پاکستانی عوام اور سیاسی جماعتوں سے اپیل

بلوچستان کے ھزارہ قبایل کے پندرہ سالوں کے قتل عام میں، نہ تو کسی مجرم کو سزا ھوئی ھے، اور نہ ھی کسی قسم کی قانون سازی. قاتل آزادی سے گلی، کوچوں، بازاروں، جلسوں، مساجد، مدرسوں، اخبارات، سوشل میڈیا اور ٹی وی پر ھزارہ قبایل کے خلاف نفرت کے کھلے عام تبلیغ کرتے ھیں۔ نفرت کے یہ تبلیغ، ھزارہ قبایل کے قتل عام کے ایک بنیادی وجہ ھے اور جو بھی شخص، کسی بھی حیثیت میں، نفرت کے تبلیغ کرتے رھے یا کر رھے ھیں، وہ اس قتل عام کے جرم میں شریک ھیں۔ حکومت، پندرہ سالوں میں کسی قاتل کو سزا نہیں دلا سکی اور اسکے بجائے، حفاظت کے نام پر ھزارہ قبایل کے علاقوں، ھزارہ ٹاون اور علمدار روڈ کو عملا کیمپ میں بدل دیئے ھیں۔ کیا پاکستان میں قاتلوں کے گرفتاری اور سزا نہ دلوانے کے ناکامی پر قانون نافذ کرنے والوں کے نااھلی اور حکومت کیلئے خساير کے اذالے کے قوانین موجود ھیں؟

کیا اسکا وقت نہیں آیا ھے کہ صوبایی اور قومی سیاسی جماعتیں مذمتی بیانات سے آگے بڑھ کر، ھزارہ قبایل کے خلاف نفرت پھیلانے کو قابل سزا جرم بنانے کی قانون سازی کرے؟ کیا اسکا وقت نہیں آیا ھے کہ پاکستانی عوام، حکومت سے ھزارہ قبایل سے معافی اور انکے نقصانات کو پورا کرنے کا مطالبہ کرے؟ مانتا ھوں کہ یہ بڑے مطالبات ھیں، مگر انکے حصول کیلئے کم از کم جدوجہد تو کرے۔ اپنے پاکستانی بھائیوں اور بہنوں سے درخواست کرتا ھوں کہ وہ اپنے نمایندوں سے قانون سازی کا مطالبہ کرے اور سوشل ایکٹویسٹ سے اپیل کرتا ھوں کہ وہ قانون سازی کیلیے مہم چلائے۔۔۔

An Argument for "Cultural Regeneration"

I understand:

Whenever I walk in a woodland or a forest, I look for seedlings. Why? The presence and absence of seedlings tell me if the forest is regenerating or rotting; 

You see, in my lifetime, I have witnessed a modern dominant global culture (Soviet Union) rot and collapse. Believe it or not, in Quetta, where books were very scarce at the time, I found books printed in the former Soviet Union in the piles of garbage and bought them by weight from the garbage collectors (tens of meters away from Baluchistan University). Those were books that were looted from libraries when Kabul fell to "Mujahiddin". 

I also witnessed another modern regional culture that was born from the marriage of dying Mughal culture and ruling Colonial British culture (now known as Pakistani Culture) to lose its form under grinding forces of cold-war and reduce into a patchwork. 

I grew up believing that the Middle East was a unique place in the sense that it was the birthplace of three dominant global religions, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. But I never imagined, how badly rotten were its cultures, until, the attempts were made to bring forced "spring" (As it was called Arab Spring) to the region by imposing liberal democracy. In the new Middle East, all we witnessed was the fast growth of psychedelic and poisonous culture of ISIS.

All along, I read and listened to the story of Western Liberal democracies as creators of the modern world. The epic stories of cultural battles like the renaissance, state nations, colonialism, world wars between democratic-colonial-powers and fascist-colonial-powers, the cold war between capitalism and communism, globalization and finally the "end of history" by the emergence of the US as the final victor. The stories of Western modern democracies are looked upon as models for the refurbishing of dying cultures around the world. But it seems, the explosion of Middle East has seriously shaken the confidence of the Western World. I hear the voices that are doubting the universality of its ideals are growing loud and louder. 

When I walk into a woodland or a forest, I look for the seedlings. Why? The presence and absence of seedlings tell me if the forest is regenerating or rotting; 

It happened many times that when I speak in Hazaragi with Quetta accent, some get offended. Some advised me to write in "pure" Hazaragi (I don't know what that means since there are many dialects of Hazaragi spoken in different areas). Some asked me to correct my language by speaking in modern Farsi (They consider Hazaragi as an archaic Persian language that needs to be standardized). I hear voices who think Urdu and English should be our priority to facilitate communications with regional and global communities. 

