Authoritarian syndrome

THE ruling elite in Pakistan used to think that centralization of authority and power was essential to the maintenance of diverse political unions. Demands for provincial autonomy were regarded as unpatriotic, almost treasonous. They appeared to have gained a degree of legitimacy after the secession of East Pakistan and received some recognition in the Constitution of 1973.

But this was largely “window-dressing,” for deep down Mr Bhutto, the “father” of that Constitution, was an unrelenting centralizer. He felt free to send directions to provincial governors and chief ministers regardless of whether the issue at hand did or did not fall within his government’s jurisdiction. His successors — Ziaul Haq and, when they could, Benazir Bhutto and Nawaz Sharif — did the same.

Some twenty years after the emergence of Bangladesh, nation states composed of diverse people began to crumble in other places (the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe), and it transpired that instead of being a preserver the “strong centre” had worked as their wrecker. Decentralization, as an idea, attained a new high of respectability.

In Pakistan General Musharraf began restructuring our system of governance with an emphasis on devolution of power from the central to the provincial and then to the district and sub-district levels of government. District officers were subordinated to elected officials in the newly established district governments. It remains to be seen whether this devolution is real; some observers suspect that it is merely a covert plan to emasculate the provincial governments and extend the centre’s control to the local level.

In recent months our politicians have spoken ever more eloquently in favour of provincial autonomy, decentralization, and devolution. Those from the minority provinces have been louder and more insistent in this advocacy. Now that they, the politicians, are once again in charge of government at the centre and in the provinces, how are they likely to handle inter-government relations?

Sharing of authority and power by governments, and the interaction between them, are forged partly by provisions of the Constitution. But they are shaped also by habits of mind, especially if the functionaries concerned have some leeway. How else do we understand the spectacle of Mr Zafarullah Khan Jamali, our esteemed prime minister, directing Jam Mohammad Yousaf barely a day after the latter had been sworn in as the chief minister of Balochistan, to restore four districts that had been abolished earlier for reasons of economy.

Note that Mr Jamali himself hails from Balochistan. Spokesmen for this province — no less than those of Sindh and the NWFP — have complained of neglect, abuse, harassment, and suppression with armed force by the central government during the last fifty-five years. They have been vocal champions of provincial autonomy.

Keeping this background in mind, one may wonder what gave Mr Jamali the idea that the status of districts in Balochistan was any of his business, and that he had the authority to issue a directive to the provincial chief minister in this regard or, for that matter, in any regard. There are more than one puzzles wrapped in this mystery. We had understood that he was not as wilful, overbearing, and lusty of power as his predecessors had been. We were led to believe that he was a mild, moderate, and reasonable kind of a gentleman. He must have assumed (incorrectly) that it was normal for the centre to send directives to the provinces.

Next, one may ask how Mr Jamali came to the decision under reference. It seems that he made it all by himself. Considering that the establishment of districts in a province is a matter of some considerable importance, and assuming that this is a subject on which the federal government can have a say, shouldn’t he have taken the matter to his cabinet for its consideration and decision?

Jam Yousaf carried out the prime minister’s directive the very next day. There was no provincial cabinet at this point for him to consult, and he did not think of waiting for one to be formed. He decided to accept and implement the central directive on his own. Wrong, but not an unfamiliar mode of operation.

In a parliamentary system, the executive arm of the government does not consist of the prime minister alone. It consists of him and his cabinet in which he is not the master but only the first among equals. The cabinet is one of the organs of governance, an institution which, like others, must be nurtured and stabilized. Parliamentary democracy is not just another name for the prime minister’s dictatorship.

Beyond settling routine business in the departments that have been placed in his own charge, the prime minister is the distributor and coordinator of work among his ministers. New initiatives, and matters of high policy, are customarily brought to, and decided by, the cabinet and not by the individual ministers. One may assume that the “Rules of Business” provide guidance as to the kind of issues that are to be submitted to the cabinet, and Prime Minister Jamali would do well to get acquainted with them.

There is some reason for optimism that the cabinet, as an institution, will gather strength in the coming months. Prime Minister Jamali’s government represents a coalition of several parties. Even if his own party — PML (Q) — accepts him as its sole spokesman (which is unlikely), representatives of other parties in the cabinet will not allow him the same status. They will probably insist that important issues be brought to the cabinet for discussion and decision.

