Aboard the Democracy Train (2 page)

Source: University of Texas.

I was born in the young Muslim state of Pakistan, which was carved by the British from India in 1947. My infant memory of the deep quiet that once pervaded Garden East – our residential neighborhood in Karachi in the 1960s – still remains.

Karachi was still a cosmopolitan city. Located along the Arabian Sea in the southern province of Sindh, the port city has always attracted immigrants. At the time, I was too small to know that we were on the threshold of a massive transformation, ushered in by wave upon wave of Muslim migrants arriving from India.

I grew up in a colonial-style two-storied bungalow with a towering fortress and a red bridge connecting two separate living units. Although the Garden zoo was about a mile away, the roar of the lions often shattered the night’s silence and made me bolt up startled in my crib. My mother would assure me that the lion was actually quite far away before I could fall back to sleep.

Defying the ravages of the continuously growing port city of Karachi, spurned on by the influx of India’s migrants (Mohajirs) and arrivals from across Pakistan and the region, our family
bungalow remains the oldest on the block. Although it has been partitioned, it still towers above the newer constructed apartments.

Although the giant banyan tree, which once embraced our bungalow with its muscular branches, was felled long ago, the gentle swoosh of its small diamond-shaped green leaves brushing the top floors – where my uncle’s family once lived – is etched in my memory.

Even after a decade of Pakistan’s existence, we lived in a mosaic of cultures. Our neighbors in Garden East were not only Ismailis – the tiny Muslim sect to which we belong – but also Christians, Hindus and Zoroastrians. I considered our Christian neighbors, who lived along Pedro D’souza Road, as part of our extended family. It never struck me as odd that they were called the Pintos, Pereiras and D’souzas or even that further down the block lived the tall, imposing, red-faced Englishman, Daddy Patterson – a senior officer in the Karachi police.

The British exited India just as Pakistan was carved out of it in 1947. As a child in the 1960s, I grew up in the bubble they left behind. Being a well-off new Pakistani, my father was among the select few to become a member of the Karachi Gymkhana. The gymkhana was part of a chain of exclusive clubs left by the British. It had red Spanish roof tiles, lush green lawns and had, up until partition, displayed the sign:

“Indians and Dogs not allowed.”

We were seeped in Western culture, wearing shorts and frocks to the clubs, which were frequented by European families. It was at the Karachi Gymkhana that I saw blond and blue-eyed kids for the first time. I was fascinated: they looked just like the golden-haired dolls my mother brought back from Europe. And yet times were changing, as we locals with darker hair and eye color began to inherit their privileges.

In those days, Karachi was dotted with bookstores and lending libraries. The exposure to English literature would open up new and exciting worlds. As a teenager, I came across D. H. Lawrence’s
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
, with its vivid descriptions of sexuality. The expression of shame on my relative’s face as he took the book
from me made me aware of the high premium society placed on female chastity. Indeed, in a rapidly Islamizing society in which women joined the ranks of the veiled and unseen, it was difficult to believe that men did not obsess about female sexuality in the recesses of their minds.

My earliest memories of Karachi are of a city developed in 1843 by the British from a sleepy fishing village to a seaport and a well-planned city center with theaters, clubs, hotels, coffee shops and bookstores. By the 1960s, the Mohajirs had completed their major migrations from India to the newly created Pakistan. Still, it was a relatively calm period in which the refugees arrived with smaller families and fanned out to rural Sindh in search of job opportunities.

The creation of Pakistan had been a symbol of immense hope for India’s Muslim refugees. They arrived from all parts of India: young and old, rich and poor, by train and by bus. Those who crossed the border by foot hoped to achieve the prosperity that they never dreamed of attaining in the predominantly Hindu India. In a short time, they would give up hopes of finding job opportunities in the rural areas of Sindh and begin to converge on Karachi.

