Conserving the walled city

THE World Bank is reportedly funding a six-million-dollar project to conserve the decaying walled city. For the purpose, the Punjab Planning and Development Board has decided to set up an independent authority to execute the plan. The historical city of Fez in Morocco has been chosen as a role model for the conservation of the old quarter. Fez’s selection is based on the fact that its old city, too, is a place inhabited by people and running businesses, and not a relic of the past, like the well-conserved Bhaktapur in neighbouring Nepal.

The task before the authority will be an enormous one. The plan is focused on restoring the historical grandeur of the Shahi Guzargah, or the royal passage way, running through the city from the eastern Delhi Gate to the western Masti Gate, along which also stands the 16-century jewel, the Wazir Khan mosque, next to the Old Kotwali Chowk, the only relatively open space inside the walled city.

Looking at the old quarter today, nobody can doubt the fact that the place badly needs to be cleaned up and services and amenities streamlined. Over the years, it’s been drug peddlers, addicts, petty thieves and the rowdy lot that have made their way into the walled city; many of the old residents who had a strong sense of ownership about their respective neighbourhoods, have moved out to new localities because of the falling quality of life inside the walled city and having no hope in sight of things changing for the better.

Many of the new residents now living in the old city are there because of the convenience it affords them to live close to their businesses or places of work. Few will have any real feelings for the history that practically surrounds them. It is these newcomers to the walled city that need to be made stakeholders in any uplift plans for their area. While there will be ample opportunity for new, glossy businesses and shops to open up as the development project takes off, it would be a shame if that were to be the only target the developers set out to meet.

The plan needs to work and not only seem to be working for the old city; the positive socio-economic change that the development board is talking about must go beyond what meets the eye. For instance, look at the food streets in Gowalmandi and Old Anarkali: they may look like the new, enchanting and progressive face of the colonial-time city, they are little else besides. In reality what has happened is that the two main bazaars’ recent uplift has put a mask on the eyesores of chronic urban degeneration, now literally left to rot in the back alleys.

You need only to step into the dark lanes lining the main streets on both sides at Old Anarkali and Gowalmandi to catch a glimpse of the real world that has been put, so to say, on the backburner, to keep simmering in distress. Similarly, areas surrounding the high-activity economic zones have been left untouched by the prosperity so proudly showcased to the visitors.

The beneficiaries of such display-case development will continue to be only those few whose houses’ facades are needed to be repaired and decorated to look inviting enough for visitors who have the money to spend on eating out or on cultural shopping. The six-million-dollar WB uplift plan for the walled city should do a better job at truly developing the old quarter than what a bureaucrat has done at Gowalmandi and Old Anarkali.

The fruits of economic development and cultural conservation must trickle into the back alleys of the walled city and create an enabling environment for a healthy, civilised and prosperous urban life in the historical quarter.

HERE comes another ban. This time it is the noisy, polluting two-stroke rickshaws that have been barred entry on The Mall, starting tomorrow. In a month’s time the ban will extend to the canal-bank road. On December 31 this year, we are told, the rickety devils will be buried, dead or alive, for good. ‘Too good to be true’, you may say with a chuckle.

Seven months ago when the plan was announced to phase out the two-stroke rickshaws in the metropolis, a rather rosy picture was painted. The number of proudly, ‘indigenously manufactured’, eco-friendly and quiet as a cool breeze, three-wheelers running on CNG was to go skyrocketing, like petrol prices have done in recent months. We were told that the government-backed bank loan scheme would easily enable anyone wishing to switch to the new vehicle from the old one.

You don’t have to ask a rickshaw driver to know that this has not happened. The new machines are hardly to be seen in the city. They are so rare a sight that when you see one you say to yourself, ‘humm, so this is what they were talking about’. Surely, there are glitches in the scheme that have not allowed it to take off.

As the government presses on with its banning spree (two months ago plying motorcycle rickshaws was banned on seven city roads), there will be fewer choices available to the city’s tired and hapless commuters. True, the logic behind banning polluting vehicles cannot be questioned, but it is the lack of alternatives available to the public that should be a cause of serious concern. That it is not is a matter of little pride.—Observer

Fear, blood and colourful illuminations

KARACHI, a city of lights? Still, a city of lights? Even in the fifties I can remember going out to see the lights on Independence Days. That drive around was fulfilling in many ways. Twinkling lights and the warmth of family togetherness, in retrospect.

But wait, this column is not about the past (which to me is not another country). I am focusing on the present, on Karachi on the night of Eid Miladun Nabi, when the Sindh capital, like the rest of the country was aglow with colourful illuminations as part of the nationwide celebrations of the birth of the Holy Prophet Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him).

I had planned to take some three little school girls (aged 5 to 12) to see the illuminations in Karachi, after eating out, which the girls were looking forward to. They had never seen the illuminations in Karachi, and so they did not now what they were going to see.