Partially, I agree with all these arguments as the people who advocate them have genuine concerns but let me make my point here;

Why do I speak in Hazaragi with Quetta accent while I can speak modern Farsi that's a regional language? 

The answer lies in my concept of "cultural regeneration": 

I see Hazara community of Quetta as a living "Statue of Resilience" that has stood firm against all odds and not only hasn't lost its original form but is going through the process of refinement. While the world around the community is collapsing and it has been targetted regularly by the forces who see the community as a misfit. But it has never turned itself in turtle mode of defense. It's an open community that is learning from all around of the world. It's a seedling that has survived so far. 

I understand that engines of global changes are in the cosmopolitan cities of the world. But those engines are churning to produce only market standard cultural products that are profitable. They can't afford to produce products that are not marketable. 

It's probably just me (and I may be somewhat biased here), but I think that young, small and open communities with the global outreach that living on the fringes are going to be the engines of modern cultural diversity. I know, there are hundreds (probably, thousands) of small communities like that of Hazara Community of Quetta out there that are needed to be explored.

One more thing; Why am I giving the example of Hazara community of Quetta? Well, that's because I am more familiar with the community than other communities. 

I understand:

When people talk about standardization and integration, they have genuine concerns. But the emergence of ISIS and the serious doubts in the confidence of modern liberal democracies made me go back to forests and see how forests regenerate. 

I understand the concerns of marketability of seedlings that are not grown in the standard environments of nurseries but I also understand how forests regenerate.

May I borrow your eyes, Please!

Ustad said, "All people are beautiful. You need to train your eyes to see them. A stylist is trained to see the beautiful features of each customer and make those features prominent enough that they become visible to other people...." 

I guessed he noticed my puzzlement and asked, "I bet you think the analogy of a writer with a stylist is very odd. right?" 

" I thought, the job of a writer is to write honestly whatever he observes and what he observes might be very ugly...??" I replied.

"That's right!" he smiled. "You have to write honestly but failing to report the beauties because the ugliness you have observed has overtaken your imagination is dishonesty..." 

I'm not in the mood to write the rest of the conversation. I remembered this chunk of the conversation as I kept staring at the following picture idly for more than half an hour and wasn't able to express my feelings. 

I need help here. Someone with better eyes, please tell me, where is beauty in this picture that I can't see. The sister and brother who were on their way towards Mariabad were gunned down by the "unknown terrorists just meters away from police check-post. Their corpses were dragged out the middle of the road and left in the dirt 😢

For last 17 years, (yes, you heard it right, seventeen years), the Hazara community of Quetta have been bombed and killed after identification in thousands by "unknown terrorists", who later called newspapers and claimed responsibility (after each incident) and vowed to kill more and yet not a single (that's right, not a single murderer has been brought to books). Once even, the terrorists held an award ceremony in the stadium close to chief minister's secretariat where they celebrated scoring centuries in the killings of the Hazara community (Yes, killing people randomly is a game to them.) 

Ustad said, "All people are beautiful."

I am sure, all people are beautiful. But currently, I am struggling to see those beauties. I have failed to train my eyes to see the beauties. I need help to see the beauties as I can't. 😞

دیسی ڈونلڈ ٹرمپ

ٹی وی، میگزینوں، اخباروں، روزمرہ نشست و برخاستوں اور سوشل نیٹ ورکز پر روز ڈونلڈ ٹرمپ پرپریشان کن تبصروں اور تجزیوں کے باوجود، آپ نے مجھے ٹرمپ پر کبھی تبصرہ کرتے نہیں دیکھے ھونگے. اسکی وجہ میرا "دیسی لبرلزم" یا "پردیسی مصلحت پسندی" نہیں، بلکہ اسکی وجہ وہ ھزاروں "دیسی ٹرمپ" ھیں جسے ميں بچپن سے، ھر روز سنتا، دیکھتا چلا آرھا ھوں. آج، ایسا ھی ایک بظاھر پڑھے لکھے اور بظاھر لبرل "دیسی ٹرمپ" کو میں نے اس لیے "ان فرینڈ" کیا، کیونکہ موصوف فرما رھے تھے کہ بلوچستان کی پسماندگی کی وجہ ھزارہ کمیونٹی ھے اور جب تک اس کمیونٹی کو مٹائینگے نہیں، اس وقت تک بلوچستان ترقی نہیں کرسکتا ("ان فرینڈ" کرنے کا مقصد، نفرت کو ریڈ کارڈ کرنا ھے ).  حقیقت یہ ھے کہ چند گلیوں پر مشتمل ھزارہ آبادی والے مری آباد اور ھزارہ ٹاون میں، اگر کچھ پکے مکانات بنے ھیں وہ صوبائی يا مرکزی حکومتوں کے فنڈز سے نہیں بنے ھیں، بلکہ ان ھزاروں جوانوں کے پسینے کے کمائی سے بنے ھیں جو اپنے پیاروں سے دور، پردیسی ملکوں میں مزدوری کرنے پر مجبور ھیں.  

شاید کچھ دوست یہ سوچھے کہ میں ری ایکشن دکھا کر، نہ چاھتے ھوئے، انٹرنیٹ پر نفرت پھیلانے والوں کے لیے لاوڈ سپیکر کا کام کررھا ھوں. ان دوستوں کے خدمت میں پیشگی عرض ھے کہ یہ نفرت بہت پرانی اور گہری ھے. ان نفرتوں سے چشم پوشی کے وجہ سے یہ ایک ناسور کا شکل اختیار کر چکا ہے. مثالیں دینے کےلیے، میرے پاس ایسے سینکڑوں واقعات ھیں،  جن کا میں چشم دید گواہ ھوں. ان میں سے ایک واقعہ پیش خدمت ھے؛

1998 کے گرمیوں کی بات ھے. اسوقت کوئٹہ امن کے نخلستان تھے. لوگ اپنے اپنے چھوٹے بڑے دنیاوں میں گم تھے. والدہ صاحبہ کے طبیعت ناساز تھے اور میرے چھوٹے دنیا کے سب سے بڑی خواب یہ تھی کہ میں کسی دن اس قابل بنوں کہ والدہ صاحبہ کی بہترین علاج کرسکوں. بہر حال، جتنے ھمارے وسائل اجازت دیتے، کبھی والد صاحب اور کبھی میں ڈاکٹروں اور ھسپتالوں کے چکر کاٹتے رھتے. ایک ایسی ھی چکر میں، میں والدہ صاحبہ کو ایک سرکاری ھسپتال لے گیا. حسب معمول،  ڈاکٹر کے کمرے کے باھر مریضوں کے ایک لمبی قطار لگی ھوئی تھی. ھم بھی، ھسپتال کی پرچی اور والدہ کی لیبارٹری ٹیسٹوں اور ڈاکٹروں کے نسخوں کے پلندے ھاتھ میں لیے، قطار میں کھڑے ھوگئے. گئی گھنٹے، کھڑے کھڑے انتظار کے بعد آخر ھمارے باری آئے. ڈاکٹر صاحب اپنے چند مہمانوں کے ساتھ خوش گپیوں میں مصروف تھے. میں نے سلام کیا. ڈاکٹر نے ھمارے طرف دیکھے اور کچھ کہے بغیر پھر بھنڈار میں مصروف ھوگئے. دروازہ کے قریب ایک بوڑھا ھزارہ کھڑا تھا. میں نے ان سے خیریت دریافت کی تو بوڑھا شخص کپکپاتی آواز میں کہا کہ  اسکے نمبر بہت پہلے آیا تھا، لیکن ڈاکٹر نے یہ کہتے ھوئے اسے معائنہ کرنے سے انکار کیا کہ، "جاو، افغانستان میں اپناعلاج کرو. یہ ھسپتال بلوچستان کے ملکیت ھے." اس بوڑھے شخص نے یہ بھی بتایا کہ میں نے جب ڈاکٹر کو اپنا شناختی کارڈ دکھایا تو ڈاکٹر غصہ میں  کہا کہ میں تو اس کاغذ کے ٹکڑے کو مانتا ھی نہیں. جب میں نے ڈاکٹر سے درخواست کی کہ وہ اپنے پیشہ کا احترام کرے تو ڈاکٹر صاحب، سیاسی نعرہ بازی پر اتر آئے.

لوگ صرف مولویوں کو نفرت کے پرچارک کے طور پر دیکھتے ھیں. کاش صرف مولوی "کنوینیئس کے مسلمان" ھوتے تو ھمارے غم آدھے ھوتے۔ بدقسمتی سے ، ھمارے ھاں  "دیسی ٹرمپ" کی کوئی کمی نہیں، جو بسا اوقات اپنے " کنوینیئس کے لبرلزم" کے احسانات بھی جتاتے رھتے ھیں.

