The Scent of a City

by Naeem Safi

Façades above Sarafa Bazaar

Much has changed over the centuries but Peshawar’s strategic importance has never faltered. Accepted as one the oldest living cities, it is also thought to have had the world’s tallest building at one point—a Buddhist stupa.

The current image of Peshawar, battered and dangerous, owes much to the mediated knowledge spread mainly through media—and endorsed by events that have killed hundreds of its inhabitants. The consistent collisions of interests in the region have left the residents of Peshawar with little else but to romanticise the city’s past, recollecting bits from the chapters that deal with all that was glorious. Understandable, when much at present appears to be dust and smoke.

But look closely and with love and you will find a lot still to appreciate. Follow the footsteps of world-renowned travellers and conquerors and arrive at the highest point in Peshawar, Gor Khatri. The archaeological findings here date back 2,500 years, in one of the deepest archaeological trenches of South Asia, and make experts claim that Peshawar has been alive for eons. Civilizations here, among several layers of earth, have left occasional terracotta pieces, jewellery, coins, weapon fragments and bones—samples from which are at display in a shabby little museum at the corner of the compound. The Goraknath temple was reopened for worshippers last year and located parallel to a mosque sharing the same compound.

A Door at Masjid Mohabbat Khan

Spicing Up, a Spice Merchant at Bazaar-i-Dalgaran

Through the western gate of the complex, once the residence of the Sikh general Avitabile, go down towards Chowk Yadgar. If not pointed out, one can easily miss the historic Sethi Mohalla, just a few yards towards the right. It hosts a number of architectural marvels built in the 19th century by the famous merchant family, exhausting the art of building and decor by incorporating techniques and styles from India, Persia, Turkey, and as far as Russia. Each house holds a record of the riches and tastes from times gone by.

Lapis at Shinwari Market.
(Peshawar's Christie's)

Further down the road is Chowk Yadgar, now a reinterpretation of the plaza hosting an old monument and the stand from where, up until the late 70’s, one could hop onto buses to Kabul. The new design has an added underground passage with some parking, few shops, and landscaping on top. The steep alley called Sarafa Bazaar, lined with goldsmiths, reaches Lady Reading Hospital and Bala Hisar Fort. The famous Shinwari market has genuine antique Afghan jewellery, ceramics, glassware, and textiles. Nearby is the Mughal period Masjid Mohabbat Khan, its elaborate arches and domes adorned with colourful frescos. Just a few decades ago, a donation of loudspeakers by a devotee had triggered passionate protests by religious leaders calling for their removal. They declared that they were sorcerer’s horns for their resemblance with record players. The legacy of that thinking has sadly come true for the city.

Hakeem's Laboratory at chowk Pipal Mandi

One route from the Chowk reaches Pipal Mandi and winds towards the historic Qissa Khawani bazaar. Along the way is Bazaar-i-Dalgaran, filled with the aromas of teas and Indian spices, serving the taste buds of its customers with unique blends. Even the inquisitive Michael Wood was not disappointed when he ended up here in search of an ancient tea called soma. In his documentary, The Story of India, he says, “the Rig Veda talks about a sacred drink, central to the Aryan’s rituals; a speciality of the tribes around here... there are many of their thousand poems devoted to the merits of drinking soma, almost as an elixir of the gods.”

Teatime: At a balakhana of an old inn in Qissa Khawani

Remains of a Heritage at Bazaar-i-Misgaran

One reminder of the times changing is the aluminium, stainless steel, and plastic being sold by the bronze and copperware sellers of Bazaar-i-Misgaran, catering to the declining tastes or the shrinking budgets of their customers. All that is left of their glory days are the copper samovars that are still used by the traditional qahwa khanas and chai khanas. At the turn to Qissa Khawani is the alley where Peshawar Pottery was once an attraction for ceramics lovers. Once upon a time, Qissa Khawani was the place of exchange for merchandise from Central Asia and India. The bazaar ends where Kabuli Gate once was. It has silently disappeared to make way for the trucks that have replaced the caravans.

Like most historic cities of the region, the tangible and intangible cultural heritage of Peshawar has fallen prey to the onslaught of kitsch. The fragments that remain owe their existence to the lack of means for their replacement rather than to their conscious preservation. For taste has hit new depths. Now grey blocks and monstrosities ostentatiously covered with cheap tiles have replaced the classic city architecture such as balakhanas and jarokhas with their intricate woodwork, arches, and stuccoes.

The Replacement at Bazaar-i-Misgaran

Once known as a city of gardens, the cityscape has been vandalised by none other than its elected leaders who have constructed unjustifiable overhead bridges, consuming green belts and trees along their paths, in utter disregard for historic monuments. However, much can still be salvaged. In spring, blocks after blocks of the city are drenched in the scent of citrus flowers, a scent Mughal Emperor Babur had noted on his way to India.

====================================================

Published in DAWN, All About Lifestyles! June 22, 2012

 Life and Times of Kaka Ram

Gorak Nath Temple, at the Gor Khutree Archaeological Complex Peshawar, is now open

for Hindu worshippers who regularly visit the site to pray

By Naeem Safi

The sun has just disappeared behind the Khyber Mountains. Beneath the long hanging roots of the old banyan tree, a devotee is sweeping leaves to clean the earthen floor for worshippers who are expected to arrive in a while.

Hundreds of birds above are chirping before settling down for the night. The fenced lawns outside are full, with noisy children running around and playing, the adolescent sauntering on the paved walkways, and their mothers gossiping. These late evening visitors are usually from the nearby mohallahs who come here to escape power outages — and take refuge in the Gor Khutree Complex.

The colour palette for the sky is rapidly changing and the light tones of gold are turning into crimson, and violets merging with dark greys. Calls for evening prayers over loudspeakers lure males of all age groups to the mosque at the northwestern corner of the Complex, which has accommodated many before them, including kings, princesses, and camel caravans.

Gorak Nath Temple, at the Gor Khutree Archaeological Complex Peshawar, was built during the Sikh period around 1834 to 1849. Their Italian General, Paolo Avitabile, used the Complex as his residence. The temple is now open for Hindu worshippers who regularly visit the site to pray to their gods.

Just a few yards south from the mosque, Kaka Ram, the seyvek, is giving final touches to the preparations in the Gorak Nath temple. Unlike the marbled floors and numerous fans at the mosque, his temple has earthen floor and a couple of helpers are connecting a power cable to the central building to light a few bulbs. Kaka Ram is waiting for the prayers at the mosque to finish, as some of his guests are Muslim, colleagues from his office at the secretariat, who will also attend Sheranwali Mata’s parshad tonight. 

Six decades back, he was born in a humble little house adjacent to the temple. Many generations of his ancestors have served this temple before. His father died when he was seven. They were expelled from their ancestral house; his mother had fought back through courts. She won the temple back, in the year 2011, but their home at the compound is lost, almost forever. She parted with life on the first day of last May.

According to Kaka Ram, more than 2000 people attended her funeral, the majority of who were Muslims. 

He recalls his childhood times, when the huge well under the banyan tree used to be frequented by parents with ailing children, both Hindu and Muslim, to receive ashnans, a sacrament that is believed to cleanse and protect its receivers from evil spells. His dealings and relationships with Muslim friends and neighbours are not tainted with biases or discriminations. They all celebrate Holis and Eids together and there is no purdah among their families, something reserved only for very close relatives in a traditional Peshawari society.

The Muslim guests have finished their prayers and are now waiting near the well for the ceremony to begin. Pundit Gokal has arrived from another temple to lead the prayers, and the number of worshippers is gradually increasing. The pundit is preparing a huge platter of fresh fruits at Mata’s mandir while the attendees are gathering in the arched aisle in the front. Following a few rituals, the congregation, with equal number of women, and quite a few children, started chanting the parshad. 

The sky has turned deep blue and the banyan tree looks more imposing against it, the flickering light of oil lamps animating its long shoots. The birds have gone almost silent. The visitors outside, in the lawns, are gradually thinning out and the peace of the night is gradually engulfing the compound, and the streets around it.

