be a theocratic state to be ruled by priests with a divine mission.
We have many non-Muslims — Hindus, Christians and Parsis — but they are all Pakistanis. They will enjoy the same rights and privileges as any other citizens and will play their rightful part in the affairs of Pakistan.”
Having access to modern forms of media, these characters seem to be assisted by ‘ghost warriors’ in creating a new national narrative formulated on the basis of a post-modernist agenda.
The country’s survival, hence, does not any longer depend on the struggle of its citizenry to make its political system work, but on establishing an imagined political system which these people guarantee their followers will rid the state of all its evils. Based on puritanical norms, the new political system, which they call the ideal khilafat, can do wonders.
These people are not the Taliban, nor are they even a single bunch of people. There are several layers operating at various levels and in different forms.
There are those that market the traditional religious identity and then there are others who appeal to the secular. Not to forget those who sell high doses of what they term ‘nationalism’ while pursuing a very western, liberal kind of lifestyle.
Very few people realise that the country’s national narrative is being strategically and cunningly reorganised and rewritten. The underlying norm of the new narrative is a puritanical version of religion and history.
In the process, the nation-state is being stretched and society adjusted to meet the challenges of the new version of nationalism.
What goes without saying is that there is probably very little space for those who do not conform to the description of an ‘ideal’ citizen. The description not only extends to those condemned as ‘enemies of the state’ but also others who cannot fall into the category of this description due to their peculiar caste, creed, faith, ethnicity, or other factors.
So, it is with a heavy heart that I would like to inform Mr Cowasjee that the new perimeters of citizenship define a citizen and give him/her rights on the basis of their putative relationship with religion as interpreted by a certain set of people.
This is no longer about a pluralistic state and a multi-polar polity. Therefore, the new narrative makes it imperative for this ‘gang’ of people to kidnap Pakistan’s Jinnah.
Can the honourable columnist and citizen do something about getting the founding father back? Surely, there will be those willing to fight for his recovery or even a pay ransom to do so.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Morality and atheism
by Irfan Husain
Consider this demographic projection for the UK, and ponder its implications for a moment: within five years, the majority of babies will be born to unmarried parents.
However, before you put this down to yet another example of Western immorality, just remember that all these babies will have the same legal rights as those born to married couples.
This trend is part of the wider decline of marriage as an institution. According to a recent study, the figures for people getting married in Britain is at its lowest ever since these statistics began to be compiled nearly 150 years ago.
In 2008, only 21.8 per thousand adult men of marriageable age actually took the vow. At 19.6, the figure for women was even lower. And the average age for men getting married for the first time was 32, and for women it was nearly 30.
These figures reveal not so much disillusionment with the institution of marriage, as much as they do a widespread rejection of religion.
Church marriages are still favoured by the middle classes, but more for the pomp and glamour of the wedding dress worn by the bride, and the finery sported by the guests. Indeed, attendance for church services has fallen steadily, and most Brits only go to church for weddings and funerals.
A glance at the European table reveals that the belief in a god is generally quite low in all the major countries.
Sweden, with only 23 per cent of the population believing in a deity, is the least observant, with the UK at 38 per cent. Germany and France are similarly atheistic or agnostic. Interestingly, Catholic countries seem to be more staunchly Christian, with Poles, Spaniards and Italians being among the most fervent of believers.
Indeed, a lack of belief in a supreme being has long been the hallmark of Western intellectual thought since the Enlightenment of the 18th century.
Hence, lawmakers have tried to separate religion form politics, few more so than the Founding Fathers of the United States. Both Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin were fiercely agnostic in their views.
Scientists, too, have tended to question the belief system they were born into, as revealed by this quotation from Albert Einstein: “Science has been charged with undermining morality, but the charge is unjust. A man’s ethical behaviour should be based on sympathy, education and social ties and needs; no religious basis is necessary. Man would indeed be in a poor way if he had to be restrained by fear of punishment and hope of reward after death.”
Many have condemned modern Western civilization for its ‘godless’ ways, pointing to widespread cohabitation between men and women, men and men, and women and women. Alcoholism, nudity and drug-abuse are also frequently cited.
All these lifestyle choices are mentioned in arguments over the superiority of Eastern religions and societies. Yet the firm belief in religion and an afterlife in our part of the world do not necessarily translate into better societies.
In the Transparency International table for global perceptions of corruption for 2009, there is not a single Muslim country in the twenty most honest states. However, seven Muslim countries figure among the ten most corrupt states.
Interestingly, Sweden, the most godless state in Europe, comes in at joint third with Singapore as the least corrupt country in the world.
There is an argument that corruption is a function of poverty, and once societies have acquired a measure of economic well-being, they tend to become more honest and accountable. While there is some truth to this assertion, how to explain the fact that Saudi Arabia, one of the richest countries in the world, is listed as 63rd by TI?
And Kuwait comes in at 68. Clearly, then, there is little direct linkage between religion and morality.
Nevertheless, billions around the world continue to believe deeply in the faith they have grown up in. They derive comfort from following the belief system of their forefathers, and most of them have never felt the need to question it.
Indeed, the poor obtain solace for their wretched condition with the promise of compensation in the afterlife. And the rich in our part of the world try and assuage their guilt by giving alms generously, thereby hoping to buy a place in heaven. If only they would pay their taxes with the same zeal, we might be able to make a better world in this life.
In religiously inclined societies like Pakistan, we are fond of criticising Western materialism, while holding up our supposed spirituality as being superior.
Even the millions of Muslims who have chosen to migrate to the West make the same assertion. However, I have not noticed any of these people denying themselves the conveniences and the advantages of these same ‘materialistic’ societies. And frankly, I do not see too much evidence of our vaunted ‘spirituality’ in our behaviour or attitudes.
These differences have been sharpened after 9/11, with more and more people in the West now seeing Islam and Muslims as being behind the rise in extremist violence in much of the world. Muslims, for their part, see themselves as victims of a rising Islamophobia.
Interestingly, the trend towards atheism and agnosticism is far less marked in the United States than in Europe. Well below five per cent of Americans assert they do not believe in any god.
Indeed, some Evangelical Christians in America think they have more in common with Muslims than the ‘godless Europeans’.
One reason it is so difficult for many Muslims to become assimilated into the societies they have chosen to live in is the huge cultural differences they encounter.
Generally coming from deeply conservative backgrounds, they are shocked with the free and easy lifestyle they encounter.
Rather than encouraging their children to integrate, they seek to insulate them from Western values, thus causing a state of mild schizophrenia in second- generation immigrants.
Some of these young people become quickly radicalised, and seek clarity in the black-and-white world of religious extremism.
Unfortunately, too many of them lack the education to realise that ultimately, no set of beliefs or values is inherently inferior or superior to another.
Morality, as we have seen, is not the monopoly of any faith: an atheist can be more ethical than a religious person. At the end of the day, what matters is that humans behave with consideration and decency, and avoid imposing their beliefs on others.
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