Consider also that Mr Jamali does not have a nationwide constituency, and he is not exactly a “giant” even within his own party. Nor is he known for having exceptional intellectual capabilities or political skills. In other words, he does not have the capacity for acting as a dictator, except as a proxy for General Musharraf, but the element of heterogeneity in his cabinet may act as a counterpoise to the general’s pressures. The same is likely to be the case with provincial chief ministers whose governments are based on coalitions of diverse parties and groups.

Moving on to another front, we heard that Makhdoom Amin Fahim had gone to Dubai to get fresh instructions from Chairperson Benazir Bhutto regarding his party’s future course of action in making or avoiding alignments in the national and provincial assemblies. An unrelated news report told us that Ms Bhutto had taken upon herself to decide who the PPP’s candidate would be for the NA seat vacated by Aitzaz Ahsan in Bahawalpur.

One may ask why she wants to be the one to make this choice instead of leaving it to the party’s provincial leadership. The answer is that this is her way. She is, by her habit of mind, an authoritarian centralizer and not much of a democrat. The same is the reason for her wanting to dictate plans of action to her party’s parliamentarians.

Her inclination is not unique. Altaf Hussain wants to control and direct the MQM from London, and Nawaz Sharif would do the same with his faction of the PML if he could. This is all wrong. The politicians’ agitation against military dictatorship, their advocacy of democracy, decentralization, provincial and local autonomy, and their assertion of the sovereignty of the people, have no credibility or force unless they practice what they preach within the organizations they lead.

Another dimension of this problem merits attention. We have a situation here the like of which none of us may have encountered in the politics of any other country. The head of a political party goes away for a few weeks, after which he will return to his base. It is understandable that during this short stay abroad he should remain in touch with developments back home and make himself available for consultation with colleagues and provide guidance on issues that must be settled right away.

But what about party leaders who have been living abroad for years, in voluntary or imposed exile, and have no apparent intention of returning home in the foreseeable future?

In one such case, that of Mr Altaf Hussain, the country where the man is living has become his “home,” for he has become its citizen. He enjoys a secure and comfortable living in London, does not breathe the dust and smog of Karachi, does not have to see — much less rub shoulders with — the poor and the downtrodden among “his” constituents, does not have to take the policeman’s baton on his back, and does not have to serve time in an unspeakably dirty and nasty jail. Tucked away at a safe distance from “his” people’s gruesome lives, how on earth has Altaf Hussain convinced himself that he is entitled to remain the chief arbiter of MQM’s affairs, strategies, and alignments?

In a slightly less acute form, the same question may be addressed to Ms Benazir Bhutto and Mr Nawaz Sharif. Their answer is likely to be that they act as they do because their followers want them to remain at the helm. This may or may not be the case, but it would easily change if they allowed alternative leadership to take charge.

The correct answer may well be that these leaders in exile regard their respective parties in Pakistan as units of personal property rather than as institutions that should be made capable of outlasting them or any other particular set of leaders. Those who are now looking after these parties in Pakistan must learn to do without the bosses in exile. If and when the latter return, they will be free to pick up the thread from where they had left it — assuming that they can find it.

E-mail: syed.anwar@attbi.com

The faltering new system

WHATEVER other lessons may be drawn from the general elections, the one obvious and most discomforting is that the parliamentary form of government cannot work in Pakistan. This view, or feeling, present since the early years of independence, this time round has acquired a ring of finality.

The conduct of the elections, their outcome and the bizarre manoeuvres that followed and still continue have shown more emphatically than ever before that the facts of political life bear no relationship to parliamentary institutions and practices. Despite this incongruity, the parliamentary system remains in vogue, not because the people want it but because it suits the parliamentarians and the privileged classes which benefit from their largesse.

The parliamentary form of government was abolished in the country at intervals for periods aggregating 20 years. On each occasion most people heaved a sigh of relief, certainly no tears were shed. The only exception, perhaps, was Mohammad Khan Junejo’s dismissal by Gen. Ziaul Haq. Mr Bhutto was seen in prison saddened and frustrated when no mass uprising took place on his dismissal nor later on his death sentence.

The first coup-maker Ayub’s judgment on the parliamentarians he dismissed was scathing: “There has been no limit to the depth of their baseness, chicanery, deceit and degradation. Having nothing constructive to offer, they used provincial feelings, sectarian, religious and racial differences to set a Pakistani against a Pakistani. All that mattered to them was self interest. In this mad rush for power and acquisition the country and people could go to the dogs as far as they were concerned.”