================================================================

Published in The News on Sunday on June 17, 2012
http://jang.com.pk/thenews/jun2012-weekly/nos-17-06-2012/foo.htm#1

Profile: Karakul Hat Maker

“Karkul defines us”
Bashir Ahmad Khan from Peshawar has not given up on
the craft of karkul-making that earned him
prestige and bread all his life
By Naeem Safi

Karakul hat, popularly known as Jinnah cap in Pakistan, was much in use, if not in vogue, till the late 1980s. It stood for ‘an image’ due to its symbolic association with the founder of Pakistan and was used by high officials and common citizens alike.

Now its representation is left on the currency bills where a stereotypical Jinnah adorns it. In its heydays, there were more than 50 master craftsmen making various types of karakul hats in the Qissa Khawani and Ghanta Ghar bazaars of Peshawar. Today, against all odds, only a few are left seen preserving the craft.

Bashir Ahmad Khan, in his late 50s, is one of those few who haven’t given up on the craft that has earned him prestige and bread all his life. How he ended up in this trade is an interesting narrative and an inspiration for many.

Living in a small village in Dir, Bashir was only eight when he got a chance to go to Peshawar and with his elder brother, and ustad, Haji Anwar Khan.

“I remember the day when I left my village along with my elder brother. Those were the times when Dir was a princely state where the only public transport was a bus owned by the Nawab, and one’s leaving to the city would be quite an affair. My brother was leaving for Peshawar and I along with my parents were going to drop him,” says Bashir.

“I created a scene there demanding to go with him. He fell for it, and my mother immediately washed my clothes in the nearby stream and I boarded the bus in that single wet outfit and a pair of shoes.“My brother was a master craftsman at Baghdad Cap House with Haji Sabzaali (father of Sen. Haji Ghulam Ali), but he got into a conflict with Haji for taking me along and we left Peshawar. We arrived in Karachi on a steam train and started working with a wholesale karakul hat-supplier on Bandar Road. For six years we worked for 50 paisas a day — eating daal-chappati and sleeping on a wooden bench outside the shop—before moving to Peshawar.

It was 1965 war days, and as a little boy from the mountains, I used to marvel at the red fireworks in the sky that my brother had explained were antiaircraft guns firing at the enemy planes.

“In Peshawar, I started my apprenticeship at Peshawar Cap House, with Habbibullah, running errands and learning the skill for around eight years. But it was with Haji Bashi — at Bukhari Cap House in Ghanta Ghar — where I mastered the karkul making, learning it from my brother who was employed there. Later he parted ways with him and opened his own store by the name of Sarhad Cap House.”

Suffering from arthritis and a plunge in sales, Bashir recalls how leaders like Z.A. Bhutto and Wali Khan had visited his humble store and that how almost all of the heads of the state wore his caps from Auyb Khan and Yahya Khan to Zia ul Haq, Naseerullah Babar, Aftab Sherpao, Nawaz Sharif and Qazi Hussain Ahmad. “Gen. Fazl e Haq was a great admirer of our work. And he would order around half a dozen caps every month for as long as he was the governor,” he says.

Unfortunately, none of Bashir’s three sons knows the skill and has a couple of learners running the business for him. “Nothing can match the experience, and respect that it earns for you. It is my advice to my children to master the skill of karakul-making despite other occupations, as this is something that defines us. It has earned a name and respect for my family and me. This is what made heads of the state, governors, and ministers visit our shop.”

Since ages, the fur of the karakul sheep is imported from northern Afghanistan into Peshawar. Karakul (or Qaraqul) is a breed of sheep raised mostly in Central Asian and some African states for their fur that is valued for its unique textures, patterns, and colours. The fetuses or the newborn lambs are slaughtered before the tight curls of their fur begin to unravel with time or the mother’s tongue.

Contrary to the popular notion that the fur is obtained from the aborted lamb fetuses, Bashir says that only the newborn male lambs are slaughtered and the females are left to mature for further propagation. The skins are plastered with hop flour for basic curing by the farmers in the mountains; however that makes the skins very brittle.

The price of these skins have soared ten times in the last decade or so due to their high demand in Europe, Japan, USA, and Canada. Jinnah version of the Karakul hat is the most liked one in Pakistan and the non-Pashtun Afghans, which has both ends peaked and is usually packed flat in a box. However, it is the Peshawari cap, also known as Ayub Cap that is more popular amongst Pashtuns on both sides of the border. It has only the front end peaked and the back side is round, hence packed in a round box and cannot be folded. The fully rounded version, Garda, is popular in certain parts of Afghanistan.

=====================================================

Published in The News on Sunday

http://www.jang.com.pk/thenews/jul2011-weekly/nos-10-07-2011/enc.htm#4

Architectural Heritage

19th Century Marvel

The Sethi House in Peshawar has used techniques and aesthetics
from a very diverse range of sources

By Naeem Safi

Peshawar, the oldest living city of South Asia, has always been a melting pot of cultures and civilisations throughout its known history. Archaeological investigations on the famous Gor Khuttree mound in the walled city of Peshawar have identified human settlements dating back to 539 BC. That makes it one of the most unique world heritage assets where European, Central Asian, Persian, and Indian civilisations have left their marks.

On the southern side of this mound, less than 200 meters away from the Gor Khuttree, lays Mohallah Sethian -- which has seven magnificent mansions built by a famous business dynasty of the 19th century India, the Sethis. The Sethis had business links with India, China, Central Asia and Russia, which were seriously affected by the Russian Revolution. The Sethi Complex bore the brunt of hard times since then, till 2006 when the MMA government bought one of these mansions for the purpose of conservation and handed it over to the archaeology department.

The Sethi House was built by Haji Karim Baksh in 1882, and has used techniques and aesthetics from a very diverse range of sources. The layout plan resembles plans of old houses in Baghdad, while the decorative elements used here can be traced to Samarkand, Bukhara, Persia and India, which makes it one of the richest living architectural record of building techniques, tastes and craftsmanship of old times of the region.

The Sethi House is a three storey building with huge basements on all four sides of the central courtyard, making intelligent use of the ground levels. The incredible ceiling heights of these basements, there multiple levels, intelligent use of wooden jalis, panjalis, and baadgirs for light and ventilation, and compartmentalisation for different usages are good examples of space utilisation and energy conservation for compact urban properties. A well-protected vault in one of the basements with a strong steel door is a telltale sign of the riches the Sethis had to guard.Walking through load-bearing brick arches one finds a fountain in the central courtyard, which is not functional these days, however it does not need a lot of imagination to picture the calming effect of its music on the inhabitants. The structure of the building has used enormous amounts of wood with brick fillings. The central courtyard is surrounded by doorways and windows on the ground floor. Balconies of the balakhanas, the upper two storeys, open into it and connect all levels for instant communication -- a significant feature as opposed to the contemporary house plans that approves the western-style of individualism. The views on all sides of the courtyard is that of wooden doors, basta windows and panels, all intricately carved with floral and geometric motifs, blending Gandhara with the Islamic practices of those times. The splendid woodwork is embedded with beautiful stained glass pieces which make a colourful show for the indoors during daylight, and for the courtyard after dark.

Mostly pukka kali is used as a base for the fresco work; however there are a few instances of bypassing the standard technique, an observation made by architect Tahir Khattak, head of the documentation of the project.

Inside the rooms and living spaces, one finds ornately embellished cheenee khanas as the central decorative elements. These cheenee khanas alone have used many layers of the crafts that one might find only in palaces of those times. Starting from the aina-kari, which are then embedded in manabat-kari that is covered with kashi-kari. There are panels with paper paintings which are framed in plain glass, with the repetition of the layers mentioned above. The false ceilings are decorated with panels made of hundreds of wooden pieces that are studded with wooden reliefs painted with pigment paints; a technique known as tarseem bandi.

The elaborate use of decorative elements like carvings, fretwork, fresco tracery, stucco tracery, floral motifs used in scrolls, freeze lines, arches, and paintings makes it a monumental and arduous task for any conservation intervention.

