Showing posts with label diaspora. Show all posts
Showing posts with label diaspora. Show all posts

15.9.10

Salman Khan vs Pakistanis in India

Before questioning Salman Khan about speaking to Pakistani news channel Express 24/7, since they have blocked Indian channels, the Shiv Sena should first ask why Veena Malik is to participate in 'Bigg Boss' or Wasim Akram and Rahat Fateh Ali Khan can judge reality shows.


This is not the main argument against Salman. As we have not had any major attacks later, we are stuck on 26/11. He said what some of us wrote about right then about the hype "because elite people were targeted. Attacks have happened in trains and small towns too, but no one talked about it so much".


He is right.

--> Full column at Express Tribune:


29.6.10

The expatriate's angst

“I’d rather be called a terrorist than an Indian.” This comment was made a while ago following reports of some Pakistanis pretending to be Indians to avoid being targeted by intelligence agencies. Nothing bothers young Pakistanis more than being identified as Indian. Yet there is barely any social isolation between them overseas. However, militancy has resulted in an awareness of differences. While it is true that many more Indians are in prominent positions and have greater political clout, the fact is that despite all the profiling no American establishment will alienate Pakistan for tactical reasons. The ordinary expat’s level of distancing from the homeland is evident in the overarching need to assert fealty. The prototype Pakistani goes into apoplectic fits of apologia the moment one of them transgresses from the path. More than anything else, it is seen as a betrayal of the land of pure opportunity.

Therefore, while there is often some level of intellectual empathy with the McCabbie and McSilicon Valley wallahs and given that according to a private survey 96 per cent of Pakistanis have a low opinion of America, it would be natural that expats would not feel differently. It is not the four per cent who take a flight into Disneyland and stay back for the rollercoaster ride. And the one who strays does not suddenly appear in the US on a Waziristan-sanctioned visa. He has been there, digging into Shalimar biryani, downloading Coke Studio episodes.

The general anger towards Islam has affected the Pakistani diaspora. But has it affected the Americans? Mark Steyn wrote recently in the National Review: “Were America even mildly ‘Islamophobic’, it would have curtailed Muslim immigration, or at least subjected immigrants from Pakistan, Yemen, and a handful of other hotbeds to an additional level of screening. Instead, Muslim immigration to the west has accelerated in the last nine years … An ‘Islamophobic’ America might have pondered whether the more extreme elements of self-segregation were compatible with participation in a pluralist society. Instead, President Obama makes fawning speeches boasting that he supports the rights of women to be ‘covered’ — rather than the rights of the ever lengthening numbers of European and North American Muslim women beaten, brutalised and murdered for not wanting to be covered.”

Is one to assume that the US is masochistic or perhaps using a strategy to invite a little doom to feel morally sanctioned to conduct greater devastating strikes? President Obama’s opinion on the hijab is a patronising gesture. Does the US constitution not have provisions to protect women who have been brutalised for not wearing the veil?

The problem is that this is being posited against the educated professional who turns wayward. It is a disingenuous comparison. It could, in certain instances, be a genuine feeling of disgust with the system. Hispanics feel it, blacks feel it and it would be unusual if immigrants from Pakistan did not. When a South Korean student went on a shooting rampage at the Virginia Tech campus, did all Koreans fear getting profiled? Were they condemned to contrition?

If we set aside an act and its ostensible motive, this could be a potent analogy for frustration, the need to draw attention to oneself where the cause becomes a mere medium. Unfortunately, no one is willing to discuss why crimes are not seen as crimes anymore and are all branded terrorist acts. The Pakistani expat with no such history is forced to identify with branches that are tagged as roots.

It also raises the question about how by seeking a greater plan we, and the American establishment in particular, are losing all respect for and anger towards individualism. The militancy of the mainstream can swallow one whole.

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Published in The Express Tribune, June 29th, 2010.

7.2.10

The Curious Case of Dr Afia Siddiqui

The demonisation of violence
The Curious Case of Dr Afia Siddiqui
by Farzana Versey

Countercurrents, February 6, 2010


The mosquito hovered over skin and with one little prick it had sucked out blood, infected an innocent person who might suffer from malaria. If the person is poor and lives in inhabitable surroundings, it could prove to be fatal. The insect is not accused of violence.

