Overqualified and underqualified in Balochistan

Overqualified and underqualified in Balochistan

"To you is granted the power of degrading yourself into the lower forms of life, the beasts, and to you is granted the power, contained in your intellect and judgement, to be reborn into the higher forms, the divine."     

Zygmunt Bauman

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"So, tell me, did you also end up here as yet another escapee--- migrant, immigrant, refugee, asylum seeker, whatever---escaping Hazara ethnic cleansing in Quetta?", asked a curious Canadian friend, himself a Romanian emigre. "No, not really", I replied. "I did not leave because of the state-sponsored pogroms of Hazaras. I left because of something more mundane. I left because I was declared "overqualified" by a few inept and under-qualified pygmies who happened to be sitting in judgment on me and specially on my professional skills and educational qualification."

To provide some context. After graduating from the University of Agriculture, Faisalabad, as an Agricultural Engineer, I joined the provincial Department of Agriculture (Balochistan) and soon went on study leave for further studies, to do my M.Phil in Water Resources Management at the Center of Excellence in Water Resources Engineering (CEWRE), University of Engineering and Technology, Lahore. CEWRE was a premiere institute in the field of hydrological sciences and water resource engineering in the country and one of its kind then.  It took me three years of back breaking work in the field collecting hard data, talking to and probing different stakeholders, and intellectually draining work, spending hours and hours, days upon days upon sleepless nights inside simulation labs measuring, re-measuring, calibrating hydrological equipment and in computer labs coding complex computer codes for the simulation model that I finally developed. My focus was on the conjunctive use of water in arid areas where water is scarce and, therefore, precious. In addition to other features, my simulation model, coded in FORTRAN 77, simulated mixed use of ground and surface water for different crops. Conjunctive use models were then a kind of cure-all panacea for arid regions with agricultural potential, places like Balochistan. The results from different parts of the world, from arid Africa and Asia, had been, until then, very encouraging. Things may have moved on to other technologies since.

To cut it short, I was awarded my M.Phil degree in 1992-3. My dissertation was approved by my supervisory committee which included an American expert in the field who was well respected and widely published. Thesis in hand, I returned to Quetta and resumed work as Agriculture Officer, first stationed at Sibi and then at the main directorate on Sariab Road in Quetta.

If I am not wrong, it was either late 1995, or early 1996. My former supervisor from the Center of Excellence in Water Resources Engineering (CEWRE), University of Technology and Engineering (UET) Lahore had just visited Quetta.He had come to Quetta either to inaugurate a water resource project in the province or to offer his expertise to the then newly established Bureau of Water Resources inside the Irrigation Department of Balochistan. (I will simply refer to it as "the Bureau" in the balance of this blogpost)

Soon after its establishment, the Bureau started looking for qualified, relevant, or technical, people to work there. It was headed by one Mian Bashir.  From what I recall, he was a short man with curly hair and nervous, calculating, even shifty, eyes---a busy body, an ambitious but ambiguous character, in short. I never found out his real qualification, but I think he was some sort of a technical hand with background either in engineering or management sciences. One thing was sure: he was an outsider in the province, brought in from somewhere in Punjab. This was not an anomaly in Balochistan, not at least then. Many of the provinces' technical personnel, including bureaucrats, were often imported from Punjab, the most famous, and closer to my context, being the then Director General of Agriculture (DGA), the pompous and pompously named Chaudhry Zulfiqar Ali Khan.

The Bureau advertised a senior engineer's position for which I applied right away, and did so with much interest and enthusiasm, confident that I would be a suitable, if not the most suitable, candidate for the position. The same enthusiasm was shown my by supervisor at CEWRE who also thought that I was the most suitable person for the job. Both of us knew, and so did Mian Bashir and others at the Bureau, that there were not many, if anyone at all, with that kind of qualification and research background in the province. I was, after all, the first person from the province to have had graduated from CEWRE with a postgraduate degree in the relevant field of water resources management. But most of all, it was my research work---conjunctive use of water in arid regions---- that made me a suitable candidate. My agricultural engineering background and several years of work experience were additional points that boosted my profile on my resume. So, it was with all that enthusiasm and confidence that I first awaited, and then finally appeared in, the interview for the SE (PBS 18) position.  