Then came sunset on Eid Miladun Nabi (Tuesday) and within minutes of the Maghreb prayers there was news of a bomb blast at the Nishtar Park, where a huge meeting was scheduled. The news came on the television channels, and so citizens could watch the tragedy live. Pakistan lives in this kind of a technological context now. Many times, it is able to see the horror of terrorism, live in its living rooms. This was one such occasion.

Some of us have lived through trauma, torment and tragedy in Karachi on many occasions in the past, but not the young and the very young of today. So while we are able to compare and contemplate instantly some of the previous occasions where bomb blasts and suicidal bombings and killings (read carnage) I am absolutely certain that these little girls had no clue to what was happening. If anything they either knew was the uncertainty or the fear with frequent school closures.

I wasn’t at home when the news of Nishtar Park blast erupted on the scene. So when I reached home, the three little girls were innocently waiting with my wife and other guests to go out for dinner. But the TV channels had brought home the images of death and destruction, and the adults were grim, quiet, once again wondering where this society is heading to. Going out wasn’t the best option then, apparently. Yet I was keen, if not determined to take the girls out, and let them see the lights on the private and public buildings. Let them see that the glass is half full, as if. Depressing, shocking, details of the devastation continued to pour in, as I switched channels.

In the early to mid sixties Nishtar Park (then known to us as Patel Park) was a sports ground and politics was at a bare minimum, if at all. We played cricket on Sundays at this lovely park and there was net practice on week days in the evenings. We had thought that Patel Park would become a stadium or at least a well equipped sports facility for more games than one. Instead it became Nishtar Park for political activity and some of the largest public meetings that this city has seen have been held here. And as the country’s politics has become authoritarian, violent and bloody, Nishtar Park too has become a risky proposition. In fact, it has got nothing to do with the park, but the way we live.

Look at the kind of week that Karachi has and think about the quality of life we are gifting to the young, impressionable citizens of tomorrow. Look at the incident that took place on 9th April (Sunday last) at the congregation of Faizan-i-Madina in which 21 women and eight children lost their lives. Look at the attempt that was made on the life of Allama Hasan Turabi, a few days before that, on 6th April. Keep in mind that there was a suicide bomber in the terrible incident that took place outside the Hotel Marriot and the US Consulate General last month. All this in quick succession, as if a pattern?

TV channels and the newspapers have been detailing, discussing, chronicling, and investigating the Nishtar Park tragedy and looking at many of the previous occasions where there has either been terrorism or ethnic and sectarian killings or where official and other sources contend a hidden hand was at work. For Karachiites, who have lived through times like the Aligargh Colony killings of December 1986 or the Bohri Bazaar bomb blast of 1987, there is almost a tradition of violence, sabotage and bloodshed in this town, says one weary voice around.

But let me return to the evening of 12th Rabiul Awwal when the bomb blast killed many people and injected into the city’s psychological fabric more hurt, more harm and more horror. The little school girls were excited, and understood nothing of what had happened. We did go out for dinner. In the restaurant bits and pieces of news and rumours trickled. It only aggravated matters. The best option would have been to have gone home, straight after the meal. But, what about the city of lights and illuminations?

Once behind the steering wheel, even though there was exceptionally and understandably thin traffic I drove from Defence (where we had eaten out) to Gizri (darkness there), Clifton underpass, Abdullah Haroon Road, Marriott, Sindh Governor’s House, PIDC House, Pearl Continental, Sheraton, official residences, Mehran Hotel and other buildings on to Sharea Faisal. It was a drive in torment, sadness, even sheer anxiety and fear. And yet there were the lights around, contrasting with the bloodshed at Nishtar Park, which again conflicted and contrasted with the fact of the Eid Miladun Nabi celebrations. A kind of cruel incongruity!

Throughout the drive, the radio was on and it was FM 103 which focused quite obviously on the Nishtar Park tragedy, the loss of life and the injuries. The broadcaster could not reconcile the bomb blast and the fact that it was planned by heartless inhuman plotters on a day as auspicious as Eid Miladun Nabi. With Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s voice in the background saying “Gorakh Dhanda”, this broadcaster was angry and there were tears in his voice. He was asking questions we were all asking then and now. Questions like why are we doing this to our society? Why don’t Muslims stay united? Why don’t we learn from history? In between his spontaneous flow of grief and shock, he was focused on the news related to the evening’s incident.

While I wanted to return home, the three girls, Laiba, Tooba and Anila wanted to see more lights. It was a natural desire. They could not fathom the darkness either in our lives or the loneliness of the roads. Show us more lights, they kept saying, and despite my weariness of a day’s end, and the sadness of the broadcaster’s voice I kept on driving with the thought that it is the young of today who will inherit this Pakistan. We should give them light without fear.