“Why can’t we put it behind us, this morbid angst over East Pakistan?” we both wondered. “Pen your thoughts, Samina” he suggested, “I would love to read your take on it”. Misguided encouragement from friends is what got me here, blog-monkey on my back, in the first place and here I sat once again with my neck in the monkey’s stranglehold and my head reeling from that annoying, familiar buzzing sound. It happens when I have conflicting, crisscrossing thoughts about a subject that raises its question-mark-hat wearing head and refuses to vanish into thought-hell forever. 

The debate started with a comment about “the great leader” Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto. “What was great about him?” I asked.  The usual protestation followed; scholarly, international stature, honest, popular, Islamic summit, nuclear capability…and finally “he was a darn sight better than this sorry lot.” Had to agree there; “Even Ali Baba Chaalees Chor would be an improvement over these dakoos” I thought with disgust. But, regardless of the abysmal standards we suffer now, it was my turn to object. “He stole an election!” I reminded, “He didn’t win, Mujibur Rahman did. How was he any different from these thieves?”. Some agreed of course, others continued their harangue along two different theories; it was the Army not Bhutto, and Mujib’s 6-point agenda was anti-state. “Not true!” I contested. “It was the Army AND Bhutto, and Mujib’s demands were not anti-state, simply anti-West Pakistani fascism”.  The conversation was not progressing well.  Disgruntled and disappointed, we looked this way and that, decided to nurse our angst rather than release it, and sulked away into our corners. 

I have arrived at the understanding that two obstacles stand in the way of introspective reconciliation and peace.  In the memorable words of Faiz…

Un se jo kehney gaey the Faiz jaan sadqa kiye

Ankahi he reh gaee woh baat sab baaton ke baad

The truth remains untold; an apology remains untendered. Until the two are addressed, the ache in the nation’s heart about East Pakistan will not diminish.

The 1970 elections were memorable for several reasons. It was the first such national event to be transmitted live by PTV.  From an entertainment perspective, the content and quality were tops, harbinger of future possibilities in mass communication. A charming and talented young girl, Tahira Syed, was launched as were several other promising young Pakistanis exceling in various aspects of the production process, a collective that had already started to lift PTV head and shoulders above its regional counterparts.  I was 9 years old and captivated by 24x7 song and dance entering our living room for a few days. It irritated me that a Runa Laila number would be distastefully stopped to report a winner I didn’t care about, by a vote count I didn’t understand, in a dusty Pakistani town I didn’t know.  Years later I realized that the entire country shared my opinion; music and drama were the real McCoy, election reporting an unnecessary digression.  

Having grown up on martial law, the nation tip toed around the promise of civilian rule and democracy, pretending not to notice. Like an adolescent awakening to adulthood, we were expectant about possibilities but fearful of severing controlling ties. In wisdom and maturity, Pakistan and I were the same age – 9 going on 10.  

Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, erstwhile student leader and freedom fighter in British India, a member of the Quaid’s Muslim League, a highly credible and charismatic Pakistani politician, led his Awami League to an emphatic win with 160 Parliamentary seats against a modest 81 going to PPP and insignificant numbers to lesser parties. Even if Bhutto knitted together a coalition (a trick his daughter had to master years later), he could not beat his East Pakistani nemesis. In a just and fair world, Mujib would have been invited to form government and Bhutto would sit in opposition awaiting the next opportunity to compete. But Mujib’s ethnicity and 6-pointer rankled the establishment, both political and military, and creative delaying tactics were tried to disrupt his support base and break his resistance.  The strategy was shortsighted and proved damning. 

Not long before, my family had returned from a year in Iraq where Abbi and his contingent of combat pilots, amongst them some decorated East Pakistanis, trained their Iraqi counterparts. Now, Abbi was enrolled in PAF Staff College, Drigh Road and was often away from home on study tours.  Ashi was born during one such, to China. Our East Pakistani neighbors, a PAF doctor and his wife, helped Ammi through the process and Auntie Hasina, wife of Uncle AG Mahmud (later Chief of Bangladeshi Air Force) watched over my brothers and I while Ammi brought Ashi into the world. My parents were a popular PAF couple and had many friends. Our world did not prioritize ethnicity or blood relations. Our world was the Pakistan Air Force; everyone within it was family regardless of any other characteristic or definition. 

