Pakistan has lost Pakistan in Pakistan

The tale of loss we made in five decades highlights need of rebirth

Every page opens with a new fascinating account of peaceful and purposeful Pakistan. Every description of the newly-born state is decidedly different from today’s scenario. The small book, first published in 1960, unveils the innocent beauty of Pakistan few years after its birth. The travelogue appears, every passing moment, as a fairytale. A fairytale for 2016 Pakistanis, especially the new generation.

After terrorism, Karachi unrest can easily be dubbed as the second major source of pain and punishment (mental) for peace-loving Pakistanis. Ever-growing deep communal divides, incessant violence, religious extremism, rampant lawlessness and political chaos mark today’s Karachi. “There is freedom of speech and religion. More than 10 languages are spoken but Urdu and English are the most popular. People mix freely regardless of colour, class or faith. Residents are friendly, hospitable and on the inquisitive side, especially with foreigners whom they are delighted to meet… Visitors are catered to like beloved children.”

This is how Camille Mirepoix, a globe-trotting American journalist, portrays Pakistani society of 1950s in her book See Pakistan First. She travelled from Karachi to Skardu and explored nothing but peace and progress. In present day Pakistan, reading such books which can roll back the years can surely land you in a chronic state of disappointment.

Today WAPDA’s name has become synonymous with failure and mismanagement. But, many moons ago this black picture of the ailing Authority was in vivid colours. In the days when its founder workers had deep devotion for the newly-born state. “This WAPDA Is Something Very Special — embracing problems with outstretched arms… WAPDA’s specialties rise in contrast, sky high with glory… The Multan Thermal Power Station is also the biggest of its kind on the Indo-Pakistan subcontinent… No wonder the powerhouse is one of WAPDA’s pet projects beside the building of billion dollar Indus Basin Replacement works,” are Mirepoix’s words on seeing Multan’s thermal power plant fifty years ago.

The bureaucracy of that day was mindful of its national duties and its integrity and hardwork were just exemplary. “No wonder WAPDA’s astute Chairman Ghulam Faruque breathes, eats and sleeps on its progress. Faruque toured USA with his enthusiasm talking himself hoarse about his fellowmen living in barren earth which could be productive with aid. He told of how with meagre capital they started WAPDA in his young and hungry land and he invited world bankers and all who cared to invest, to come and see their efforts. They came and saw and approved. They were truly conquered, not by battle but by the glowing peaceful pursuits of Pakistan’s hard labours.”

The writer fascinates herself and the readers with tales of beauty and culture of the then Lahore. Mirepoix declares Lahore ‘Drawing Room of Pakistan’. From Hico restaurants to Zonobi hotel, all rendezvous of the town mesmerised the writer. She visited Lahore when Ravi River was ‘most popular for boating, swimming, excursions and days off’. She further writes: “Such is the charm of this beauteous town that hardened visitors who have seen everything, relax and prepare to stay longer than they had intended to, and who wouldn’t if they had the chance?” The charm of Lahore’s cinemas of late 1950s makes the writer say: “Cinderellas from backstreets become princesses via its cinema studios.” Today, no cinemas and no production of Cinderallas!

Today country’s flag carrier — PIA — is notorious for its poor customer care. In its nascency PIA’s staff was far away from blackmailing tactics and politics of aggression. PIA was flying high in skies of good repute. In chapter Lively Town of Rawalpindi, Mirepoix paints PIA in glowing colours: “At Rawalpindi Airport, the station manager of PIA, is always on hand and helpful. He ushers the travellers into the cosy airport restaurant for tea and refreshment. You might be stuffed from overeating on the PIA plane… the station manager merely waves such implications aside and says ‘there is nothing like fresh tea taken on terra-firma’. The tea comes up with unlimited interest in your welfare.”

When honesty was the first trade principle. “A favourite item of these Punjabi traders are knives and guns. I bought a lot of brass-handled pocket knives from one of them for only eight annas each, gleeful that at last I had found Pakistani souvenirs for small boy relatives. Each knife was inscribed in picturesque Urdu with a motto (So I thought). Turned out to be something that Selfridge’s of London or Macy’s in New York could have done, for translated it read: ‘If this knife does not cut, return it and your money will be refunded.’ The simple honesty was so intriguing I went back and bought a dozen more.” Now, only deception and cheating is the only expansionary business mode.

Gone are the days when Murree was more than a tourist destination. “Murree goes in for educational development in a big way. The annual cultural festival held the second week of August is attended by famous poets, writers and artists. Young composers and new authors are invited to give readings of their work. Singers too have an opportunity of showing their talent in the musical part of the programme. A carnival spirit saturates it and the competitive influence often leads to promising new careers for the contestants.”

Sincerity to his land and people, and his courage to surrender powers to the young blood amuses the journalist. He was Badshah Sahib, the ruler of Swat from 1917 to 1949. “He devoted himself to upholding his land: schools for all, free hospitals, fortresses, highways and industrial concerns came into existence through his tireless efforts. Badshah Sahib retired in 1949 in favour of Miangul, feeling that a younger person would carry on the high ideas he had pledged to the people,” Mirepoix writes narrating the story of Wali Swat.

In the end, I like to present select-parts of Loss, a poem of Russian poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko which best depicts today’s Pakistan.

Loss

Russia has lost Russia in Russia.

Russia searches for itself

like a cut finger in snow,

a needle in a haystack,

like an old blind woman madly stretching her hand in fog,

searching with hopeless incantation

for her lost milk cow.

We buried our icons.

We didn’t believe in our own great books.

We fight only with alien grievances.

It is true that we didn’t survive under our own yoke,

becoming for ourselves worse than foreign enemies?

Is it true that we are doomed to live only in the silk

nightgowns of dreams, eaten by moths? —

Or in numbered prison robes?

Is it true that epilepsy is our national character?

Or convulsions of pride?

Or convulsions of self-humiliation?

Ancient rebellions against new copper kopecks,

against such foreign fruits as potatoes are

now only a harmless dream.

Everyone is a leader, but no one leads.

We are confused as to which banners and slogans to carry.

And such a fog in our hands

that everyone is wrong

and everyone guilty of something.

We already have walked enough in such a fog,

in blood up to our knees.

Lord, you’ve already punished us enough.

Forgive us, pity us.

Is it true that we no longer exist?

Or are we not yet born?

We are birthing now,

But it’s painful to be born again.