Had it been ‘Lady Al Qaeda’, she might have raised her hand and screamed, “Out, damned spot!”

Is Afia Siddiqui a Lady Macbeth metaphorical clone, a “psycho”, anti-Semitic as she is being accused of and which reveals the febrile mindset of those indicting her? Did she carry chemicals that would make bombs? Why did the judge often throw her out of the court accusing her of outbursts, which is a strange reason indeed?

She had fought back by saying, “Since I’ll never get a chance to speak…If you were in a secret prison, or your children were tortured…Give me a little credit, this is not a list of targets of New York. I was never planning to bomb it. You’re lying.”

There are clear divisions in this case and part of the reason is that she was an educated, articulate woman, a neuroscientist. The world cannot yet deal with this ‘type’. Incidentally, Dr Siddiqui has not been convicted for an act of terror but in the popular imagination even felony, if the victim is the lordly West, can pass muster as militancy. It is another matter that no tangible evidence has been provided for this too.

After the judgement she reportedly told her attorney, Elaine Sharp, to inform her supporters abroad of her fate and that she did not want any violence to ensue. What is violence? Support groups? Those who retaliate? The Establishment?

The malaria example might appear a facile metaphor for something that wreaks havoc and creates fissures in society. Truth is that violence is seen through a microscope instead of a telescope. In the laboratory the specimen sample is militancy and not martini. Martini by itself may remain shaken within the confines of a glass, but it stirs the sort of sophisticated idea of good versus evil where good is a given. There are no nuances, no dimensions. You meet the hero and just accept him. To enter into a debate would be travesty. He belongs to Her Majesty’s Secret Service and not the Hizbul Mujahideen or the Ku Klux Klan.

By pinning down one particular stream of fiendishness we completely ignore the more rampant issue of social violence – at the workplace, at home, as petty crime, as psychological aggression.

Religion and nationalism are the two most brutal forces. They do not give you a choice to understand the greys. They are intangible and, as in Sartre’s world, the incommunicable is the source of violence.

Every belief system has arisen due to some skirmishes. Amazingly, we use tribal warfare and mythology as benchmarks in a world that aims for détente. The penury of organised faith to sustain human civility is manifest when temples, mosques, churches are regularly desecrated – a term that takes the shine off violence and transforms it into something akin to a satanic act of sin. Stampedes at pilgrimage sites are further evidence of just this sort of pugnacity.

Using hostile opposites as an example, Leo Tolstoy said, “The churches are arrogance, violence, usurpation, rigidity, death; Christianity is humility, penitence, submissiveness, progress, life.”

The problem is arrogant display often gets wiped out by penitence. Cries of “Allah-u-Akbar” and “Jai Siya Ram” are the precursors of contemporary violence. Thieves and rapists do not shout out slogans.
A headcount of dead patriots glorifies the sense of nationhood that the wrapped-in-flag corpses had no premonition of. In their trail are thousands of cadavers that worked in those conquered countries, had names stamped on identity cards. That did them in. Their being certain people.

Certain people are not important. Their lives standing on footholds of local trains, losing limbs in factories, fighting for basic wages, fighting to enter places of worship, to marry someone from another caste, class, race, religion do not constitute brutality, even if they lose their lives in these battles. They are not burnished with the gold of nationalistic gunfire.

The American people are brainwashed into believing in a just fight. No explanation is given because it is about Being American, an America that can now show off god’s creation and liberty at the White House by installing a totem Harlem. It won’t pay heed to Malcolm X’s words: “If it is wrong to be violent defending black women and black children and black babies and black men, then it is wrong for America to draft us, and make us violent abroad in defense of her.”

Defence is rarely the goal of violence. It is an advertisement for oneself. What tells a militant apart from a James Bond? If we take away the so-called ideology of the former and the willingness to die for it, then both are comic-strip like characters that transmogrify into soap-opera heroes whose travails are ongoing as is their invincibility.