Then, evil was perpetrated by political leaders who chose to be divisive and military leaders who proved to be incompetent. Bhutto, spoilt child of martial law, ignited suspicion and disharmony while Yahya, modern day Nero, played the fiddle as Rome burnt. Together, they gifted the nation with a slogan so abominable - “Idhar Hum Udhar Tum” – that to this day it threatens our provincial harmony, rendering it threadbare. 

Soon it was 1971 and the wound of mistrust, salted by military heavy-handedness and peppered by political propaganda, festered and burst. 

A highly respected Punjabi Army officer who served in East Pakistan during the war and refused to speak about it despite his 3 years as PoW in an Indian camp, once stated in muted revulsion “There were so many dead that even the dogs would sniff and select the freshest offering.” He would say nothing more. A Pathan friend of Ammi’s maniacally related the traumatic story of hiding her children and feeding them toilet water for days, for survival until the Army rescued them. A Bangladeshi friend recalled his father’s household staff being stripped naked and slashed to death, by roadside gangs wielding machetes, as they hurried to refuge in a Dhaka slum. Extreme terror was experienced by both sides. When madness prevails, sanity tunes out and joins the mob. 

Theories abound about the scale of genocide in East Pakistan and how much earlier than the formally declared war it began. “No, no…it wasn’t millions. Arrey itney martey to peeche kaun reh jata?” said the armchair analyst while replenishing his pipe and reaching for his drink, “The Army had neither the manpower nor the ammunition.  Perhaps a mere few thousand, bas!”. I was aghast. “A few thousand – mere…bas?” I choked on my words. “Stop playing naïve my dear, you know the game. It was war…both sides played havoc” he rebuked me while inhaling nicotine and looking satiated. “Bilkul” piped the wife, “and what they did to poor West Pakistani families and businesses….those Mukti Bahini monsters!” as tears welled up in her mascara-laden eyes. Duly admonished but stubbornly spirited, I picked my jaw up off the floor and tried again. “How can you compare the destructive power of an Army, one of the largest in the world, against a rag tag mercenary force no matter how well supported by enemies?” I objected, “and how can we possibly justify the annihilation of our brothers, our own countrymen? Jang dushman se hoti hai, apnon se nahin.” Theatrically, I rested my case, albeit that last sentence leaving a question mark in my own head.

   

The sage, for he was that, threw me a quizzical glance. “My dear, it was the Army that underestimated the rag tag mercenaries, don’t you think?”. Hmm, I had managed to entangle myself and he was amused. “And have you not learnt from history that brothers are the worst, and most eager, of enemies?”. Check-mated was I.

State sanctioned massacre must never happen, no matter the provocation. The Mukti Bahini may not have seen the light of day had “Masawat” been maintained between provinces.  Once born and a threat to sustainable peace and harmony, “Hikmat” with “Raham” should have been extended to the wronged community. Genocide and separation may have been avoided had post-election choices remained “Halal” and the winner granted “Haq”. And now, when irreversible damage had been inflicted upon both sides, “Muafi” should be requested and offered; not one murmured sidelong by a military dictator but a “Ba-izzat” one, nation to nation. 

In the East Pakistan conflict, truth was the first victim, followed by moral courage and the wisdom to repent. We are created in His image, yet we shrank from manifesting His most beloved characteristics, without inhibition, as He invariably does. 

My Bangladeshi maid has been with me for eight years. Her kind disposition and efficient ways have brought order and comfort to my home. Her community is dirt poor and her personal circumstances extremely unfortunate. She is young and has virtually no knowledge of 1971 except that it was the year of “Azaadi”.  Mine was the first Pakistani family she became acquainted with and because our mutual terms are pleasant, she seems to consider all Pakistanis good people. She has taken to “Khaadi” suits, mangoes, Urdu and Zozo as if she was born to embrace them. I imagine if she received a truthful narration of 1971 she would prefer to dismiss and not believe it. At the very least, she would remove my family from the equation convinced that none of us could ever be linked to such brutality. It is entirely possible that men from my extended community may have maimed or killed her people. Certainly some young men of my family were killed by the Mukti Bahini or died in action during the war. I would rather she did not know….I would have no answer for her except “Im sorry”. 