نفرتیں اتنے عادی ھوگئے ھیں کہ لوگ یہ سمجھ بیٹھے ھیں کہ اپنے قوم سے، دین سے، اور نظریات سے محبت کے اظہار کا صرف ایک ھی طریقہ ھے، اور وہ ھے دوسروں سے نفرت. حالانکہ حقیقت یہ ھے کہ اپنے لوگوں کے لیے دشمن کمانے والے، اپنے لوگوں کا خیر خواہ نہیں ھوسکتے.   

The Fattening Of A Mind

When I was at high school, my obsession with learning went too far to an extent that I got almost disconnected with most of my friends and their world of interests. It peaked when I started working at a woodwork factory after the school hours. At the factory, I mostly varnished the chairs and sofa sets. My work clothes and shoes had turned into armored shields by multiple layers of varnish coatings and I felt like an arthropod inside the clothes. In short, I went through a daily metamorphosis, beginning in the morning when I dressed into the dark-sky-blue school uniform (which turned into light-sky-blue after weekly washes by the end of the school year) to the afternoon, when I wore varnished-work-clothes and to the night, when I became myself in the casual dress. While the life appeared to be the repetition of the same acts weeks after weeks with no end at the sight, I felt like to be in the Alice’s wonderland. And that wonderland was the world of the words;

Early afternoons, when I went to work, the other workers had already left for the afternoon siesta. Occasionally, the factory owner’s youngest brother visited the factory to supervise our work. Once we went to the same school and were in different grades. He was couple of years younger than me but at the factory, I went to work and he was the boss. While, I varnished the chairs, he held a fat Oxford dictionary and walked back and forth of the hall to memorize the dictionary. I wanted to learn the language too but I had neither the time, nor money for the dictionary. So, I sorted out the used English newspapers from Russian newspapers that we used for packaging (also laid on the floor while varnishing) and hid them. I put a paper on the floor while working and looked for the words that either I could easily memorize or looked interesting to me and asked the meanings from the young boss. He liked the practice and often shared the vocabularies, he thought were interesting. My vocabulary was growing fast and parts of the English papers started making sense to me (Those were my greatest joys). I knew that kind of encyclopedic and chance-based learning equipped me with a kind of worldview, full of holes that enabled me only to have patchy views of the worlds that fell outside of my town. Still, each new word, each new piece of information, each new concept made me feel that I was growing up in those still days and nights. I believed that if I had plenty of time and a dictionary, I could have attained nirvana. 

I had a year of gap after finishing high school and that was a heavenly gift to me. I had plenty of time (I worked till noon and afternoons, I went for a mechanic course, which was for three hours and as I had no homework, so I could afford to spend time reading whatever, I could get my hands on) and well for the first time an English to Urdu dictionary (and that was the first non-textbook that I bought for fifty rupees). I went crazy with translating entire pages of newspapers (well, not the way interpreters translate but by writing Urdu meanings under each English word). I didn’t attain nirvana but it had greatly boosted my confidence level. 

When colleges’ admission opened, I and my youngest maternal-uncle went to the college for admission. The students wings of the political parties had set up reception desks to guide (attract students) and help students in their college admissions. Holding the admission forms, we went to the desk of Hazara Students Federation. Three senior students of the college represented the party. 

“What do you want to study?” A young man who had thick curly hairs and square face asked.

“Science.” I replied.

“Pre-medical or pre-engineering?”

“Pre-medical (which meant biology instead of mathematics)”.

“Could you guys afford coaching classes?”

“No.”

“Then, I strongly recommend that you take arts subjects, instead. Without coaching classes, you won’t be able to pass the exams.”

We thanked them and left. We knew, they were right but we were determined and took admission in pre-medical. College textbooks were in English but I had dictionary and time, so I translated my Biology, Chemistry and partially physics textbooks….

So, why did I feel to the need to tell this story?

Recently, I heard two complains about myself (from friends and relatives), first, that I am living in Jungle (small town) and second that I rarely communicate. Well, if they knew a little about my past, they could understand that my mind have grown so obese that it barely wonders about large cities or becoming more social. Imagine that a boy who once believed that he could attain nirvana, if he had plenty of time and a dictionary gets the chance to order five books at 2 a.m. in the morning (and they only cost him two hours of his work) or he could stop at a thrift shop after work and buy five book just with an hour of his work, what would you expect him spending most of his time? He would literally bury himself in the books, right? He knows very well that, it is not a systematic way of gaining knowledge (or it is unhealthy on the long run but he never been able to live a healthy lifestyle) and he can’t help himself. If you are impoverished for years, your health is the first victim, when you have plenty. You can’t resist the urge of over-consumption, despite knowing the dangers. The access to fast internet and books has fattened my mind.