There was not a murmur of protest though among Ayub’s victims were distinguished and honest men, freedom fighters and companions of the founder of the country. That was a measure of the cynicism that the unstable governments had bred among the people in just about five years after the death of the first prime minister, Liaquat Ali Khan. The later coup-makers were more restrained in their denunciations even though the standards of integrity and parliamentary conduct had been continuously and steeply falling, and the damage done to the institutions and economy and to the fundamental rights and freedoms of the people was much larger.

Ayub gave the country stability and a measure of prosperity but he balked at seeking the people’s endorsement of his presidential rule through a general election based on adult franchise. Instead, for legitimacy he resorted to the devices of referendum and indirect election through a limited electoral college of “basic democrats.” Yet both were widely suspected to have been manipulated.

The unexpected challenge from Miss Fatima Jinnah to Ayub under his own controlled system on his own terms shook his government to its foundations. When the end came, demoralized by the anger of the public whom he thought he had rescued from a corrupt system, he handed the power over to the army instead of the National Assembly speaker which his own 1962 constitution required him to do. The anarchy and diminution that followed remains the saddest chapter of our short history.

It may now sound a mere conjecture but looking back over four decades, one gets a strong feeling that had Ayub gone straight to the people, seeking their mandate for a presidential form of government, instead of spinning a web that ultimately strangled him, the people and the country would have been spared the agony and deprivation the succeeding military and parliamentary governments inflicted on them.

The parliamentary and presidential governments, it should be remembered, are the two chief types of constitutional democracy. Neither can be described more democratic or responsive to public needs than the other. The essential difference between the two is that in the presidential form the executive and legislature are independent of each other and yet exercise check on each other. To illustrate, the president selects his own ministers, judges and ambassadors but on scrutiny the parliament can reject them.

The president is directly elected by the people for a fixed term. He cannot dissolve the parliament nor the parliament can remove him except through impeachment. In the parliamentary system the prime minister is chosen by the parliament from among its members and holds office so long as the majority supports him.

General Musharraf, despite being a firm believer in the concept of “checks and balances”, could not muster the will to go to the people seeking approval of a presidential form of government. Instead, he too, like Ayub, tried to find a tenure for himself through a referendum and checks and balances in governance through a National Security Council — only to empower himself to dissolve the parliament and dismiss the prime minister.

All that still remains under the shadow of a legal challenge or a political revolt against him. Even if it becomes a permanent feature of the Constitution, it will bring neither stability nor curb the abuse of power. A prime minister commanding an absolute majority will tend to be autocratic, the one who does not will be weak and open to blackmail.

The shameful scramble of the last hundred days and the rampaging hordes of ministers emerging out of it have destroyed the very party system that is the bedrock of a parliamentary system. The assault on the much-touted macro-economic stability has already started for political gains.

Perhaps it is yet not too late for President Musharraf and Prime Minister Zafarullah Jamali to try to build on two weeks of their “excellent” relationship to plan a recourse to the national electorate for a system, by whatever name it may be called, in which the chief executives of the country and the provinces are directly elected for a fixed term.

The start made under Musharraf’s hybrid system — it is neither presidential nor parliamentary — portends instability and corruption greater than experienced in the past, with the political parties and civil services both stand wrecked.

A confidence pill

THE news was that the Consumer Confidence Index, the thermometer as to how the country is doing economically, has sunk to a new low. That is to say, people are afraid to shop or go to malls.

Their lack of confidence is caused by the threat of war, chicanery on Wall Street, crooked banks, crafty lawyers and the danger of losing their jobs.

Soon after the figures were released, I heard from a research scientist named Eric Gordon. “I think I’ve got it. I have just developed a pill that will bring back consumer confidence.”

I whistled, then I rushed over to his lab.

There were white mice in cages all over the room.

He said, “I fed half of my mice lettuce pellets and the other half are eating Consumer Confidence pills, which I’ve named SALE-EX .”

I said, “The mice in this cage seem depressed and refuse to move. The mice in this other cage are dancing and trying to get out.”

“You’ve got it right. As soon I fed them SALE-EX, they came to life. You see, I discovered there is an enzyme that stops the brain from buying anything. It’s called CCL — Consumer Confidence Loss.”

“Does everyone have CCL?”

“According to our tests, everyone has some. The serious problem is that it’s contagious. At the moment people are walking around and giving it to each other. More people suffer from CCL than from the common cold.”

“So you have invented SALE-EX to give people back their confidence.”

