Hope

Pakistan is a country of pious pretensions and profane proclivities. Having been described as a beautiful catastrophe, it is a living, breathing contradiction. Suicide bombers kill the innocent in the name of a religion that forbids murder and suicide. Young army officers take an oath never to interfere in politics, yet generals have ruled the country for half its tumultuous history. It revels in its own ironies and thrives in its hall of mirrors of false perceptions and confusing façades. To much of the West, it is a melting pot of militancy, a Disneyworld of sorts for the world’s most feared jihadist outfits.
On the one hand, this isn’t far off the mark: Pakistan’s northwest includes pockets of inhospitable terrain that have become home to terrorist and insurgent movements. On the other – quite dangerously – it paints Pakistan’s picture with one broad brushstroke that fails to appreciate the beauty of its art, the subtlety in its cuisine, the hospitality of its people and the intellectual vitality of its thinkers.
One stanza in a poem by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, committed humanitarian and my favourite Urdu poet, gently consoles a despairing soul:
“My feet are tired / Listen to the sorrow of my journey / Listen to the hope of a new dawn!”
My first reading impressed, even moved me, but I didn’t shake or whimper. There was no doubt that Pakistan faced seemingly insurmountable odds: terrorism, corruption, crime, epidemic disease and natural disasters. Having spent years trying to aid those at the receiving end of these tragedies – the maimed, the robbed, the sick and the displaced – I had begun to get overwhelmed by the scale of the challenges. Where was the hope?
Years later, I was sitting with my grandmother around the fireplace in her cozy study, a tranquil refuge of wooden floors, Persian rugs and scores of old, dusty books. I heard the same stanza spoken again as she tenderly told a story of romance, friendship and politics during the explosive Partition of the Indian subcontinent, the point of inception of my nation, my home. I couldn’t imagine a darker night in our national history. In that room, as I held my grandmother’s hand and listened intently to her words, I realized an inescapable truth.
If Pakistan could be brutal and heartless, it could also be tender. The endless support for the needy, the lavish feasts that welcome guests even when the hosts can barely afford them, the creativity of budding artists, the peaceful embrace of Sufism and the country’s love for food and music are manifestations of the country’s soul. This was the Pakistan I knew. I realized then that the poet, writing decades earlier, was addressing my generation, the first one young enough to have grown up without direct absorption of Partition stories and associated emotions diffused by those who suffered.
For a few moments, my grandmother and I sat quietly, transfixed by the emotional intensity of the story and the enchanting flames that radiated a warm glow. There was silence, except for the firewood that crackled softly. Then, as if emerging from a trance, she suddenly grabbed my arms, tears in her eyes. She whispered the last stanza again: “Listen to the hope of a new dawn!” I won’t let her down.
MAAZ ALVI
Lahore