Proper conservation and interpretation of the tangible cultural heritage will open many doors for the researchers, a task so vital for a culture that is still in search of its identity on many levels. One must contemplate that it is our built heritage -- which we are leaving behind -- that is most likely to survive in its original form and not our intentions. Our claims or level of honesty should not be the only benchmarks to qualify us to intervene in such projects, for it requires a lot of experience, technical expertise, and above all, sensitivity to qualify for that.

======================================================

Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/jan2011-weekly/nos-30-01-2011/foo.htm#1

Review: Sanjh

Sanjh by RetroArts, has brought together around 100 artists to raise funds for the flood-affected

By Naeem Safi

It is said that residents of Muslim Spain -- when Granada was at the pinnacle of civilisation of its time -- reached a level of sensibility where giving a single fruit as a gift would symbolise sharing a part of one’s life.

Pakistan, a tiny country in terms of its stature, and all time low on the charts of civilisation, is witnessing something roughly similar in its spirit to the above-mentioned sensibility. Sanjh (togetherness, exhibition’s title) by RetroArts has brought together around 100 artists to raise funds for the flood-affected Pakistanis. The exhibition, which includes paintings, sculptures, photographs, and digital prints, has opened yesterday at Alhamra Art Gallery and is scheduled to remain open for a fortnight.

It is one of those rare art events where one will find such an overwhelming number of artists -- senior as well as new -- from Pakistan and abroad, showing under one roof, setting an example to set aside all differences, if there were any, and connect for a better and secure future. Apparently, all this may sound like a cliché, but in reality, is not that common.

The donated artworks, mostly, were originally produced in other times and with different moods and intentions; it is the collective objective behind their display that makes this particular exhibition different from the others. The visual artists have put in their bit, by gifting some pieces from their lives to get some bread and medicine for the flood victims. Now it is for the art collectors, the donors, and the public to show their level of sensibility.

The Pakistani apparatus could learn a few lessons from its counterparts in the First World for how they have used, and are still using, visual and performing arts for the promotion of their respective ideologies, especially in the second half of the 20th century.

It is not easy for everyone, and especially artists, to remain indifferent to the reality that surrounds them, particularly when the reality is predominantly dark and grim; a spark of light is always welcomed. While the local and foreign media -- driven by the pressures of their respective marketplaces, and greed; the soulless leaders -- political and other; the ever-growing mass of pessimists; and above all the fundamentalists, are painting everything black in Pakistan, let the artists come out of this chaos, head to the forefront and splash some colours on the horizon, neither for left nor for right, but for hope and life. The artists must spearhead the quest for identity, as they are usually the first ones to break on to the other-side.

Some of the featured artists in the show are: Saleema Hashmi, Ahmed Ali Manganhar, Ayaz Jhokio, Farida Batool, Huma Mulji, Aasim Akhtar, Mohmmad Ali Talpur, Ayesha Jatoi, Asif Ahmed, Amira Farooq and others.

======================================================

Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/sep2010-weekly/nos-05-09-2010/enc.htm#5

Profile of a Street Artist

An ordinary citizen of extraordinary faith

By Naeem Safi

Lahore has witnessed and endured its own share of the human evolution over the course of the millennia—the greater part of which is—not by the Lahore known to us today, but by what is known as the Walled City of Lahore, once a capital of the Mughal India, where the river Ravi used to flow below its magnificent walls, of which only a few meters of remnant has survived. The complex labyrinth of streets and bazaars within could be accessed by thirteen gates, Delhi Gate being one of them. Here each street has its own story to tell; studded with myths, legends, anecdotes, and events from history—layers upon layers just like the ground underneath them.

Inside the Delhi Gate bazaar, just opposite the lane that leads to the historical spice market Akbari Mandi, is a street called Gali Surjan Singh, within which is Kucha Charkh Garan, a cul-de-sac. Here lives Bhola, in a very old house on the corner of this kucha, originally built by a Hindu, which his father had bought for seven thousand rupees when he and his siblings were little children.

Bhola came into picture, or should one say several pictures, when I was documenting the Shahi Guzargah. Bhola has painted his advertisements "Bhola painter, Delhi Gate" in Urdu with consistency over the entire route, composing them into the available spaces on the façades, which are not very prominent yet clearly visible. It was the paradox between the very name Bhola, which means gauche, and this advertisement campaign that first intrigued me. Being from a relevant discipline, it was an interesting set for me to respond to.

Bhola is painting for the last 25 years, a profession that he inherited from his father who left this world about exactly the same period. But he is not our regular bloke who caters to the aesthetics (or the lack of it) of the bourgeois. He paints advertisements, mostly text based, on banners, streamers, and walls etc, usually for the common folk. A profession which used to be considered as art that later evolved into graphic design. But he still calls himself a painter, just like the others here, who are in the same business. And he would share with pride how he did projects on the GT road, outside Lahore.

A few days back, I was walking down the gali when someone asked me, "When will I get my photos?" I looked back and it was Bhola, standing there just wearing an old but stainless brown shalwar, holding a blue t-shirt in his right hand and a cigarette pack in the left. A caked layer of henna over his unevenly shaven head, some of which had dripped down his neck. He seemed much weaker and down than before.

Since he uses the walls in the gali to hang the banners, his work was very slow due to the monsoons. We both looked up to the dark grey sky as a few drops announced it was time to move. We took cover under the scaffoldings that are being installed for the restoration of the street façade. I asked him how he is managing all this and he said he can barely make ends meet for himself and the medicine of his mother— who is suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorder. She is like this since he moved to the ground floor of the house along with her, following the marriage of his younger brother, where there is no ventilation or view. Once, he did get engaged with a fine girl "…when there was no silver in my hair." But somehow they could not get married. He dropped the idea altogether afterwards. I asked him who will take care of him in his old age.

The level of his indifference towards material world is such that he said he refused to get his share of the house transferred in his name because he has nothing much to do there. Once his Heaven (mother) is gone, he would rather sweep up his parents’ graves and live in the graveyard.

His left arm and right leg are affected by polio, most probably, but he says it was typhoid when he was an infant. He can not lift that arm, though he can hold things in his hand. Despite the low season and other challenges he has not lost his hope and says that Allah is their guardian. Then to support his belief, he shared his observation of an old man who rides a bicycle through these lanes early in the morning and scavenges various recyclables from the garbage.

One may wonder that if everything about and around Bhola is so common, then why should one be interested in his story? He may appear to be an ordinary citizen and his story may be common, but his outlook on the sound and fury of life is not; just like his existence.

=======================================================

Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/aug2010-weekly/nos-15-08-2010/she.htm#1

Dance

Rhythms of life

It took ages for the cultural expressions in Gilgit-Baltistan to develop and mature, they are now fading away at a much faster pace -- there is a dire need of proper documentation

By Naeem Safi

Gilgit-Baltistan, being one of the most beautiful places on earth, has a lot more to offer than just the scenic beauty. Contrary to the popular belief, the inhabitants of these valleys in the northern areas are much more cultured and civilised than their counterparts in the urbanised communities of the south. Their respect for diversity, belief in originality, unaltered hospitality, a rich value system, and love for peace can hardly be matched by the mechanised, 'modernised', educated, and enlightened humanoids.

Up in these valleys, one is lucky enough to witness a humble old man -- passing by on the dirt road, with his coarse hands, worn-out clothes, and bent under the weight of a straw bundle -- transforming into this leaping and beaming dancer. As if some ibex jumping from rock to rock, with that special gaze and swift moves painting images in the air, like many of his ancestors would have done before him. The brisk footwork, the stop-motion-like feel of it, the strong eye contact combined with facial expressions, the gradual transition of gestures and moves from suggestive to persuasive, entrap the intoxicated spectator in its web, just the way a hunter would trap his prey or a lover his beloved. Reflections of feelings, emotions, and aspirations, like frozen images in each move or 'frame' of the dance. These can vary between an eagle's dignified romance, a charging soldier, the swaying dervish, a noble commander, a jolly sportsman and many others. In some styles, certain moves and gestures clearly show imitation of the mating dance found in various other species.

