EXHIBITION: THE NAKED TRUTH

Religious strife in Pakistan has seen a sudden upsurge in the past couple of weeks, with intolerance and violence against minorities peeking in the wake of the announcement of the verdict of Aasia Bibi’s blasphemy case. Interestingly enough, it is the result of mere coincidence that Shahid Rassam’s apt commentary on the issue came just days before the nationwide unrest unfolded, lending it a certain level of sociopolitical relevance. His solo show at Sanat Gallery in Karachi, titled Kafir (apostate), makes use of imagery as bold and provocative as the title. The message is loud and clear and little is left to the imagination, while the heavy use of symbolism invites the viewer to delve deeper into its poetic suggestions.

Rassam takes inspiration from the poetry of Ghalib for his works. According to him, in the 200-250 years of poetic and literary history of the Urdu language, the word kafir has been used in two ways. The first is the one who denies not God but rather the system, a person or an injustice. The second, as seen in the poetry of Ghalib, is used for the beloved. The greatest poetic minds of history never used this word with the kind of negative connotations and violent implications it is used today in our current social context. The artist believes this is something that has been injected into our society by outside forces in the last 40 years.

It is these musings that appear as symbols and metaphors in these works. The oppression of the weak, the marginalised and the innocent by twisted religious beliefs — morphed into societal values and internalised by the masses — is a running theme in the show. These kafirs are depicted through nude figures, which are subjugated yet not withered or shameful in their appearance or postures, but bold and provocative. While their narratives are manipulated and society puts the label of kafir on their flesh, they appear to depict the naked truth, holding up a mirror to society and revealing its blindness and inherent hypocrisy. Rassam quotes Jaun Elia, “Barehna hain sar-i-bazaar to kiya, bhale andhon se pardah kiya karen hum” (So what if I am naked in public, there is no need to hide from the blind). Towering above them, the oppressor — garbed in the Arabic headdress, the kufiya — is shrouded in mystery. Identity unknown, the figure works in the shadows and hides behind a moralistic façade. The idea of what is immoral and indecent and what is righteous and truthful is thus challenged and subverted. The kufiya does not just act as a symbol for Islam, but the false idea of it borrowed from abroad. Much as the cloth is a cultural symbol confused for a religious one; we confuse cultural values for religious commandments, mutating both into dangerous mechanisms of oppression.