|
|
|
September 22, 2002
EXCERPTS: To register protest
Harris Khalique and Rohini Kohli capture the soul of a demonstration outside the Pakistan High Commission in London
When Andaleeb Saleem went inside the High Commission, three bull-eyed Pakistani men in shabby shalwar kurtas greeted her with much indolence. “So what do you want? What’s the problem?” they asked Andaleeb, and Hussain who had accompanied her.
“We want to submit a memorandum to the Pakistani government that they should keep the army out of all civilian matters. Military expenditure should be reduced and money should be spent on health and education. All the details are written down here. We want the high commissioner to convey our concerns to the prime minister,” Andaleeb replied back in a decisive tone.
Andaleeb and Hussain had gone into the High Commission with two constables of the British police who remained silent and dutifully indifferent in their bulletproof vests. When they came out, their friends picketing the High Commission cheered slogans and took pictures. Sjon was the most active non-Pakistani in the group. He had brought all sorts of lenses for his camera and took scores of snaps, mostly of Andaleeb whom he adored. His and the other friend’s pictures were being taken at the same time by the official photographers of the Pakistani intelligence agencies. A video camera was also in operation.
Quite an event it was. Balding, rustic, middle-aged and sleazy intelligence officials holding dog-eared notebooks in their crumbly hands surrounded the picketers. Hussain said that after years of coveted service in Pakistan’s notorious civil and military intelligence agencies, they had been sent to England to keep an eye on those working against the interests of the land of the pure — the Islamic Republic of Pakistan — from the foreign land of Britain. In Pakistan, opposing the incumbent government is considered a threat to the very existence of the state. It is never differentiated.
It was March 23, Pakistan’s national day. In London, twenty youth, twelve of them Pakistani, were picketing outside the country’s embassy and could hear the national anthem playing inside the thick walls of the ornate building. Fifty British policemen in hard oblong helmets stood about to keep an eye on them. In Islamabad, a parade of the armed forces was being held to commemorate the day when a demand was put forward by a section of civilian subjects of British India for an independent homeland.
Andaleeb Saleem had dark hair which she would usually let loose to toss all over her face, friendly eyes and a slim figure. She would do her chores at an incredible pace and was addicted to walking miles for no obvious reason. She went to school in Peshawar, where her family was settled, and college in Rawalpindi and Lahore.
Then she worked for a rural development NGO in southern Punjab before moving to Peshawar for a human rights job. British Council gave her a scholarship to study further and she came to London for a degree in politics. Her only love was already married with three kids and wrote columns in a weekly newspaper from Karachi.
“He is a thorough gentleman, extremely intelligent and a true democrat. He stands for everything he considers right. I like him so much but he would never know. It is of not much use anyway. The only thing I don’t like about him is that he wears a tie even in hot Pakistani summer.” Andaleeb told Hussain and Nayantara with an ear to ear grin on her face.
After picketing the High Commission, Andaleeb left alone for a tour of Europe and North Africa with very little money on her.... She would travel during the nights and sleep in her seat on trains to save money and carelessly walk about different cities and towns. She flirted with all the male waiters and got away without paying any tips. In Italy, the waiter even paid her bill and asked her out. “He was not my type and I am a Muslim you know. Actually, I also had to catch a train that evening.”
This was the first thing she told Nayantara and Sjon on her return from the two continents. She quoted constantly from Chatwin’s Anatomy of restlessness. She had brought silver-plated key rings for all her friends. Thinking of the Italian waiter Sjon left his in the food tray and never found it again.
“Originally we are Kashmiris, I fail to understand the logic of partition but I think I am Pakistani. My father’s family had lived in Ferozepur for some generations. My grandparents moved to Peshawar in 1947. We speak Urdu at home and my Pathan mother is very fond of Indian classical music. I am the youngest of the four children she has. We are two sisters and two brothers. All of them are pretty much settled,” she told Nayantara in a nicotine-laden husky voice.
They had met for the first time in the smoking section of LSE’s Brunch Bowl, an eatery for students, famous for providing the most insipid food in London. She told Nayantara how difficult it is to be a poor woman in Pakistan, especially when you are young and vulnerable. “I don’t come from a poor family so I don’t have to face such hostilities. But I get my share and that’s enough for me to understand what happens to the less privileged. It’s not just women if you ask me. I am not really a feminist in that sense. Every single person in my country suffers. Everybody. They suffer at the hands of the charlatans, bigots and the hogging military generals. My father was also an army officer but exceptions are few.”
Andaleeb’s love for democracy was rooted in her plain and simple desire to see her people happy. She couldn’t think of any other way. Every time when she saw a branch of a military bank or when she travelled in Pakistan on an inter-city road and a National Logistic Cell’s truck or trailer would pass by, her blood would boil. This transport service was set up by the military and it ran commercially.
“Why have they established a naval colony in Lahore? The city is at least 700 miles from the sea and has no naval installation. It is just to give them a share in the choicest property. But you know, I don’t like a single politician either. They are so bloody corrupt and mediocre. Oh God, we are stuck.” Andaleeb would grumble.
Excerpted with permission from
Unfinished histories: stories of separation and belonging from the South Asian diaspora
By Harris Khalique and Rohini Kohli Alhamra Publishing, Saudi Pak Tower, Jinnah Avenue, Islamabad
Tel: 051-2823862.
Email: contact@alhamra.com
Website: www.alhamra.com
ISBN 969-516-065-4
104pp. Rs150
|
|
|
|