She has bought land and built a house in her village, contributed to the mosque there thus elevating her family’s status, lives comfortably with my family and travels often to Bangladesh.

In a cowardly, discreet way, thru her, I apologize to my East Pakistani brethren every day.

In the summer of 2006, as we settled into a PTDC motel atop a hill in Kalam, disturbing memories of our journey through Taliban country were soon forgotten. The place was just too self-assured of its charm to concede negativity; one simply felt happy, exhilarated. Much of this could be attributed to the people (read men as one hardly saw any local women) who were friendly, effervescent and energetic.  A few dodgy tricksters amongst them for sure, but generally an honest and hardworking lot eager to extend a warm welcome and have a friendly chat. Some recruitment for the extremist revolution brewing in the plains must have taken place in the mountain towns, but the populace seemed unconcerned about and unaligned with it. Abbi took the kids hiking up trails while Ashi and I browsed through shops in the main bazaar.  There were many like us and we seemed to be harmonizing well with the locals.

What kept Kalam-wallas up at night was not the Taliban, it was electricity! Thankfully they had it owing to one conscientious MNA who achieved this momentous milestone.  They welcomed it excitedly and used it with abandon – until a bill appeared at their doorstep.  They were confused.  “Hum ne baikaat kar diya” Alamzeb the waiter narrated the story to us. “Jab bijli laya tha to hum ko nahin bataya ke bill bhi dena hai…yeh to dhoka, faraib hua na Baji?”, he complained as if I were MD Wapda and would right this wrong.  Soon a crowd gathered at the motel steps where we sat waiting for Abbi and the kids, each one piping his two bits into the tale. “Hum ne bola bijli wapas le jao, humko nahin chahiye khana-kharab!”. Thus, only government premises, schools and select hotels had electricity, local residents’ connections being cut due to non-payment. No amount of assurance by Ashi and I convinced them that the MNA was a good man who did right by his constituency, that every person on earth pays for such services. The community had reverted back to wood-burning and while the tradition was harmless when serving local households, it was causing mild deforestation as tourism increased and visitors had to be fed, entertained and kept warm.  Whether it is the timber mafia, tourism or simply ill-informed residents, I hope that Kalam’s statuesque pines are not being hacked down for vested commercial interests any more. 

In 2006 Kalam had electricity and did not want it; in 2017 all of Pakistan wants electricity but does not have it. Ironic, is it not? In Ashi’s poetic words, “woe are we, the victims of LoL (lots of load-shedding)”.  But that’s a blog post for later.    

Rejuvenated, we bid adieu to Alamzeb the waiter who was a teller of tales, Aurangzeb the cleaner who refused to believe there were bedbugs, Jehanzeb the jeep-walla who drove us to the lakes over narrow pathways making sure Ashi wasn’t bumped into early labor, and all the other ‘Zebs of Kalam (it seems to be a favorite name, yes). Re-stuffing ourselves into the van, we started our return journey home, but first we planned to spend a few days at the ski resort, Malam Jabba.

The PTDC motel at Malam Jabba was a rundown affair but situated at a vantage point so scenic that one ignored threadbare carpets, dismissed moldy bathrooms and rushed out to stand at the edge of the hill, spellbound, to take in the view below.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, breakfast tucked away, the kids hopped and skipped across the lush green lawn on to the slopes. What they witnessed there was a novel form of green and white, utterly unexpected.