The dance styles found here have roots around and beyond the Pamir knot, and have evolved through many generations and religions. But somehow the origins and inspirations have been lost among the changing layers of ideologies and cultural mingling, change in lifestyle preferences, and the gradual decline in reliance on nature in its un-adulterated state.

The dances specified for cultivation, Bao Faow for instance, and other such for harvesting and other seasonal festivities have their roots in old times, and these might have been proper religious rituals of the pre-Islamic times, like the famous Navajo hunting chants. The dances of these valleys are inter-connected with layers of aesthetics, poetry, music, history, mythologies, and drama. However, the dynamics of response vary from tribe to tribe, family-to-family, season-to-season, types of rituals, and festivals. Each style or occasion requires its own music, poetry, age group, and set of costumes. Along with the regional and tribal signature styles, individual performers improvise and adjust their moves according to the music and type of event, moving back and forth between the spiritual and the carnal, the plural and the singular, the subtle and the perceptible. Despite so many variations and improvisations, there is some method, some order in this disorder, that distinguishes its variants from the others.

The narrative may not be as elaborate for the non-locals as other dance forms of the subcontinent, Kathak for instance, but that could be because of the weak vocabulary available to translate such ethnic expressions, especially their interpretive aspects. These puzzles need masters and experts to study them carefully and then translate them.

Dance, in its essence is celebration of life and not lines. It is strange that dances from these valleys yet have to make it to the national level 'cultural' celebrations, the way the rest of the four provinces are represented by an assortment of dance styles of their own. One of the most valuable and priceless assets of this country is its rich cultural diversity. And all the efforts to consciously neglect or undermine these marginalised communities and their unique identities, for some hypothetical idea of unity, have caused a lot of damage and a good part of this priceless heritage has already been lost forever.

Who knows that this art form -- if approached with a genuine desire for inquiry in mind, on onomastic, anthropological, and other such levels -- may reveal certain aspects, which can connect the scattered dots of identity in crisis and fill in the gaps. High-level academic investigations will not only help understand the beauty of it, but may be able to connect the present with the original sources of inspiration.

Such cultural expressions are beyond religious and geographical boundaries. And though, it took ages for these cultural expressions to develop and mature, they are now fading away at a much faster pace, are in dire need of proper documentation. The range of complex gestures must be deciphered, not just for the sake of preservation but also for further promotion. The preservation of the intangible cultural heritage is the least the inhabitants and the authorities of this part of the world must do, especially when mindless 'development' plans in the very region are destroying the rich range of other heritage forms, like the marvellous petroglyphs along the ancient Silk Route -- which are undoubtedly a part of the world's heritage.

==========================================================

Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/jul2010-weekly/nos-11-07-2010/enc.htm#2

Review: Aasim Akhtar

Hazy dreams

Aasim Akhtar's recent drawings at Rohtas II were like characters in a finely woven plot where each individual is signifying the other and carrying multiple themes along the way to the final act

By Naeem Safi

But solemn is the silence

on the silvery haze

That drinks away their

voices in echoless repose,

And dreamily the evening has

stilled the haunted braes,

And dreamier the

gloaming grows.

The stanza from The Fairy Thorn by Samuel Ferguson best describes the overall mood of Aasim Akthar's "And dreamier, the gloaming grows", which is a series of his recent drawings that went on display at Rohtas II, in Lahore. The series uses the minimalist choice of materials -- 15 drawings framed in white, graphite on paper, with a couple of pastel works, and hung on white walls.

At first glance, some of the works look like a continuation of Marvin Bileck's etchings and engravings; not just for the choice of the title of the show but also for the choice of forms used, like the ones in the Heart to Heart, with which the show begins. However, it goes beyond that where the narrative begins with a metaphor from nature, and then goes on to engage metaphors of the nature. The varying tones of grey, and the choice of intimate instances -- personal, telluric, or the marriage of both -- is divulging the subconscious. It is nature that creates attraction between the two opposites and connects the organic forms of existence, or even the inorganic ones. The show is like a journey through the colourless mist of melancholy, where the images seem like reflections from a very lonely place. The place where subtle is part of the obvious, and obscure is rendering clarity.

Most of these drawings are like whispers, almost motionless, and embedded within them are the fine suggestions of the ineffable; while some are meandering through the moonlit landscapes of carnal desires, from a perspective that is slightly drifting towards the Other side, away from the land-of-the-sane-and-the-sure. A place where tall peaks of human passion are laden with tales that need to be told, and the walls of deep gorges are painted with shades of concupiscence. The interplays between the positives and the negatives, and the animate and the inanimate -- especially in the case of the five Bodyscapes -- are giving birth to the new and the more meaningful.

The Wind of Desire beautifully portrays the classic contest between the pull of desire and the vast abyss that is filled with myriad obstructions impeding the former. Along with that, the desire to break free from it, and glide over this chasm towards the ultimate bliss, intensifies this contest. The distorted torso with the bloated chest seems to be filled with the immense burden and pain that is precipitated by this conflict, as if desire is a deity and human flesh its ambrosias, struggling for survival yet defenceless and being sacrificed for a 'sacred' and inevitable cause of making the desire immortal.

In the Poppy Seed, poppy buds, flowers, and stems are rendered and composed in a manner in which they are dancing to the tune of life, depicting the never ending attraction between the pollen and the carpel, present in almost all living beings, in one form or the other, and a major thesis of life itself. The pale coloured petals of the blossoming flowers are the only objects that have used some hues in the entire body of works displayed in the show. Such a limited and careful application of colour, in this context, is apparently suggesting, or desiring, the feminine as a source for brining the colourfulness into the grand scheme of existence.

Apart from the individuality of each work, the discourse created by the titles in a particular order, and parallel to that the catharsis produced by the visuals in that order, further add on other meaningful layers to the set in totality; like characters in a finely woven plot where each individual is signifying the other while at the same time asserting its own identity, and carrying multiple themes along the way to the final act.

======================================================

Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/may2010-weekly/nos-23-05-2010/enc.htm#2

Interview: Amira Farooq

"The best part is the absolute isolation"

By Naeem Safi

Amira Farooq lives and works in Lahore. She received her BFA from NCA in 2004, followed by a brief adventure in print and electronic media as a model and presenter. Since then she has been painting and recently had her first solo exhibition at Nairang Art Gallery. She creates intense dialogues concerning the complementary nature of human relationships, emotions, and the existence, by juxtaposing the opposites in contrasting colours and forms -- usually, along with some elements from nature.

She is the fifth person to go to NCA from her family, and that too only to pursue fine arts. "Father is an architect, and mother is a designer. It definitely had an influence on me, because you see the way your house is kept; every little thing, like how to view things."

TNS: How has your major in printmaking at NCA influenced your work?

AF: It's all connected. I need variations in expressions, because you learn things that you might use in the other medium. Printmaking is a two-dimensional medium and I think that comes out a lot in my work. But the more I paint, the more I break away from that.

TNS: How has NCA affected your work, if at all?

AF: NCA, obviously, is an old structure, and has taught me some discipline that you can't work without. But apart from that, it is the exposure that I got there, by meeting people from all over Pakistan, which was a huge eye-opener and got me out of my own little bubble. It has influenced my work more, conceptually, rather than in technique or skill.

TNS: How do you conceptualise your images? Do you draw on ideas or memories?

AF: I just pick an emotion, focus on it and I paint the visuals that best describe it. Sometimes I sketch, but most of the times I am working straight on canvas. I have to have music to work; that really helps channelling the emotions and in focusing.

TNS: How much role the element of chance has in your work?

AF: I think everything that we do in life is half chance. When you start making a painting, you intend to do one thing, but during the process you discover things, maybe through the paint, or let's say something spills over, or all of a sudden you see something on the canvas that you hadn't intended to make before. So yes, there is the element of chance in almost all creative processes.

TNS: What famous artists have influenced you, and how?