“Right-o. Just imagine. You go into a department store and want to buy a new coat, but don’t know if you should or not.”

“Then you take a SALE-EX pill, which is chewable. In five minutes it starts working. Not only do you buy a coat, but you also buy a 45-inch television, a dining room set, a Judith Leiber handbag, a new Tiffany lamp, a Concord watch, and a ticket to Rio from the store’s travel department.”

Then he said, “Let’s say you want to buy a new car. You have been on the fence about it for a year. You don’t know whether to buy a Hyundai or a used 1990 Toyota. Then you chew a pill and go directly to the Lexus showroom.”

“You have that much confidence in the SALE-EX? Will you need a prescription?”

“No, you will be able to buy it over the counter.”

“Have you tried it on humans?” I asked.

“Just on my wife. After chewing one, she bought out Neiman Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue and Nordstrom.”

“But surely there must be some side effects.”

“Well, after shopping, my wife was dizzy and broke out in a rash. When we market the pills, the label will say, ‘Do not take while operating heavy machinery’.”—Dawn/Tribune Media Services

The fellowship of the chamber

AT LAST, after two politically motivated postponements, the people of Sindh were informed through newspapers and the idiot box that they had finally gotten an elected assembly in place. On December 12 Jalal Shah, a former speaker and grandson of the former enigmatic Jeeay Sindh leader, G.M. Syed, delivered the oath in Urdu, Sindhi and English to 163 members.

One MPA could not attend as he was in hiding after the official onslaught on the ‘no-go’ areas, in Karachi, and five others who had also contested for the National Assembly, decided to stay put in the capital Perhaps they had a premonition of things to come.

Karachi, as a former capital, has considerable historical importance, for it was in the Sindh assembly in 1938 that a resolution demanding a separate homeland for the Muslims was moved by G.M. Syed and was passed by the assembly. Through the years, whenever military dictators allowed politicians to engage in some sort of democratic activity, Sindh assembly sessions were conducted in a spirit of relative solemnity. They had their share of farcical clashes between prosaic normality and the slings of outrageous fortune, but a certain tidiness and decorum prevailed.

This time round, however, there was complete pandemonium. The largest number of MPAs, including aspirants for the chief minister’s post, Nisar Ahmed Khuhro, Ali Mohammed Mahar, Muzaffar Hussain Shah and Arif Jatoi, understandably took the oath in Sindhi. Members of the MMA and the MQM, however, chose Urdu, while Irfanullah Marwat, son-in-law of a former president of Pakistan, Irfan Magsi and members of the Sindh Democratic Alliance, indulged in a bit of one upmanship and stuck to English, the language used in the mother of parliaments.

But this did not really help the proceedings which were far from solemn. To start with, the session was delayed by almost an hour. Then, there were hordes of unauthorized visitors who shouted slogans in support of their respective party leaders, contributing to the carnival-like atmosphere. They were joined by 62 women in the assembly, 33 of whom had won on general seats and the rest on reserved seats.

Once the desk thumping and slogan-shouting had decreased in intensity, Nisar Ahmed Khuhro, a PPP leader, who speaks surprisingly good Urdu, stole the limelight,.. In a voice hoarse with emotion, caused more by the vagaries of the weather than by any sudden remorse for the welfare of the downtrodden, he requested the assembly members to recite a brief prayer for all the poor denizens of the country who had committed suicide because of the harsh policies of the military regime. This is certainly a new one, and I was a little surprised to hear it from the lips of such a seasoned politician. Not only will it not wash, pronouncements like these are usually reserved for the hustings and not for legislatures.

The military might have done all kinds of things, like dumping retired old soldiers into all sorts of civilian jobs, much to the chagrin of the bureaucrats, set up banks, housing estates and ancillary industries. But they certainly cannot be blamed for the mess they inherited from the politicians, nor can they be blamed if a number of unfortunate souls decided to shorten their temporal existence.

To add a little spice, there were also some sharp verbal ripostes between Nisar Ahmed Khuhro. and Shoaib Bukhari of the MQM, who tried to steal his thunder. Jalal Shah did the best he could to tame a thoroughly undisciplined mob. The new speaker and the chief minister are not going to have an easy time, things being what they are. What is unfortunate, however, is that this is happening in a province which has produced three of the four leaders of Pakistan. The progeny of the fourth, who hail from the North-West Frontier Province, today stand defeated and demoralized.