Twenty years later, I saw how the convergence of ethnic groups, fighting over a shrinking economic pie, would stoke the fires of intolerance and political instability. Until such a time, Karachi was a clean and quiet city. We took leisurely walks at night around the city’s showpiece, Frere Hall, enjoying the cool summer breeze from the Arabian Sea.

We could not have predicted that the well-planned British-built city of Karachi would grow into a sprawling, unplanned metropolis and a hotbed for ethnic and sectarian violence. Nor could we foresee that the US consulate located across Frere Hall would become a repeated target of bomb attacks, with its fortified presence becoming symbolic of anti-American sentiment.

Back then, as my father’s antique Austin car inched its way through the city, I sat up and watched for new titles of English movies screened at Rex, Palace, Odeon and Lyric cinema houses. Perched on top of the Bambino cinema house, owned by Hakim Ali Zardari – father of President Asif Ali Zardari – was the object
that made me sit up with special interest: a flashing blue neon sign with the image of a woman dancer gyrating her hips.

Inside, wide-eyed audiences watched classic movies like
Toby Tyler
and
Gone with the Wind
. It did not matter that the crowds did not understand English. Through the movies came the images of Western culture – where women mixed freely with men – and one saw the trappings of great material wealth and progress.

My late father came from a large Sindhi Ismaili business family of 14 brothers and sisters. For decades, he conducted the family business: traveling through the barren hills of Balochistan and Sindh to buy wool and goat hair, which he exported as raw material for the carpet industry in Europe and the Middle East. His business brought him into contact with the Western world and his narratives fired my interest in foreign lands.

My father was 41 years old when I was born, the youngest of five children. I grew close to him when he had already seen much of the world. At the same time, age never got in the way of his tremendous zest for life. Being highly sociable, outgoing and a humanist, he confided to me that he should never have become a businessman. Instead, as he later saw me enjoy my profession, where I traveled, met people and got published every day, he told me that he wished that he too had been a journalist.

As a young man, my father used his business opportunities to travel abroad, at times taking my mother with him. Back home, we saw pictures of him aboard the Queen Elizabeth ocean liner, smiling in a felt hat and tie as he shared a meal with Europeans. His deep admiration for the West was reflected in the black and white movies of New York and Europe in the 1950s that he brought back from his travels, of which he held special viewings for the family.

Despite my father’s skeptical distance from the Ismaili community and his irreverent attitude toward organized religion, it had a profound influence on us. To begin with, my paternal
grandfather was a religious elder within the Ismaili community. The Aga Khans, who lead the Ismailis, intermarried with Europeans and lived in the West. This would make our family even more open to Western influence.

My maternal grandparents were Sindhi landowners in a small village, Jhirk, a dusty landscape from which they moved to Hyderabad city in Sindh. My grandfather, an honorary magistrate under the ruling British, represented the giant banking and mercantile firm, David Sassoon & Company, in India – which traded with Europe. Although my grandfather wore Western clothes – a suit, bow tie and hat – his life’s work showed that his heart lay with his own people.

In the early twentieth century, the British handed over hundreds of acres of fertile agricultural land some 200 km north of Karachi, along the Hyderabad-Mirpurkhas road to Aga Khan 111, Sultan Mohammed Shah. The Aga Khan entrusted the land to my grandfather, who in turn gave it to members of the Ismaili community to become tenant landlords and plant fruit and vegetables in a community known as Sultanabad.

Today, in the center of Sultanabad the Ismaili prayer house, the Jamatkhana, has preserved my grandfather’s memory. A photograph depicts him in felt hat and bow tie, his soft, unsmiling eyes exuding concern. Thousands of people from all over Sindh gather every year for
majlis
(prayer services) to pay tribute to the work he created for the community.

My two eldest siblings, Samir and Naseem were born in Karachi before 1947, when it was still a part of British India and had a population of only 400,000 people. But despite top careers in the US, both returned to Pakistan and immersed themselves in professions that also contributed to nation-building. My middle sister, Nargis devoted herself to running a recycling business in Karachi.

