Even amid chaos and killing, there is hope
The journey of life is an excursion into the unknown. The thrill of this journey is captured in the fact that each moment has the potential to unlock countless possibilities. And its beauty stems from the careless interactions this journey entails with countless individuals of varying backgrounds. These interactions shape our personalities, making us who we are, and how we view the world.
Living in distrustful times in Pakistan, it is easy to meet people who would convince others of the futility of hope. Those who, through their speech and conduct, remind us that believing in Pakistan is synonymous to a blind man’s wish of finding a pot of gold at the end of an invisible rainbow. But every once in a while, we are fortunate enough to meet an individual who not only restores our faith in humanity, but also inspires us to be more, to be better, to never give in to the temptations of cynicism and apathy.
Recently, I have met one such individual – a young and bright woman named Shaharbano. Encapsulating the essence of an honest and hardworking Pakistani, Shaharbano’s father spent the better part of his life working in the development sector. Sadly for him, his wife and three daughters, had the misfortune of being born in the violence-prone city of Quetta. During casual conversations, he narrates tales from a ‘once-upon-a-time-Quetta’ that was free of ethnic strife and bloodshed. The “fruit-garden of Pakistan”. A place full of communal love and brotherhood; surrounded by the snow-covered peaks of Chiltan, Takatoo, Murdar and Zarghun. Through a gleaming smile, he speaks of working there, amidst people from all ethnicities and religious sects, and putting his daughters through school, in the fierce belief that education (especially for women) holds the key for a prosperous Pakistan.
But soon, as he narrates his tale, his eyes turn moist and the smile disappears. His stare becomes distant, and in a quacking voice he recounts how his Quetta got hijacked by a band of ethnic and religious militants, whose violent vendetta went unchecked by a generation of apathetic bureaucracy and feeble governmental resolve. Left with no other option, he narrates the pain of having to leave his beloved Quetta, and moving to Lahore, where his family could be safe(er), and his daughters could have a fighting chance at a brighter future. Some days ago, Shaharbano’s father told me of a Hazara-Shia friend who lost two sons (in their mid-twenties) to target killings in Quetta. And then, lost his own life in last month’s attack on the Hazara community.
Shaharbano listens to these conversations with an indescribable sadness, but then quickly snaps out of it to remind everyone around that hope is not lost. That better, brighter future awaits Pakistan, if only we could muster the courage to reach for it. She tells her father and her friends (which, luckily, includes me) that our generation holds the key to unlocking this future. And that so what if her family had to migrate due to threat of violence, she reminds us that if only we can harness our collective potential to counter the scourge of extremism, our children will not have to face pain of displacement or hopelessness. Hope is real, she says. In a time of global chaos and instability, where our faiths collide through the barrel of our weapons, hope is real. She tells us that while there may be such a thing as false promises, and false starts, there is no such thing as false hope.
I frequently wonder, what kind of internal strength and faith it takes for someone like Shaharbano to not only believe in Pakistan, but also actively advocate the same to others. In the prejudiced society of Pakistan, she is a woman, hailing from a minority province, a persecuted ethnicity, and a family that has lost friends to the mindless menace of violence. There is every reason for her to lash out those around her, and be despondent about our national destiny. But still her faith is stronger than anyone else I know. She doesn’t just believe in that Pakistan’s problems will end one day, she knows they will. And her faith in this unlikely fact is unshakable.
When I think of Shaharbano, I feel embarrassed at myself. And at everyone else around me. We are not doing enough, for Shaharbano. Too often, we spend our days chasing illusions of material things and grandeur. Too often, we allow ourselves to be persuaded by rhetoric of apathy. Too often, we do less than we can and settle for a fraction of who we are. Too often we forget that we all share the collective responsibility of fulfilling the dreams of countless Shaharbanos across Pakistan, who have hung their hopes, their dreams, and their faith in our imperfect abilities. And too often we cower behind our daily routines and social commitments to evade our responsibility to all the faceless Shaharbanos of Pakistan.
Last week, I had the opportunity of delivering a talk at TedXKinnaird. The speech, which was a discourse of idealism, was titled ‘Aik Rupay ke chaar dollar milein gey!’ The very next morning, Shaharbano, in response to the title, wrote the following:
Agar aaj har su hai pat-jhar ka manzar
Kal chaaro’n taraf phool he phool khilein gey
Na bijli, na paani, na aata agar aaj
Kal yehi sabb hum baramad karein gey
Jahalat ke phande se aaj bahaut mar rahe hain
Kal sab shehri yaha’n ke parhe’n gey likhe’n gey
Agar aaj hukumat hai zardario’n ki
Kal muhib-e-watan qayadat karein gey
Bana hai qanoon chief ka jaa’n nisaar aaj
Kal adl aur insaaf pe jaa’n nisaar karein gey
Suno nayi duniya mein ja basne walo
Kal yaha’n ka visa hum tumhein na dein gey
Aur aye mere watan ke logo…
Dhoondo sambhalo sab rupay ka sikka
Kal rupay ke chaar dollar milein gey!
For those of who you who can read these words – for those whom these words resonate in the heart – please know: Shaharbano is counting on you!
The writer is a lawyer based in Lahore. He has a Masters in Constitutional Law from Harvard Law School and can be reached at: saad@post.harvard.edu