Mr Mohammed Ali Jinnah is now more or less forgotten by the establishment and the people. He has survived in portraits which adorn the walls of government offices, textbooks, road names, currency notes and stamps, but in little else. Occasionally, an octogenarian who knew him in some capacity or the other, attends a seminar devoted to the purpose of reviving his memory, and after touching lightly once or twice on some endearing fable, produces a character analysis which is universally acceptable,. Now and then, the great leader’s name pops up in a newspaper supplement, where editorial writers take pains to point out that irrespective of who is in control; the government in power goes out of its way to do the very opposite of what Mr Jinnah stood for.

His Muslim League, the party that created a homeland for the Muslims out of the Indian subcontinent, is now a suffix to a variety of disparate groups. The League has broken into so many factions that the title has become an anachronism. At last count, there were eight such Leagues and if we are lucky, the nation might soon be blessed with another one. Mian Azhar is now on the warpath.

This does not bode at all well for the King’s party, which is hardly two years old. A split down the middle would adversely affect the fragile majority enjoyed by the prime minister, who is breathing easier ever since the MQM has re-connected his life support system. A meeting of the party general council, requisitioned by 493 of the total 940 members, has been called to pass a no-confidence motion against one of the few honest and straightforward politicians in the King’s group, who is not afraid to speak his mind.

Mian Azhar is being charged with creating dissensions in the party by issuing statements against the prime minister and the newly-appointed PML(Q) secretary-general. He has also been accused of trying to re-establish ties with the former prime minister, Nawaz Sharif, without the permission of the party high command. Perhaps members of the King’s party have cheerfully forgotten whom they used to call their leader three years ago.In Pakistan, the public memory is very short, indeed.

In Mian Azhar’s defence it must be pointed out that ever since he lost the elections in two national constituencies, he has been repeatedly cold-shouldered and marginalized. by the stalwarts of the King’s party He was never taken into confidence when the federal cabinet was being formed. Nor was he consulted when attempts were being made to forge a coalition with other parties.

The last straw, from the point of view of the party leaders, came when Mian Azhar opposed the appointment of Salim Saifullah as secretary-general of the party in place of Mr Jamali, and when he took a stand against the doling out of ministerial portfolios to the turncoats of the PPP. Mian Azhar, whose fortunes are on the wane, may have to bow out of the rat race. But one is sure he’ll take comfort in the knowledge that he has earned the respect of quite a few writers.

Everybody knows what happened to the party founded by Sindh’s third leader, the highly educated Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, whose daughter is pining to return to the land of her birth and whose contacts with her ever vulnerable flock is through the medium of the telephone.

And what about Sindh’s second great leader, G.M. Syed, who fought for the rights of the peasants, and who was the longest serving political prisoner in recent history, beating Nelson Mandela by six months. Like the Quaid, he too has been more or less forgotten. Once in a while his disciple Khadim Hussain Soomro comes out with a new book in Sindhi or Urdu extolling the virtues of this highly disciplined and enigmatic leader who, before partition, fought against both the Indian National Congress because of its continuous support for the Hindu money-lenders, and the Muslim League, for the unprincipled way in which they appointed their office bearers.. And once in a while his grandson Jalal Shah asks me to read a paper at a seminar in a local hotel on some aspects of his grandfather’s life and character, which had hitherto not been shared with the public. Pakistan’s four leaders are now a part of history. The modern generation has little or no contact with their teachings or thoughts. In fact, what is very sad is that the various pronouncements of the Quaid are increasingly becoming an embarrassment to the president and the military who are in no particular hurry to return to the barracks.

High art imitates lowlife

NEWS from London’s Royal National Theatre of a new opera based on the life of sleaze-TV host Jerry Springer raises questions about British sanity and drinking water but also suggests possibilities for other operas on this side of the Colorado River.

According to news reports, “Jerry Springer: The Opera” is funny and features costumed louts shouting epithets, a male singer wearing naught but a diaper and a chorus line of dancing Ku Klux Klansmen.

The opera thus seeks to capture the nous ne savons quoi of Springer’s syndicated TV show, where these sorts cavort, curse, confess and pummel each other, incited by a taunting studio audience. “It’s exactly the kind of work the National should be doing,” said Nicholas Hytner, the director.

Uh-huh. Such thinking helps explain the gap that caused the American Revolution. But whether such British humour translates to American humour and whether folks will pay a fistful of pounds to dress up and look down on actors misbehaving like real Americans on TV won’t be known until the April opening at the Lyttelton Theatre, where seats are bolted to the floor.— Los Angeles Times