There is one crucial difference in the machismo: a lack of brotherhood. As a loner, Bond tempts the enemies instead of vanquishing them. It is a violence that seeks male bonding. He kills violence using violence.

The fanatically-driven sadist dies killing a lot of others with him. Both use ‘goodness’ as their calling card and although representative of specific places are rootless. Such emotional diaspora makes their aggression almost democratic and global in its sweep. Nothing is above them and everyone is below them.

The targets don’t get brownie points for making them happen. It’s a win-win situation. Therefore, by demonising violence we sanctify it. Why stone a devil that is within?

28.1.10

Mukesh Ambani's India

Mukesh bhai is a smart cat – he used the Mumbai/Marathi taxi driver controversy to push the Indian liberalisation idea.

During a panel discussion at the London School of Economics he reportedly said that while India’s corporate world had moved away from ‘licence Raj’ after economic liberalisation, Mumbai’s “poor taxi-wala is still dealing with licence Raj”. The gathering applauded.

He was telling the diaspora achievers, “The achievements of our diaspora help India, but now is the time to come back. There are more opportunities in India.”

How have the achievements of the diaspora helped India? What diaspora is he talking about? The LSE-Ivy League one. The success stories. The return carrot is being dangled because it will make the liberalisation more acceptable.

His is a limited perspective. “We are all Indians first. Mumbai, Chennai and Delhi belong to all Indians. That is the reality.”

What about Jamshedpur, Junagadh, Singur, Nandigram? Why are the areas where the real money is made left out? They must not belong to everyone because that is where the riches will spurt from.

If we return to the first statement I quoted, his amnesia is palpable. Dhirubhai Ambani can be called the father of the Licence Raj. It was used rather effectively. Now, just because the son is sanctified by Forbes and, don’t forget, the brothers had managed to get the father legitimised by Wharton, the licence Raj is considered wrong. The “poor taxi-wala” got applause from an audience that will never have to deal with such situations; they are reaping the harvest of this same licence Raj that their parents made use of.

The issue is not of getting permits, but of not being permitted on parochial lines. Has Mukesh Ambani asked the cab drivers or the masala-papad waalas abroad to return? They too face discrimination in countries they have migrated to – be it on the basis of religion, language or place of origin.

14.7.08

The pigeonhole, please

Perception is a bitch; it is also a mirror.

As a mirror it can have tremendous value. But is it often intended to? What do you do with cracked mirrors, blurred mirrors – is it necessary for one to have to see oneself in them only to prove that one is open to another point of view?

As regards the bitch, how many barks translate into a bite?

I was chortling when I read somewhere that the reviewer had done a decent job but this book ought not to have been written! It is hilarious. The review is positive. So, if someone likes what I have written and is being commended for it, then isn’t it natural that he thinks I did a good job and therefore if you like what he has to say and he likes what I have to say then you must therefore like what I have to say? You can’t say, “Hey that T-shirt looks good on you, but it should not have been a T-shirt”. Weird world.

However, let me get to the real strange stuff. Apparently, writing about the identity question is a bad thing. It is passé. Oooh, I am so outdated…everyone else has completed their journeys and I am still unable to negotiate it.

Heck, if they had then they wouldn’t be spreading themselves thin over a ‘non-issue’, would they?

But, of course, an Indian Muslim Woman seems to be causing a whole lot of anguish. An Indian Muslim Woman writing about there has got to belong there.

Apparently, the term Indian is just an add-on. Sure. Ah, yes, I hear it said that the only reason I am not there is because I don’t want to let go of my jeans and expensive coffee.

This should be enough reason to laugh in these people’s faces (faeces?). Pakistani women don’t wear jeans? You don’t get pricey coffee in that country?

These are supposed to be our global citizens. The ones who don’t even know if they have an identity. Unless being incognito counts. Straw warriors.

Make hay, honey, while my sun shines.

24.4.07

Michael and me

Wonder how I forgot to put this up. It was published in November 2006.

An Iraqi in India
By Farzana Versey
Counterpunch

Michael Fathallah is dead, but then there are so many dead Iraqis. So, why do I remember him? I am sorry this is not the right thing to say at such a wrong time, but I just cannot forgive him for having made me drink coffee that tasted like something out of a sewer.

He had gazed at me intently and stated, "You like it! It is our specialty." Since it was not a question, I was hoping no answer was required. I shook my head weakly as I fidgeted with the chipped cup that had no handle. To make matters worse, he brought out a whole bunch of bananas, saying, "Eat!" I assured him all this was not necessary. "Oh, we Iraqis like to pamper our guests." Like this?

I began to think about how I should do it. Ought I to just peel the fruit and start chomping on it, or must I do the ladylike thing and break off one-inch bits and pop them delicately in my mouth? My host was getting impatient. "Ok, ok, never mind, but these are good for your stomach."

Although I was born a Muslim, as an Indian my affiliation with the religion was far removed from the Arabian Nights adventure one was supposed to look forward to in the afterlife. As a matter of fact, the so-called Arab identity was completely alien.

The only Arabs one encountered were tourists who consolidated the stereotype with their white kaftan costumes and veils holding prayer beads in their hands even as they scoured the streets for knick-knacks. Soon, the shops started stocking up on colorful sequined scarves and trinkets that might appeal to their sensibilities. Despite the money, one noticed that they weren't quite treated with the same respect as even the Caucasian backpackers.

It was during one such story I was doing, about the influx of Arabs, that I got to see the amazing variety of people. Not all of them were sheikhs who arrogantly threw the windows in their rooms in five-star hotels wide open to let in the rain and then offered to pay for the soiled carpets. Many lived in small hotels in nondescript localities; they'd huddle together in corridors, mostly awaiting the fate of a sick relative they had admitted into a hospital. India was a cheap and good option for medical treatment.

A chance conversation had led me to discover the Arabs that had made their homes in Mumbai.

That is how I met Michael one afternoon at his apartment in a lane infested with shady characters -- pimps, prostitutes, drug peddlers. I was ushered into a large airy room that seemed to have no furniture. I sat on a low rickety stool and he made himself comfortable on what could have been a cot but was covered entirely with newspapers. He was dressed in pinstriped pajamas -- the kind prisoners wear, and a long shirt. He was completely unselfconscious and I soon found myself liking this encounter. Besides, I was getting rid of my pre-conceived notions about Arabs.

He was a practicing Roman Catholic and clarified: "All Arabs are not Muslim." But he supported Iraqi laws and found the interference of the West, even in matters of laws like execution, disgusting. "Who are they to decide?" he asked.

He had come to what was then called Bombay towards the end of 1917 with a shipload of books and had seen "history written and re-written". Since education in his country was not upto his father's standards, he got himself admitted to St. Mary's School, a respected missionary-run educational institution that even today is considered among the better schools. After his studies, he returned home to Basra and worked as a bank manager. But in 1942, he made the trip back to Bombay to help his brother-in-law with his business and stayed on until his death.

He would spend his time at the Arab School, which would transform into a club in the evenings, and he'd pore over the crumpled old newspapers from Iraq. The events were probably stale, but they kept him in touch with a part of his country. Culturally, did he still feel close to the Arabs? "Of course, I have lived amongst them -- a gallant, valiant, hospitable people."

It wrenched his heart to watch what happened before his eyes in his adopted home. Sleazy action being replayed night after night -- apartments that went under the guise of guest houses from where the Arab tourists trooped out in the early hours of the morning, even as they were fleeced of their money and belongings by hustlers.

Michael was extremely protective of the reputation of his people. So, what kept him in Bombay? "For those of us who don't have unlimited wealth, this is the best place. I can also walk around anywhere in my long night shirt." He picked up a banana and started eating it.

There were no curtains and a gentle breeze was blowing in from the open balcony. He beckoned me to join him outside. We watched the street below and the hotel across from where silly grins greeted us. He took the fruit peel and threw it on the pavement below. "Look, I have become one of you," he declared.

As he escorted me to the door, he said, "Come again, please. I can only offer you the best coffee in the world."

I found myself smiling. I don't know when the bitter taste on my tongue had disappeared.