Sparkling white dotted, almost carpeted, the green. It was not snow, it being a sun-kissed, cool summer morn. Rather, men in white, some sporting waistcoats, a few in green headgear sat, walked, and frolicked about in groups. They were carrying picnic meals, water coolers, cassette players, radios and a few cricket bats and balls. From a distance one could not be sure, but they seemed an eager lot aiming to have a good time. “Gosh,” I remarked, “they’re here pretty early to party!” and dragged Ashi along to join the kids. “You shouldn’t go down there” Abbi warned as he sat reading the newspaper and relishing the sunshine, “and bring the girls back”. But we were half way there already. Suddenly, a glare hit us from here, another from there, and soon we were surrounded by our countrymen signaling we were not safe amongst them and willing us to scurry back up the slope to the security of the motel lawn. I’m obtuse in response to threats; I don’t acknowledge them instantly. “Assalamu Alaikum” I wished everyone, and we proceeded towards the children only to be confronted with that which we had foolishly dismissed, that these people resented our presence on what they considered their land, and that given half the chance they would physically remove us.

Around us, none of the sound devices played music, we noticed. Instead, the men listened intently to a sermon delivered on radio and through cassettes by a man named Fazlullah.  He sounded belligerent, impatient and authoritative, and was obviously having a profound impact upon his audience. I was to find out later, from Abbi following his “I told you so” look, that Fazlullah was facetiously referred to as “Mullah Radio” by the media as well as by some of his followers and, in recent past, had been a lift-operator at the very resort of our current tribulations, Malam Jabba, from whence he elevated himself to local gang leader and undertook a mission to right the wrong that was our misguided country, Pakistan.    

A critical look at my brood and it struck me that, given the atmosphere, we were a disaster waiting to happen. Girls dressed wrong, mothers ignorant and oblivious, boys unconcerned.  “Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman. Always.” observed the wise Khalid Husseini. All considered, it was about us – women.  We did not belong, nothing belonged to us. Those who shamelessly stared us down stood ten feet tall, beyond rebuke. On the slopes of Malam Jabba, my sister, daughters and I, even our sons by association, suffered the indignity of voluntarily removing ourselves from a public place for no fault of ours. Inconsequential as it may sound since it is, some would say, a minor discomfort routinely suffered by women across the country, it was in fact the harbinger of horrors that would shatter our head-stuck-in-sand ostrich-like existence. 

    

The elephant, peaceful animal, had not left the room but the beast, hydra-headed and hungry, was unleashed to roam the valleys of Pakistan freely, salivating as it hunted its prey. These were my people, we shared traditions and values, we lived in a world mutually familiar, but their minds were now alien to me. I did not recognize the beast that dwelt within, I was clueless about its extraordinary ability to multiply, and I was hopelessly ill-equipped to defend my way of life.

We headed down from Malam Jabba a day early as there was nothing to do but remain confined to the dilapidated motel. On our way back, true to our unputdownable Pakistani-ness, we added humor to dark stories. The girls joked that TK in bermudas was in greater danger, the boys responded that they were safe under the women’s formidable protection.  “Good riddance!” Abbi exclaimed for the nth time, relieved that he had managed to extricate his foolish, headstrong daughters and their excitable offspring from the clutches of the Taliban. Dramatic, but not far from the truth!

Two years after our remarkable journey, Taliban torched the motel at Malam Jabba and burnt it to a cinder. The ski slopes had been unutilized for years and this was Mullah Radio’s final gift to his erstwhile employer, PTDC.


In the absence of writ or resolve, Taliban power grew. Yet more years later, a young Swati blogger who wrote about her right to education and her desire to learn was shot. That her handlers put her in harm’s way, possibly used her to knit a gruesome story, is irrelevant. Gul Makai and the children of Pakistan paid with blood for the space their nation conceded to evil forces by not categorically rejecting them, confronting them and annihilating them. 

I often wonder what the ‘Zebs of Kalam are up to. Are they still preoccupied with bill payments, bedbugs, pashmina shawls and trout fishing, or has extremism caught up with them and destroyed their way of life too, like mine? I would like to visit them again, but I am afraid.

It all started with “Discover Pakistan – Land of Sufis”. Nilofer, poor girl, did not fare too well eventually despite her good intentions.  Having become hugely popular due to her beguiling initiative, she was in the news often; first step to ignominy, she would discover. While promoting the cause abroad, she took in a parachuting adventure at the end of which a well-intentioned gora instructor wrapped her in a brotherly bear hug. Nilofer, naïve soul, grinned ear to ear and hugged the gora back. 

Bas, phir kya tha! Hug pics appeared in the papers back home and all hell broke loose.  Pakistan forgot that Sufis would not be judgmental, would probably consider a hug an act of respectful, mutual appreciation. Nilofer had to resign after apologizing to the nation for letting a gora hug her.  Soon after, the presumptuous Mush suffered dishonorable removal and Nilofer, along with other ministers, was relegated to minister-morgue or wherever it is that ex-ministers end up. She hasn’t been heard from since.   

Indeed, amongst the two wolves within us, good and evil, the one whom we feed, wins.

It was heartening to learn about the “international” skiing event held recently at Malam Jabba, in Swat. One may be skeptical about its international flavor, but certainly one noticed a peppering of non-desi faces in pictures which indicates that some level of international was indeed achieved. In Pakistan today, that’s an accomplishment.  

That people travelled from far and wide to participate in a skiing meet in Pakistan was surprising. That the visitors were “stunned by the beauty of Malam Jabba” was not. No doubt, the Swat valley, of which Malam Jabba is a part, is mesmerizing. But sadly over the past decade, it has become heartbreakingly tragic. 

Richard Llewellyn’s poignant words “How green was my valley then, and the valley of them that have gone” may just as well have been written for Swat. 

I am reminded of the last time I visited Malam Jabba. It was a family holiday, one of the last with Abbi, and it was memorable for that and many other reasons.  We travelled to Kalam, 6800 ft above sea level, to experience the wondrous valleys – Usho, Utror, Gabral – and the serene lakes snuggled therein – Mahudand, Pari, Kandol – upwards from Islamabad through the plateau towns along the Swat river up into the mountains. 

Unable to recall dates, I search the internet for concurrent events. At first click, promising stories about a recently revived and renovated resort appear, urging tourists to add it as a must-do on their itineraries. Wikipedia proves absurdly bland on Malam Jabba, offering nothing about the valley’s magnificent history as part of 2000 year-old, pre-Islamic Suvatsu at the foot of the majestic Hindukush.  (I remind myself that most good things Pakistani remain a well-kept secret).  On the page, I notice a misstatement, that Malam Jabba is Pakistan’s only ski resort. It is not. There is Naltar which, although a PAF station, is operational and hosts events. I keep searching for timeline milestones; “Pakistan – Land of the Sufis”, “The Parachute Controversy”, “Gul Makai of the Pashtuns”, “Mullah Radio” and “Malam Jabba resort torched”. To the un-informed, these headlines may seem unrelated but they define the fabric of contemporary Swat; a decade of hostaging of an ancient land, her people, and their centuries old way of life.

Mush’s young culture and tourism Minister, Nilofer Bakhtiar, had undertaken a plan to revive tourism in the country, branding it “Discover Pakistan, Ancient Land of the Sufis”. The well-intentioned initiative was off-time and in denial. The country was blindly snowballing towards religious extremism rendering all such travel risky at best, disastrous at worst. Without a cohesive strategy to support it, the initiative would eventually prove unsustainable. Nevertheless, as do all things Pakistani, the appeal tugged at my heartstrings and I, like Nilofer, ignored the elephant in the room and threw down the gauntlet in favor of my Sufi homeland. 

Memories rush in like timed but gentle tsunamis, waves morphing into threads that are finding each other, interweaving and spinning into an eloquent tale, forming patterns sometimes dark and ominous, other times distressed and uncertain, occasionally resilient and expectant.    

It was the summer of 2006. Razi was gone and Ammi had followed not long after, Abbi’s health was deteriorating but he considered himself able-bodied, the older twosome was at uni in Canada and visiting during holidays, and the younger ones were at home keeping me honest and anxious. Ashi’s boys were still young, a third to arrive in a few months. She was soon going to pop, but until then was not about to miss out on a family adventure. We both knew Abbi had limited time, and we wanted to spend as much of it with him as possible. Thank God we did. 

Our journey started in Islamabad where we stuffed ourselves into a rented van which was modest but in good condition. I scanned the driver’s face and demeanor for charas-induced over-confidence, but he showed himself a sober, thoughtful individual who vibed security and assurance; “Don’t worry, I won’t drive all the people you love most in this world into a crevice”. It was to be a memorable trip, not just because the family was together but because the route up to Kalam and back, pristine and refreshing as it was, also held subtle but powerful messages about bad, savage, intolerable things to come.  

The horror of Talibanization was hidden in plain sight. We saw it, but did not fully recognize it. 

Enjoying the driver’s choice of Attaullah Khan Esakhelvi’s “qameez teri kaali” and other such suggestives, we drove thru Taxila, seat of the oldest university in the world, a city dating back to 6th century BC. The weather was pleasant and the air refreshing, but as we neared Takhtbhai an eerie, sinister gloom added itself as a travelling companion. It was in such contrast to the ethos of the land of many faiths – Buddhism, Hinduism, Zoroastrianism, Islam – that it seemed to taint and soil one’s spirit. Roadside graffiti screamed glory to the Taliban and revenge from the infidel, declared normal acts kufr and average people kafir, a random fatwa for every kilometer we covered.  

On our way to Saidu Sharif, we were stopped at several makeshift check posts, shady joints manned by men openly brandishing weapons. They were positively, collectively angry and I could not understand why. The music had been turned off, the kids were quiet, Ashi and I had covered our heads, and Abbi in the front seat was ready to flash his retired officers’ ID card at anyone who approached as if it would ward off an attack as effectively as a PAF combat aircraft. This was a far cry from the numerous trips we had taken in the past across the length and breadth of the geography, never once being harassed or feeling insecure. They were demanding money, “Toll pay kava” they kept repeating.  We paid once, twice, thrice until I had had enough and told a bunch of Kalashnikov wielding thugs off.  Abbi nearly jumped out of his seat “Be quiet, I’m talking to them” he growled, “They don’t talk to women”. “I don’t care” I scoffed, “You’re paying them money at every stop. These are not government kiosks, why should we pay? Driver, aap chalein, dafa karein in ghundon ko”. I had found myself, bold and confident – until a Kalashnikov butt hit the back of the van followed by a volley of pelted stones. I was stunned, but Abbi came to the rescue; “Chalo chalo!” he urged the driver. There was no stopping now until the next pseudo toll booth.  I never let Abbi forget that he had contributed 2500 rupees to the Taliban’s cause. In return, he reminded me often that, but for his sound situational assessment, we were mouldy peaches at the bottom of a fruit peti being sold along the road to Kalam.        

Ubiquitous, aggressive, self-appointed “road militia” had traumatized us.  What else could they be called, these rough-looking men with hatred in their eyes? These were not the Pashtuns of our world – honorable, hardy people with twinkling eyes, protective of guests and magnanimous with their hospitality. Something was seriously wrong. Our stopover at the scenic Serena hotel in Saidu Sharif was tense. Hardly anyone sat in the garden, no one walked the tree-lined street, patrons seemed to have locked themselves inside their rooms. “Curfew hai Madam” the waiter explained, “shehr mein khatra hai”. He couldn’t explain the nature of it, but he was clear about the danger. Abbi in his protectiveness wanted to return home. Ashi was pensive, having captured the darkening mood of the local population. The kids were naïve enough to remain adventurous. I was confused. Whither “Land of Sufis” to which people of all faiths had travelled over centuries to find shelter? We voted and soldiered on, with the only soldier amongst us – Abbi – casting the dissenting vote! He lost. 

The road to Madyan, and further to Behrain where the rivers Daral and Swat meet and for which the town is named (Beh-rain…two rivers, not to be confused with Bahrain of the Sheikhs), brought relief.  Life seemed to have reverted to normal and except for the odd, kitsch inspired, Christmas-tree like truck hurtling headlong down the slope, nothing untoward presented itself. The crystal clear, trout-rich Swat river flowed musically along, roadside ramblers waved or just stared blankly at the excited tourists at the khokha, cheesy bollywood blared from a car to everyone’s enjoyment, Abbi lay on a manji for a power nap, Ashi and I let the cool breeze flow through our hair, the driver sipped tea and chatted with the khokhawala.

I was in the Pakistan I loved, secure and content.

Photo credit: Wikipedia and zamungswat.com