AF: Michelangelo has influenced me for one sheer skill, prolificacy. And then Dali for his mind; you just can't walk away from Dali without reacting. I really love Van Gough because he was the rebel of the art world. I, kind of, relate to him in terms of feeling misunderstood. In order to achieve greatness, there is a certain amount of suffering involved, and nobody gets it better than Van Gough. And then when I'm sitting down and painting, in my space, my biggest influence would probably be the first cave painter. Because here was somebody who was free of conditioning and approval, and all he thought about was just making an image, and re-creating something that he had seen in nature. And I think you have to be really free in your head from the voices of other people while you paint. So, I channel that anonymous caveman -- or woman, we don't know -- who started painting on the cave walls.

TNS: You mean you paint without any inhibition and do not expect any sort of appreciation for your work?

AF: When I am painting, the viewers are not there. They come into the picture when I show them my work. There is a dialogue. Not every piece can be loved by everyone; but every piece is loved by someone. That is a sort of validation that you need, to keep working. Because there is so much isolation in this profession that without that feedback, sometimes, it's hard to see what you are doing is really important. The job description of the artist is to be the conscience of the nation. In order to love something, you have to be free of your own selfish desires.

TNS: Do you feel that your technique of rendering is a bit simplified for painting?

AF: One could look at my work and say that it's not as 'skilled' as it is expected to be, but that is exactly my point. I'm trying to create a stylised version of reality that looks very simple from a distance, and even child-like to some extent. But at a second glance, the concept is not child-like at all. The paradox I like to play with my work is to keep the visuals very simple and the concept a little out of the box. Lately I've gone back to the primaries; if it's a simple thought, I might use fewer colours. It depends on what I am trying to say.

TNS: What are the best and the worst parts of being an artist?

AF: The best part is the absolute isolation, and it is just addictive once you start expressing yourself on a daily basis. Being an artist gives me a licence to insanity.

But then, the stereotyping can be very inextricable. Because most of the people believe that I will automatically be liberal and open to everything and anything under the sun, which is not the case. I have very clear-cut preferences and very precise likes and dislikes. And being a female artist, there are a lot of sexist gender issues attached as well.
===================================================================
Published in The News on Sunday
http://jang.com.pk/thenews/feb2010-weekly/nos-14-02-2010/enc.htm#4

Experience

Qingqi

By Naeem Safi

On way to the Walled City of Lahore for a photography assignment; the road is blocked after one had crossed the Railway Station. The closed windows and the popular songs on an FM channel running western songs are the only solace against the noise and the visuals of the dilapidated urban fabric.

In the midst of all this sound and fury, something shiny and very colourful catches the eye. It looks like two metal benches welded together and then set on wheels. It’s a Qingqi rickshaw decorated with vibrant coloured motifs and objects.

But then, it’s not the only one; there is a swarm of them, not all of them colourful and decorated. They are causing the roadblock. That just adds to the passion, and one scrutinizes this weird looking ‘thing’ that some humans use as a vehicle.

One finds some striking similarities between this machine-age-creature and our beloved state, beginning with the question of its origin. Some say these things were inducted after removing the tongas with an organised campaign (read conspiracy) by one of the ‘top 10’ families. A propaganda campaign was launched against the horses on various forums, instilling fear in the masses of some extremely dangerous virus found in horse droppings.

The same horse — which made empires for humans — had to witness this disgrace by the same ‘superior’ species; thus leading to a partition between the two, both sides oblivious to the real causes.

Instead of planning a proper urban transport alternative by the government, this wonder-of-the-world was offered instead. What a way for a nuclear power to enter the 21st century.

The structure of this creature is a puzzle in itself — half bench and half bike (of Chinese origin) and some interesting improvisations according to the owner’s need. It is imagination stretched to the maximum. But in a way, they are ahead of the Greeks in creating a mythological creature that not only exists in real life, but plays a vital role in the common man’s life—a god or a beast; leave that to the riders of this storm.

It is beyond comprehension why would someone spend so much money and effort to decorate a badly designed product and above that, seek a stamp of approval for that? We will have to wait for some white skinned foreigner to approve of this futile exercise as ‘art’; just like its predecessor, the so-called Truck Art.

The passengers are compulsorily divided into two groups, each having a view of the same journey 180 degree apart from the other. The driver’s seat has a provision for an extra passenger, whose weight balances this creature against the load at the back (doctrine of necessity?). The cannibalized bike pulls the entire load (population) with its small engine (economy), as a result, making more noise (read owning the conflicts of the entire Muslim Ummah — another myth?) and creating more pollution.

The passengers on these swarming creatures get to hear the blasting sounds (the religious and political rhetoric) as if they are riding in some rally, but in fact are barely travelling, and that too in a dehumanised manner. They are denied the right to privacy and, above all, a sense of decency.

The whole thing just shows the psyche (or helplessness) of our people who will do anything to get from point A to point B; no matter how harmful and senseless the means are; compromising their honour and dignity.

======================================================

Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/feb2010-weekly/nos-07-02-2010/she.htm#3

Interview: Saeed Akhtar

"Art is all about our lives, why hide it?"

Professor Saeed Akhtar’s contribution to the development of art in Pakistan can hardly be matched. His is undoubtedly a classic master. His observation, mastery of skill, combined with his imagination has produced the most remarkable works that appreciate the beautiful in the local by idealising them in various thematic settings. Quest for the Divine beauty was the focus of his recent exhibition.

By Naeem Safi

The News on Sunday: Have you always been an artist?

Saeed Akhtar: I had this appetence for art, just like everyone else has that for one thing or the other. However, before that, I was interested in automotive mechanics, especially motorbikes. I would disassemble the parts and join them again, marvelling at their beauty and the capacity of human brain.

TNS: Which aspect of art is more consequential for our times in this part of the world?

SA: Art encompasses all aspects of life through architecture, textiles, ceramics, and other such disciplines. A molvi once said to me that I’ll burn in hell for teaching drawing. I replied that it is for Him to decide, but what can I say about you, the core of ignorance. He works as an electrician, and has learned his trade with a lot of beating from his ustad, instead of learning it in an appropriate institute, where he could have learned proper drawing. The absence of quality art education at school level has turned this society into the mess it is now, where all one see is entangled cables hanging in front of ugly facades. I can not imagine a single moment of life without art.

TNS: Do you believe that this attitude has anything to do with the shifting interest from realism to abstraction?

SA: In our days, art was believed to be a means of earning money, and for that one needed proper training in seven-eight skills to achieve the required level of understanding. These days words are stressed upon more than any other skill; this does not solve the problem. When an artist is not well equipped with the required set of skills it will breed frustration. But who knows, the artists of today can be more successful than those of our times, as each period has its own requisite set of skills. And I believe the young artists are well aware of that.

TNS: As we are talking about changing times, how is Saeed Akhtar of today different from the one of 1960s?

SA: Learning, is what distinguishes them. Our teachers could see one eighth of an inch error in perspective in a glance. I once asked my teacher, "Ustad jee ay inni inni ghaltiyan tohano nazar aa jandian ney?" He said, "Hann puttar, sari umar lang gai ay wekdey." I would not have much consciousness then, regarding my errors; the teachers were there to identify them. Now I can depend only on my own judgement.

My canvas offers me new challenges everyday, it annoys me, it hurts me, and it makes me feel like crying. But the joy that follows a finished work is unthinkable for anyone else. This is what my struggle is all about, since coming from the age that was all about learning the fundamental skills.

TNS: What interests you the most when deciding a subject?

SA: Anything that comes out nicely in the end. Beauty is not the only standard; beyond that, it’s the expression that matters. The thought of painting eyes kept bothering me for a long time; I would paint and wash repeatedly. The eyes that I painted on a 4’x4’ canvas remained untouched for quite a while; one day I started drawing lines around them that turned out to be my own image, from the time spent in Quetta.

TNS: How do you choose your hues and tones, some of them being imaginary for you?

SA: I am not familiar with the look of blush, or a suggestion of greenish tint on some freshly shaven face. But I can not deny their existence. I see tones and then blend them according to my imagination. However, I am not too cautious with colour application; and sometimes my misjudgements fascinate viewers.