My middle brother, Pervez, a nuclear science professor, travels the world on invitation to speak his forthright mind on global issues – prominently nuclear disarmament and world peace.

At the end of the day, we inherited a severely stressed infrastructure. It would only whet our appetite to work for
change. Even while I lived in America and visited it scores of times, my head always carried a map of home, family and the people with whom I grew up, along with the prospect of bringing about positive change.

My parents enrolled us in British schools in Karachi – then open only to a privileged few – in order to prepare us for further education in the West. It was the education that only the ruling classes of Pakistan – ambassadors, diplomats, politicians, army personnel and feudal lords – were able to afford for their children.

Indeed, British education was meant to groom future rulers of Pakistan. The best-known political family in Pakistan, headed by late Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and the daughter who succeeded him, Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto, were educated in these schools.

My parents sent me and my two sisters to St Joseph’s Convent School for girls in Karachi. My school’s aloof, imposing marble cathedral and statue of Jesus erected next to severe sandstone buildings bore a stark contrast to the unruly traffic and enormous crowds that gradually grew around it.

St Joseph’s Convent School was then run by Catholic nuns, many of whom were British. Each morning, we gathered in our starched gray frocks in front of Christ’s statue and chanted the Catholic prayer: “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost – Amen.” Our school anthem, “Honor and Glory to Our School,” sparked my imagination as our voices rose in crescendo:

From the start, I knew that I would have a different life compared to my female friends who, in a Pakistani context, were primed for arranged marriages and motherhood. Being a voracious reader
of Jane Austen’s novels, I found a striking similarity between her nineteenth-century characters and my schoolmates. While my peers gorged on romantic novels by Georgette Heyer, being girls, they were subject to enormous cultural pressures.

A Kashmiri girl friend of mine with a radiant white complexion, luminous brown eyes and soft brown hair was the first to be coaxed into an arranged marriage. Her family had received a proposal from an older, rich businessman. The problem was that – like other women in this traditional Muslim society – she had never met her husband-to-be.

My friend was in tears as her mother agreed to the match. Still, she’d philosophize to our group that the marriage would finally make her free. To me, her ideas seemed absurd and I was characteristically blunt within our inner circle of friends: “Listen, your husband isn’t someone you can lock away in a box and forget for life.”

Twenty years later, when I ran into my childhood friend at a gas station, I recognized her – older and more sober – with her head covered. She knew I worked as a journalist and it didn’t surprise her. “You’re not the sort of person to sit still,” she told me as a backhanded compliment.

Apart from bringing up her two daughters, my old friend was increasingly devoted to caring for her ailing husband. Our lives were poles apart: I had set my sights on great challenges, while she now prepared for the marriage of her own 18-year-old daughter.

My father spent 32 years of his life in the Karachi that was part of British-ruled India. It nurtured his tolerance to other religions. As the captain of a multi-religious cricket team, he had spent a carefree childhood playing with Hindu, Christian and Zorastrian friends. There was a picture of him on the wall – the only cocky Muslim youth in a white cap – heading a team of Hindu players. At the back stood my
father’s teacher, K. D. Advani, the father of Indian politician, L. K. Advani.

As India’s Muslims prepared to migrate to the newly created Pakistan, my father’s Hindu friends in Garden East handed the keys of their palatial homes over to him. “They begged me to occupy their homes or buy it for a song,” he told us.

But, skeptical that Pakistan would survive and apprehensive of taking advantage of their tragic circumstances, my father declined. Instead, he ardently clung to the hope that his Hindu friends might return to Pakistan some day.

That, as history shows, was a foregone conclusion. Even the first address by the founder of Pakistan, Mohammed Ali Jinnah, to Pakistan’s first constituent assembly in 1947 – often quoted by secularists – could not convince non-Muslims to stay in the newly-created Pakistan. In it, Jinnah had said: