Book Review: Women and militarism in Pakistan

Reviewer’s revelation: I have known the author of this book for over two decades.

I bought my friend Aneela Zeb Babar’s book We Are All Revolutionaries Here as soon as I heard about it—one of the first copies SAGE sold, I think?!—because I know Aneela is a very lively writer and an insightful observer of the everyday realities that make up a social moment. Now, I often buy books enthusiastically and then they sit on my bookshelf for years, waiting for that project which would call for them. Aneela’s, I actually have read right through!

The rate of growth of new subfields in security studies is directly related to government investment in their propagation. A couple of years ago, there was a conference in Washington DC on ‘Countering Violent Extremism’ or CVE. In two year, investment in conferences and research projects has grown apace to generate a minor library of studies that largely recycle the same information—a portion of government perspective, a portion of UN/INGO values, a little nod to empiricism and recommendations, directed at anyone who will listen. I know this because I have had my moment with this, having researched and written a short background note on women and CVE last year.

Into this discursive moment, enters Aneela’s book, a compilation of work done meticulously over a decade or longer, reminding us of the kind of research that actually builds knowledge.

What is this book about? Aneela writes about one of the most-discussed puzzles of our time—what draws people towards worldviews that seem extremely radical and even irrational to others of us? She approaches this question with an open mind and heart, and writes with an honesty that allows us to walk with her. We are in those classrooms and living rooms and offices and discussion groups that she attends, hearing people speaking about what faith has come to mean for them and how it enjoins them to live—not as diktat but as choice. The researcher listens with empathy and writes critically.

One of the charming features of Aneela’s writing is that she blends the personal with the external narrative allowing us to understand her location and her baggage.

The first chapter is about madrassahs and the new hybrid seminaries. Outside Pakistan, we get to read about madrassahs but how many of us know about these new institutions that anchor contemporary curricula in religious education? Graduates enter a variety of professions but share “religious values and a network of contacts” (page 34). These networks are emerging as significant and Aneela suggests are an end in themselves. But students grow up with religious—essentially, status quo—values so deeply ingrained that this schooling deprives “their students of the will to change or challenge all that is flawed in Pakistani society.” There is no reinterpretation or will to resist the challenges that face state and society. Rather than engage with these challenges, young people are choosing to express their values through consumerism of a particular sort.

Aneela’s second and third chapters describes a world many of us will never enter—the world of expatriate Pakistani women and their rediscovery of faith and a faith-based identity. She writes specifically of women she has interviewed in Canberra and the influence of Farhat Hashmi’s Al Huda, an organisation that offers religious lectures and seminars for women. In this world view, the “intrusion of women into the public sphere defined as the ‘men’s area of control’ is seen as leading to the disruption, if not the destruction, of the fundamental order of things” (page 53). Dress, and veiling, are of importance to this discussion. The chapter allows us to hear how women see their own journeys to faith and why this leads them to make the choices they do. More than anything, it takes that amorphous image of veiled, devout women in a mass and turns them into individuals who, we learn, have thoughtfully made choices. Aneela closes her second chapter by pointing out that before the Intefada, few Pakistani women wore the veil but that they now do, may ironically signal that women are part of public life (page 74).

The third chapter, which describes Al Huda’s apparoach and work, is also interesting for what it shows you about gender and class relations in Pakistani society. Drawing women away from frivolous pastimes into religious education and then social service (page 88) without upsetting the patriarchal applecart (page 90), is what Al Huda sets out to do. What sort of social service is not discussed here but it is safe to assume it would not be a social change agenda that disrupts traditional equations.

With the madrassas and hybrid schools as well as Al Huda, Aneela points out that there is a homogenizing drive—a simplification of interpretation, an erasure of ethnic, linguistic and maybe theological difference. In her style, she then draws the narrative to herself and underscores what is lost when such essentialism takes over. What she writes about Islam in Pakistan is also true of other faiths in other places.

In ‘Texts of War,’ Aneela shows us that when militarism is deeply entrenched in a society, carrying guns is a common dream among young women as well as men. This chapter literally wanders through the rooms of this reality—with a literature review on the role of the military, its relationship with religion, women in the military and media representations thereof and the mirror image of all this in a society where girls and boys receive a religious education. Where does Pakistan’s only female Prime Minister fit into this picture? “Yes, we did salute her but you have to understand that the elation was not there in the heart of the soldier,” an officer told Aneela (page 122). Interviews with teenagers conducted in 1999 form a part of this chapter.

Ten years ago, almost to the date, the Pakistani army laid siege to Lal Masjid, which along with the attached Jamia Hafsa madrassa had come under the sway of a pair of militant brothers. In that siege, 154 were killed.  Aneela uses eyewitness and first-person accounts to narrate what happened from the perspective of those within the walls of the complex, many of them young girls. In fact, the chapter is largely made up of the translation of one such account by Umme Hassan. The polemics of this account showed that the young women had thought about issues beyond defending the mosque but they were not, Aneela tells us, feminist because they continued to reinforce “traditional, static and unchanging articulations of Muslim women” (page 167).

This book allows us to peer over a neighbourly wall and to eavesdrop on conversations that women are having about life, world and faith, and inevitably, politics. We get to meet the women that do not attend Southasian track two programmes or seminars and we are privy to their journeys. Aneela tells us that we will see a “more firebrand generation of young women” (page 170). When we do, this book will remind us of the influences that shaped them and our time.

Coming back then to this idea of ‘extremism,’ what this book allows you to see is that there is nothing really extreme about it when you are inside that society, on your journey. It is your evolution, seeking answers for your life and following those answers logically. To understand is to justify, and that is one reason to other that which threatens what we hold dear, but without understanding and empathy, can we resolve? Will there be a solution to the violence of this historical moment that is not rooted in understanding and empathy—that you feel as you do because of where you come from and what you have been through, and what you believe is what allows you to make sense of your life? I don’t know. But reading Aneela’s book allowed me to look long and hard and try to learn something about a world that is just outside the limits of mine, but finding its way into my backyard as well.

My big complaint with this book is that it could have been better edited. It is the writer’s prerogative to spill words on a page and the editor’s job to clean, sort and craft them into a higher form of her art. The result is an absorbing text that is sometimes stream-of-consciousness—you get the gist but cannot find the point—or a structure you can recapitulate or argument you can summarise. For a work that is so unusual and important, the apparent absence of editorial engagement is a big setback.   

You can read this book for many reasons. You can read it to learn about what women’s lives are really like in Pakistan and what ideas about masculinity and femininity are now circulating. You can read it for the insights it offers into “radicalisation” and extremism, especially how the state becomes complicit in this process. You can read it for the many stories and anecdotes it is built around, which allow you to visit Pakistan in a way that other academic writing will not. You can read it for the meticulous research that is reported (like translations of original literature, for instance). You can read it because it’s a really good example of feminist scholarship and writing—in its approach, its transparency. But really, if you pretend to have an interest in gender, Pakistan (or Southasia) extremism or social change, you should read this book.

PS: Aneela, please review my review kindly!

What fundraising feels like

What does it feel like to be fundraising for a small organisation?

Do you remember that feeling from your early, early childhood when you cried and cried and cried and your voice died in your throat and no sound emerged except something a wheezing wail and your eyes ran dry but couldn't open and you raised your arms to an empty room... and you were so desperate but no one heard you?

They had all left you alone knowing you couldn't walk.

Do you remember how you felt in that moment?

That.

I wanted to write this down because I may never find these words again.

It's not the stone

Wandering through Sunder Nagar market in Delhi, I step into Jaipur Jewels just out of curiosity. What is 'Jaipur'  about their jewelry, I want to know.

It's one of those quiet, understated showrooms that people like me rarely visit. I think, "This was a mistake." My handloom kurta is very plain and very crumpled. Only my Kandy-style earrings look remotely like they belong in this store.

I have not reckoned on the warmth and hospitality that are at the heart of the North Indian merchant's marketing genius.

I am welcomed like an old friend and when  I say I just came to look,  one person steps out to show. He takes out the most dramatic display pieces with pride and then shares design and provenance details as if I were either a serious buyer or a fellow expert. No condescension, no 'don't waste my time.' I begin to feel really bad and then, I am invited to just sit and see.

I reluctantly sit, feeling guilty because I know I cannot afford any of this.

With the pride of an artist, the whole team shares their favorite pieces with me. A casual visit becomes a gift.

I cannot find words to describe what I saw.

A sakla so supply crafted that gold flows and twists and winds around your imagination rather than your wrist.

Bangles that combine every lapidary art and stretch one's imagination -- polki, jadau, enamel...  I wanted to tweet but I knew words would fail me.

Earrings that are cascades of colour... A pair of cascading lotus petals in pearl, pink tourmaline and delicate gold... But wait, he turns it over and it's even more stunning. It's enamel painted as exquisitely as a Jaipur miniature.

Strings of stones and pearl that look sunlight glistening on the ripples in a backwater pool.

They make me try on a beautiful pearl necklace with lovely gold kairis in the pendant and a small, delicately dangling polki pendant. It's lovely. Looks better on me than I would have imagined.

They keep telling me that the tradition and the stones and the work are valuable. Yes. But the imagination and the devotion that makes this work happen is invaluable.

As is their warmth.

PS: I  bought nothing. But in another life,  maybe.

Murders in Mumbai

The book review cum gift recommendation I am about to write will not be a patch on the three books I am about to discuss.

It seems to be that every month some friend or professional acquaintance publishes a book and there are a slew of book launches, most of which I do not attend. Many of these books are what we used to call 'reference books'--academic books you read when you need to for your work. Some are non-fiction, the kind it's nice to pose with on social media. And a very small number are immediately inviting, as fiction.

It does not matter that these three books are by people I know to varying degrees. Indeed, sometimes that is a deterrent because you hear that person's voice read the book out to you and it can be painful. You also spend time guessing why they wrote what they wrote and that is a distraction. There is so much pressure to love the book and express that love on social media that it is hard to feel the love without performance anxiety.

For a person who talks about non-violence and peace, you may be surprised to learn how fond I am of murder mysteries. Of course, I do not read books that describe the murder in detail and I am spooked by books that delve into dark, psychological depths. I do not really know about this stuff and honestly, I don't care. What I enjoy immensely in a good murder are the character profiles that are built up as the detective (or detectives) talk to the suspects and I love the final denouement of what happened and how they figured it out.

It does not matter that these are Bombay books--no matter what you call the city. These stories could not have happened anywhere else. These characters could not have been from any other city. And yet, they could. There is also something universal about the stories--and I don't mean that in the pretentious way that some contemporary writers make everything about the world's pressing problems. I just mean, you have met people in these books somewhere in your own life--even if you live outside Bombay.

I am writing about them because I loved them and I think you might too. I also think they would make a great summer reading gift--I can see the three, stacked and tied together with a ribbon, or being pulled out eagerly from a gift bag. And then being consumed with pleasure.

First, I read "A Meeting on the Andheri Overbridge" by CS Lakshmi 'Ambai'. This is a collection of three short stories, all of which feature Sudha Gupta, a private detective. The stories were translated from the Tamil by Gita Subramaniam but they read so well in English--with all the Hindi and Marathi intact--that you do not realise they were not originally written in the language.

I will not tell you what the stories are about. They are feminist stories, for sure, but they wear their politics casually and in a way that makes you understand feminism is really about human struggles for freedom (from violence) and equality (of choice). Sudha Gupta's investigations are humane and diplomatic, and the stories are filled with light like the January sun and the breeze that comes through your auto as you drive past Juhu beach. You finish the third story with disappointment--what, she just wrote three, how could she stop here? A megacity holds a myriad stories, each waiting for Ambai's pen.

The second book I read was Jerry Pinto's "Murder in Mahim." I had not read his award-winning first novel because it seemed to require a commitment of seriousness from me that I am rarely able to make outside my work. (I feel the same way about Aamir Khan films.) But surely, a murder mystery is a light read? "Light" may not now be the word I use to describe Jerry's book, but "beautiful," "exquisitely written with a great loving heart" and "very moving" would be.

"Murder in Mahim" has the admirable quality that I find in Rohinton Mistry's books--I can smell the city. And much as I love Bombay, let's face it, fragrance is not one of its strong suits. But starting from the station loo where the story begins to the mixed odours of the breeze near Shivaji Park to the cooking smells of the housing societies visited in the book, you can smell the city in this book and so you are there.

I loved the characters--perhaps because I have met them before, a little of this person, a little of that. Everyone speaks at length but interestingly--which is a departure from real life and one that is welcome! The small details draw you into the world of the book and hold you there. The one that comes to mind as I write this is the discussion over the glasses and tableware that should be used for a visitor. The menu then is a discussion of how the fish (or was it chicken?) was used--some for pre-dinner snacks, some to be served with dinner. You have to have been very, very observant to write like this--to have absorbed every minute aspect of the world around you and people over a lifetime--to be able to recreate them in this way. Don't misunderstand--there is no ostentatious "look at me," "I am such a great literary artist" presence here. As in life, so in this book, the miniature artistry is just there--enjoy it if it is to your taste or else just use it to soak in the plot.

The plot is also quite complicated and you want to push, push, push through to the end to find out who did what and why. The journey takes you everywhere in Bombay and for someone like me, reintroduces familiar places with new stories. The story is actually so intense I could not read this book at night--life, like this, would be a nightmare. And yet, there is so much warmth in the writing and so much fight in each character, that at the end, this is an uplifting book.

Having said all this, I really do not do the writing justice.

The last of the three books is Aditya Sinha's 'The CEO who lost his head.' This book is so much fun! I have chuckled over the author's political columns and was delighted to see the same irreverent style here--in the characters' names, in their interactions, in the dialogue--and to see the real world in walk-on parts through the book. The allusions do not stop at front-page politics and security events but the book also makes room for the gender politics of the city, the workplace and the home in significant ways.

This is less of a Bombay book than the others--in that the city itself features less here than it does in the others, but it is a Bombay newspaper universe book! I chuckled over the main characters and relished the mystery plot, but equally I must confess I enjoyed guessing who-was-whom throughout the book.

I would be very disappointed if this were the only murder mystery--or only novel--Aditya Sinha wrote.

The three books together bring alive the nine rasas within one genre--murder. There is love, lust, beauty, laughter, grief, anger, courage, fear, disgust, wonder through all these three books, and shanta rasa--peace--comes when the mysteries are solve--but not entirely. And how have we managed so far without detectives or detectives of our own--Sudha Gupta, Jende and D'Souza and Solvekar and Ramteke... welcome to our world!

But forget all my words--I only write them for the pleasure that process brings me. Just get the books and get to the words that Ambai, Pinto and Sinha wrote!