TNS: How do you see the nude in the broader scheme of existence?

SA: I believe this whole existence is for the human body. If you pay attention, all the activities that you see around you are linked to the human body, the dress, the building, and almost all of the innovations related to such products. God says that He has created the human body in His own image, which is the most beautiful. In other words, the more beautiful a human, the closest she/he will be to the Divine. God is beautiful and loves beauty. Though we can not imagine His beauty, we can still idealize the glimpse of it in the human form. The Romans and the Greeks have done the same. The seven nuktas that make an alif follow the human proportions with which the whole Quran is written. Sharing beauty and joy is not a sin.

TNS: You believe you are looking for the Divine in such manifestations of beauty?

SA: In this regard, human face attracts me the most. I saw a face, when I went for haj, and thought that the artist who painted Mary must have seen a beauty like this. Such beauty leads to beautiful thoughts where we find our own ideals.

TNS: The figures on display in your recent exhibition portray such beauty?

SA: Beauty is somewhat personal. I like high-bridged noses, some people don’t. Some like narrow eyes, while I like big eyes. You have to see the beauty in its context, because different regions have different perceptions of it. The bright coloured attire and ornaments used in our deserts in the South can not be appreciated through some other culture’s perspective due to the difference in sensibilities. The working women with Gandhi, had just fabric wrapped around their shoulders, and were not wearing any blouses. In our childhood the women would wear tehband with kurtas, and there was no concept of bra. Why do we want to see the female in stiff and straight posture anyway? Similarly, since I have lived in Quetta, I really like the graceful turbans wore by the men there.

In my recent exhibition, only five paintings are a bit exposed, and they were the first to get the sold tag. And the apparently unusual postures are nothing but images from daily life that is not tied with ropes, and which can be extraordinary on its own. One of my paintings — showing a female figure in motion on a swing, her hair swaying in the wind and the bust visible through the drapery — was bought by a lady. I enquired where she had it hung; it was in their living room. Art is all about our lives, why hide it?

TNS: What is the story of buraq?

SA: It is all about emotions and has little to do with the tangible. Our prophet’s journey through heavens — and his description of the ride, which was much faster than light — brings to mind such visuals that guide us to the path of breaking free. Look at the fascinating colours of feathers on this planet; buraq, for me, is the culmination of all flights.

TNS: How do you feel about art appreciation and art criticism in Pakistan?

SA: Artists have colours and art critics have words to play with. But mostly the critics here use the same old vocabulary, and you feel like reading the same thing over and over. Our art institutes mainly focus on the Western Art and art history as the art. And in comparison, there is not much of the published material available on the local arts and artists. Do art students know about the local artists as much as they do about the Western artists? How many art students actively visit art galleries and exhibitions, or know about Shakir Ali Museum, Chughtai Museum, or the Alhamra Permanent Art Gallery?

=======================================================

Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/dec2009-weekly/nos-27-12-2009/enc.htm#2

Interview: Julien Columeau

"I think writing is born also out of a dialogue with different authors and that makes you conscious of a very important thing; that there are books that you have never read and you would love to read but nobody has written them and you are the person who is going to write them. Writing is always about writing what others haven't written."

By Naeem Safi

Julien Columeau got a degree in Islamic Studies from Sorbonne, Paris, and has been working as an interpreter for an international humanitarian organization for the past twelve years. Was posted in India, Afghanistan, and lately Pakistan. Heavily influenced by philosophical and literary theories of Maurice Balnchot, Georges Bataille, Jacques Derrida, the 'enfants terribles' of French Thought. Has published two novels in France. His third French novel, Zahid (story of mujahid turned pimp) is under press in Paris.

Following are the excerpts from an interview TNS had with him recently.

The News on Sunday: Can you recall precisely when did you decide to become a writer?

Julien Columeau: I don't think I ever decided to become a writer; I think I just decided to write. Becoming a writer, in my sense, sounds a bit pompous. There are very few people that I'd call writers. In French we have this concept of 'écrivain'. Écrivain is somebody whose life depends on writing. He is the person who'd die if he didn't write a book or a line. He lives out of writing, spiritually, gets his energy out of writing and not out of anything else. I think it is very difficult and very few people can attain that. Most of us get energy from writing, people who are like me, who are in the habit of writing, as people are in the habit of smoking. We derive our energy from writing but I don't think we derive all our energy from writing and we are striving to get close to that stage where you are one with your writing.

TNS: Could you tell us about your writing habits? Do you follow a strict regime or wait for inspiration or the 'right mood'?

JC: I don't believe in inspiration and I don't believe in getting in the mood either. I think what you have to write is within you and it has been within you for years. It's very much connected with your own subconscious. I think writing is a form of a conscious dialogue with your own subconscious. It's all about you letting your subconscious talk very often. You have to go and meet a psychoanalyst and you don't decide the time when you are going to meet him and, unfortunately, it's following a very strict routine. All the psychoanalysts stress a lot on the importance of routine.

TNS: How important is company or setting for a writer?

JC: It is important, to some extent, but it is also very good to be able to see it for your own imagination and not for your physical aids. I think in order to write fiction you need to give more importance to the unseen. I would say that without having been to Lahore I would have never written the book, Saghar, if I talk about myself. But at the same point, when I wrote Saghar I don't think I was in Lahore.

When I had the first idea of Saghar I was quite far away from Lahore. The city was some kind of a memory or a fantasy. And this is why I didn't feel restricted by geographical facts that at times you feel you have to respect if you are talking about a given place.

It actually got me a lot of liberty to write about Lahore in a very dreamy way. In order to translate it into words you need to feel the distance. I was not describing Lahore, I was describing the vision of Lahore, which is very imprecise and I wanted it to be so.

TNS: You have written a novel about poet Saghar, by the same name. Would you like to share the experience?

JC: I didn't have to go through much actually; it was just a couple of book readings about him, written by those who were close to him, who had a lot of love and respect for him, which was good. And I feel that a lot of Urdu poets have earned people's respect but I don't think many poets have earned people's love to the extent to which Saghar had. I have the feeling that he is very dear to the people of Lahore, especially the Walled City and some adjacent areas where he used to move around and that's a very specific thing. So what I encountered first was people's love for Saghar, and a lot of them could still identify themselves with Saghar and his memories, as if Saghar was embodying a period which is dead now.

And then I realised there were important things missing, unfortunately, people were talking about their perception of Saghar and their love for Saghar but not much about Saghar himself. And they were talking a lot about what they assumed Saghar was going through -- mentally, spiritually, and philosophically. The thing that was missing was Saghar 's point of view itself. It was then I realised that I'd have to go through his diwaan as often as I could and try to interpret it in my own way into some fiction. I've been writing the fiction for a couple of years, which was to find a kind of fictional background for a lot of the verses by Saghar, which moved me and that was the beginning of the purpose of writing the book.

TNS: What has influenced this text more: reading Saghar or living in his city?

JC: Yes I'd say both of them but especially Saghar himself, meaning whatever I could get from his poetry, from different biographical accounts, and what also I could gather and understand, which is very important, is that people don't know much about his life. So it's mainly about some kind of gaps which I noticed in his biographies, huge gaps. People were not aware of very important things; they knew where he was born, where he died, but they didn't know what happened to his mother after 1947. They didn't know who inspired him, whom he referred to all his life in a very metaphorical way. So basically what I didn't know about Saghar is what inspired me to write about him.

TNS: You feel that your perception is different from that of the local Urdu writer?

JC: I'm not too sure. It's debatable. If you talk about the local writer you might be talking about the masters. Obviously I cannot write anything classical because I don't know much about classical literature. People in the modern age feel differently. The set of experiments attempted by contemporary writers in the past thirty years have taken Urdu literature to its limits, for instance Enver Sajjad, Anis Nagi, and the stories of Hassan Askari, the first stories written in Urdu that are very fresh and willingly used the method of stream of consciousness. I was very much influenced by poetry as well, especially Majeed Amjad.

TNS: Do you use such a rich vocabulary in French as you've used in Urdu?

JC: The aspects of language, which I stressed on and exploited, while writing in Urdu and in French are different. In French I wrote in a very intellectual and internalised way, and in Urdu I tried to exploit the colourfulness of the language.

What you write is not what the language tells you to write but you are telling the language what it is to express. I was more conscious in the beginning when I was writing in Urdu, so that not to make it obvious for the reader that it's a foreigner writing. And since I had to write in the voice of Saghar I was not allowed to write anything but what I imagined would be a very rich, colourful and precise language. The effort was very conscious in the beginning but soon it became Saghar 's voice itself and then I was possessed by it. If I think about most of the scenes I have no idea how I wrote them, or no recollection of the mood I was in. This connection of distance is what helped me feel Saghar 's character and hear his voice within me.

TNS: So what you are saying is that you had some sort of a spiritual experience?

JC: I would not say that at all, being very far from roohaniyat. I think it's a very material experience. And in spirit it's a very sexual experience.

TNS: Do you believe Pakistanis have understood and appreciated Saghar the way he deserved it?

JC: Saghar was a malamati, somebody who despised himself and made himself despicable in the eyes of the society. I don't think there is any question of deserving. He stays in people's memories as a malang, with all the sensitivities and sensibilities that are associated with it, and that's what he wanted. This is something that I talk about in the novel, the malang who was so present in the public spheres and life. While malang is somebody who lives a life of retirement or that of a hermit, which was not his case. And I somehow came up with this idea that maybe Saghar could have been rejected by the other malangs that creates a different state of mind in the end where Saghar is completely satisfied with his life and he feels that he is neither a malang nor a normal person anymore. The last thing that gave meaning to his life was the company of his beloved.

He created his own mental space. I have the feeling, as far as his interaction with drugs is concerned, that it became a habit later at some point. As in the beginning it was born out of his wish to experiment with different states of consciousness. He talked about drugs, using the metaphor of wine and the name he chose for himself, Saghar. But it was more than just consuming drugs consciously and in a very organised way as far as his poetic dynamic is concerned. A point that I'm highlighting in the novel is that he became a malang out of compulsion, to some extent. But at the end it is his decision. When he walks out of the hotel room towards Data Darbar, he is someone who knows where he is going, with an aim in mind to describe and analyse the old process -- when he says "mein khud ko munazzam tarikay sey taraaj karonga", the only instance of the future tense in my novel.

TNS: Would you like to elaborate on the protagonist's choice in Saghar to appreciate the military parade over saving his love?

JC: That's the feature of Saghar, him being a patriot. I'm describing something that some people witnessed but the context is fictional where his girlfriend is feeling the effect of withdrawal and he is out to get some money for her heroin. She is dying while he is doing that.

I felt like it was echoing with the beginning of the second part when he writes the national anthem of Pakistan and in return loses his personality. It's a kind of metaphor expressing the way the states crush individuals through the passion that they ignite in their hearts and minds about the nation and other confused and meaningless concepts.

Saghar is very much attached to mythology, and nation is very much part of the mythology which is beyond his own existence and that makes him jealous of these soldiers for being part of it, yet real creatures.

TNS: You feel other writers influence your writing?

JC: I think writing is born also out of a dialogue with different authors and that makes you conscious of a very important thing, which is that there are books that you have never read and you would love to read but nobody has written them and you are the person who is going to write them. Writing is always about writing what others haven't written. You have to be faithful to the originality. You need to distance yourself from the authors who give you energy through their ideas in order not to write in the same style as them. The idea is to achieve the balance between yourself and the others, because if you're too much of yourself then nobody will understand a single word of what you write.

TNS: Before learning Urdu, what was your perception about this culture?

JC: A person coming in contact with something that is new to him has some prejudices. And I had some kind of fixed ideas in my mind and was going pretty much by all the stereotypes which are being circulated outside Asia. Learning Urdu was a very important and central experience, the experience of changing yourself through a language that is a very fresh object to you. While doing that, you give up on your own culture and background and more of your inner self and identity and focus on something else. And if you have been able to focus on that then you will realize that it doesn't really make any difference if you write in Hebrew or Urdu.

TNS: Your favourite Urdu authors.

JC: My favourite Urdu writers are poets. First on my list would be Majeed Amjad, then Saleem Ahmad and maybe not immediately Saghar, which may sound very paradoxical. I love what he wrote but I don't think he reaches the heights. He was not like a literary figure who is coming up with literature consciously. His own process of creativity and writing was very different in nature from the process of Majeed Amjad and Saleem Ahmad, or N.M. Rashid.

Each poet's poetry is, or defines a different genre. It's not that some people write in the poetical genre but I think that Majeed Amjad writes in the Majeed Amjadian genre. It goes beyond style because style is about repeating a certain set of images or combination of words. It's born out of the unity of the inner kaifiyyat and the way this kaifiyyat meets the author's world through words. I feel a lot of silence, or sakoot -- being stuck in time -- in Majeed Amjad's poems. Or like Joan Elea who was toying with the zero, or nihilism.

TNS: How do you see the contemporary Urdu literature?

JC: Urdu literature was in danger, some time ago, to die of suffocation. And I don't think many literatures can survive by themselves. There have always been two currents of Urdu literature, one is the riwayat pasand, who want to go by the tradition; and there are people who want to break free from the tradition.

I have the feeling that that kind of hangover with tradition was very much present with Urdu literature when the taraqi pasand were going to take over. Then some people, among which Asad Farooqi, and Muhammad Umar Memon, and Ajmal Kamal, realised that Urdu was going to die out of suffocation and decided to open the window by translating and adapting works from other languages into their own.

TNS: Anything else you want to share or shed light on?

JC: I wrote this novel first in French, and then I realised that very often I ended up explaining some concepts indigenous to this land. Then wrote it in Saghar 's language and changed it to the first person that gave me the liberty to impersonate him and play his role actively in my mind. Actually Urdu freed me from all the constraints that I was feeling while writing in French. People would find it very paradoxical for me feeling much more freedom in writing in a language which is not my mother tongue. But it was as if I was equipped with a new and fresh imagination, which was a very exciting and unique experience.

The book I have written is more of a tribute than a novel. After its completion I visited Saghar's shrine and asked for forgiveness from the baba.

==============================================================

Published in The News on Sunday

http://www.jang.com.pk/thenews/oct2009-weekly/nos-18-10-2009/pol1.htm#1

Interview: Michal Glikson

"It's hard to believe that

people can even make art here"

Michal Glikson is presently studying her masters in painting at Baroda School, Maharaja Sayajirao University of Baroda, Gujarat. In 2008, she was invited as artist -- in resident to the National College of Arts, Lahore, where she gave a presentation of students work from the Baroda School and showed the Baroda series. The Lahore Series evolved out of her internship in NCA's specialised miniature painting department and has been shown in Baroda in tandem with a presentation of students work from the NCA, Lahore. Lahore Series was exhibited in May 2009 at Damien Minton Gallery, Sydney, Australia. Excerpts of interview follow.

By Naeem Safi

The News on Sunday: How did you end up in this part of the world all the way from Australia?

Michal Glikson: My interest in this part of the world began when I was studying politics as a secondary degree to my fine arts degree and I became really fascinated by imperialism, colonisation, and particularly the links between the colonisation of Australia and the exploitation of the subcontinent by the British Raj. So it was following the trail of the British and their empire that I first went to India.

Then in 2006, I was really interested in the connections between the kinds of news coverage that we got about the 2005 earthquake in Pakistan and the links between that kind of media coverage and the old history of British exploitation. It was some kind of fascination with wanting to understand why the news coverage would be so skewed, linked historically to the old patterns of exploitation. That's why I really wanted see for myself what was really happening at the scene of the earthquake or what had really happened to people on the day that it caused the kinds of media coverage that we got in Australia which presented the Kashmiri people in a very bad light. I was quite sceptical and was interested in finding the root of that feeling people's stories. TNS: You exhibited at Rohtas a few weeks back, how did that go?

MG: There was not a large turnout but the people that were there seemed to really enjoy the work and I got some very nice feedback particularly in the guest book. People really seemed to grasp where I was coming from, which was a place of not just compassion but more a place of wanting to make connections, to actually step into the shoes of people.

TNS: What made you choose children as a primary audience?

MG: The works are done for children and adults but I hoped to engage children's attention, to capture the other end of what the media wasn't presenting -- media was presenting a sophisticated kind of view that you get from the lens of the camera and the flashy sensation. I was hoping to present the kind of story that you get upon reflection and that speaks to children in terms of the language that they speak when they are beginning to draw. In making the works I felt like a child a lot of the time.

The style is one of a childlike simplicity. I don't attempt to mimic the way children draw but I do comment in the style of the drawing in ways the things that stand out to children, which are colour and a sensitivity of line. At this stage I didn't want to present this view as an exquisitely controlled experience but to be one much closer to the surface of the skin.

TNS: Do you believe in the bourgeois and humanitarian divisions of art?

MG: I think it is a reality and I wish it wasn't there. Many people are in denial of that and we have to ask whose interest it serves that they continue to deny that schism. There is a lot of money to be made out of denying certain schisms in our society -- there is a lot of money to be made by denying that chocolate makes you fat.

TNS: How do you feel about the local art scene, especially in relation with the socio-political challenges that this region is going through?

MG: This is going to sound kind of tough, but it's hard to believe that people can even make art the way things are in Pakistan, similarly in India or Australia for that matter. And this is because there is such an enormous distance between the people making works and the people suffering the issues. There are people making works who are trying to reach down into the issues, but there is such a great socio-economic and political distance between the makers of the works and the sufferers; and then again a distance between the makers whose works get seen and the makers whose works don't get seen. It's kind of like an enormous beast not going anywhere and tripping over itself, because the thing is who is enjoying or reading the works.

It's not that I think that things are much better in Australia, where we don't have a huge gallery-going audience. But the gap between the gallery-going audience and the non-gallery-going audience is a little smaller than it is here. Here it's like people are making out whilst riding a serpent. And you can see the serpent of the country waving around and these little artists on top almost sucking their thumbs but trying to look at the serpent and make-work.

The role of the artist has largely become of someone who sits on the periphery of society and sucks their thumbs. And sometimes they make a lot of money by doing so, and they come into the centre and then go out again. But they are not regarded as a writer of books; they are regarded as somebody who is in some kind of basket or rocking chair.

TNS: What is the alternative to sucking thumbs?

MG: There is a wonderful book that really attacks this kind of predicament and that's the The Reenchantment of Art by Suzi Gablik, in which she talks about how a whole new epoch of the way we regard and make art has to begin and has begun and it really sets a challenge that everybody who is making anything ought to really a look at.

I am grappling with it myself and not succeeding but we must grapple with it. And that is, that people who make things should be putting themselves right on the street in the face of the things that needs to be re-made. It's a literal agenda that she proposes; it's as literal as a new architecture that is efficient, and in its efficiency beautiful, and in its beauty democratic. It's about a new way of recycling and organizing our garbage and not just making art out of garbage but actually programming into the very way that society is operating. It's difficult to describe in words but the process or the product has to really be something that people can use.

For me that was the most rewarding aspect of the whole earthquake story thing, the process of actually sitting down in some field with some people who had lost so much and doing a portrait of them as beautifully and truthfully as I could in the given circumstances.

Their stories weren't really getting out there. Journalists had come and gone, snapped pictures and left. One of the things that every creature really thrives on is energy. In the end, for me, it was not about making pictures, although the end product was something that people could see, but the actual experience.

============================================================

Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/aug2009-weekly/nos-02-08-2009/enc.htm#2

Experience

Pain is very personal

A few brief glimpses -- among hundreds of thousands more -- from the camps inhabited by people now called internally displaced

By Naeem Safi

Pain--has an Element of Blank--

It cannot recollect

When it begun--or if there were

A time when it was not.

Emily Dickinson

Pain is personal -- a deep, dark emptiness -- may be some part of which can be traced in the blank eyes of those who are feeling it. But that is the thing with feelings -- it is hard to express the best and, unfortunately, the worst with words. It's beyond the faculty of language. No wonder observing a few minutes of silence is the best way for nations to express feelings.

Can one write about the blankness in the eyes of a mother from Swat who has left the dead body of her husband on a bed behind locked doors, and fled the area with her children to survive -- physically, of course. She, carrying the newly acquired title of the widow… Can all the gory metaphors really make one feel what the children, women, and men of Swat are actually going through?

What words would you choose when you meet an old man, who is bent down with age, carrying his entire refuge in a plastic bag on his shoulder, empty gaze fixed on earth and mouth slightly open with fatigue, with rubber slippers that are stitched together with multicoloured threads, dragging his feet which have become one colour with dust, as if the dust is slowly taking over his body.

"We were 17 in total when we left Chinärgè," Muhammad Zaman, 73, narrates, "but at Barikot we realised we were walking through a curfew zone. Everyone around us panicked and ran for their lives in the mountains to hide from the army... It was late at night, when I climbed down to Dargai with strangers, and then walked all the way to Mardan in the hope that I might find my sons, Munir and Nazar Hussain, among the crowd. Spent a night there and came back to Jalala. It's been four days and I'm still looking for them."

A very old man handed over his two granddaughters to some strangers, pleading to take care of the little girls -- for God's sake. If this is not the only case, then the history of the lost children of Balakot might be repeating.

A family left a boy, who had polio, back in the valley inside their locked home, because they had to cross the mountains on foot. They left some dry bread and water by his side. Now the mother is a living dead, praying for his life but with very little hope.

These are just a few brief glimpses. There are hundreds of thousands more. One does not even have to use one's imagination to lose it. It takes thousands of years for cultures and cultural landscapes to develop. These IDPs are the victims of pride.

The damage done to a people and a culture is irrecoverable, but no one seems to be aware of that. The government is asking for more from the donor countries, but the majority of IDPs and their hosts yet have to see the first sign of any government presence. On the other hand, the government is refusing to acknowledge the total failure on its part for not being able to plan things properly. It still has to own this mess along with everything that is going on. Even the All Parties' Conference was just another drawing room meeting, some participants denying the government's announcement of their support for the military operation. It is not surprising that the overwhelmed locals and volunteers in Mardan, Charsadda, and Swabi find it hard to believe that the government was not aware of the scale of the catastrophe. Chomsky has rightly observed, "Hypocrisy is the standard. It's ugly, but it's the standard."

The media has got something new to sell. The TV channels are feeding their huge 24-7-transmission bellies, and some even have the courage to make skits on the scarcity of naswaar in Mingora. TV talk shows are a good pastime. And an FM radio correspondent, reporting about the plight of pregnant IDP women in Mardan, thinks it would be a good idea to add, "…and since khan saab is seldom satisfied with fewer kids, so we have a lot of such pregnant cases here." After all, it's all about entertaining the audience.

And the audience, in this theatre, is playing its role. There are stalls on every other crossing, with loud speakers screaming and banners showing in big bold letterings the names of the 'concerned' individuals and organizations.

If it were not for the people of the immediate districts that absorbed the major load of the IDPs, the world would have witnessed a disaster of much greater proportions than what it is coping with now. The locals are mostly farmers living in farmhouses. They still have not shown any sign of displeasure or fatigue to their guests. But they too fear the time when there will soon be no grain in their stores.

It is true that some of people supported the Taliban. But regardless of the time and the context, has not movements throughout history gained sympathies of a few common men? Masses are like a herd of sheep, they will cheer and dance if ushered towards a sports festival, and will support any gun that promises a better future (and is frequently pointed at them). May that promise come from a red banner, a green banner, a white one, or the bright blue; along with them -- no God, one God, or more than one gods, there will always be a few to follow them.

=======================================================

Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/may2009-weekly/nos-24-05-2009/dia.htm#4