The panel of interviewers consisted of four members, three of which I clearly remember and will mention here. It was headed by the then provincial Senior Minister and Minister for Planning and Development Department, or P&D as they say in Pakistan, Mr. Jam Yusuf. The other member was the Minister for Irrigation Department (of which the Bureau was a section) Mr. Hamid Khan Achakzai. The third member of the panel was Mr. (Mian) Bashir, the technical member and also provisional head of the Bureau then. I think there were not many applicants given the novelty and highly technical nature of the position and the dearth of professionals with the required credentials. So, it was expected that the interviews would be done in few hours. I was soon ushered into the room on that day of judgment!

After we were done with the few formalities---name, address, bio-data check etc.--- the Senior Minister and Minister for Planning and Development, Jam Yusuf, who was sitting across the table from me and next to the Minister for Irrigation, Hamid Khan, asked to have a look at my M.Phil dissertation. I had my credentials binder and a copy of my hard bound thesis with me, placed in front of me on the table. I handed him the heavy tome, all 500 pages of it held securely between two solid covers. It had costed me an arm and a leg to get five copies of the work bound from one of the best binders in Lahore, the city of colleges and universities. He then did something that I will never forget for the rest of my life. In fact, I am actually writing this whole post here just to record that one act of this sorry individual, Mr. Senior Minister.

This man assessed three years of my hard intellectual and physical labor the way a village bumpkin tests a watermelon before he makes his mind whether to purchase it or to move on to the next one. He took and lifted the report and eyed it from all the possible angles, a 360 degree check, and finally after knocking his stubby and hairy knuckles on both the spine and the front cover of the thesis, he placed it on the table, midway between us. I think he did not sniff it. About that I am sure. But I guess sniffing is not needed in the case of watermelons as it is in the case of musk melons (kharbooza). He did not once lift the front cover, perhaps making sure not to give anyone a scintilla of evidence to accuse him of having at least read the extra large sized title written in gold on the navy blue front cover. There was silence, deep silence in the luxuriously wood paneled room and I was not sure what was going on. All four pairs of eyes were on me. I remained seated and calm, expecting that the other members would then have a look at the thesis, perhaps in a different and more conventional manner, which would then be followed by the inevitable grilling session. 

No such thing happened. Nobody after that touched the thesis as if it was something radioactive, something toxic that would burn the fingers of anyone who dared to touch it. The Senior Minister and Minister for P&D, Government of Balochistan, that useless load of flesh and fat, the sublimely slimy, jelly-like Jam of Lasbela, then opened his mouth and uttered his three ugly, cruel and heart-breaking sentences that have remained with me all these years, still clear and fresh even today: "Your work is nice. You have written a good thesis. But we are sorry, you are overqualified for this position." No sooner had he said it than a laughter erupted in the room. The three among the panelist roaring like mad men, more like mad dogs, wild jungle beasts, and Mian Bashir doing things with his eyes and body that was equally, if not more, disturbing. His eyes----those nervous, shifty eyes set on this small face----quickly moved from yours truly to the others and his hands and face twitching uncontrollably, belying the grin, that already unsure grin, on his face and that clearly lacked the arrogant confidence of the loud roar of the other three, the three "locals" of the land. But God knows what it really was, his confused expressions and gestures, even if I have tried to interpret it here. The laughter stopped and all eyes were once again on me. Expressionless, I looked at the thesis on the huge oval table and switched my gaze up at the panel, all four of them, calmly gliding it from left to right. I gently pushed the chair back, stood up and picked the thesis and my binder. Once again I looked at all four of them, fixing my eyes for a few seconds longer on the Jedi of Lasbela who, sprawled sloppily on the sumptuous armchair, resembled the freshly dumped entrails of a  butchered cow, and then walked out of the room which was then once again engulfed in silence.

What happened after that is rather blurry in my mind, and not important here. I learned, perhaps from the Mian, that they hired a University of Balochistan graduate with specialization in Chemistry, or maybe it was in Islamiat?? The lucky guy was an Achakzai, if I am recalling correctly, some relative or clansman of the Minister for Irrigation, Hamid Khan Achakzai. The whole thing had already been decided and the hiring and interview process etc. were a vile charade.

Now, in telling this story I want to emphasize that there is nothing unique or exceptional about it. It's the norm in that place, in a sense. These degrading farces organized, produced, directed and conducted by little men and women devoid of any intellectual, moral and ethical conscience, human-faced monsters with zero integrity and zero basic human decency, happen on a daily basis in that part of the world. They have been happening for decades now and the way things are, will keep on happening for God knows how many more decades. If there are any characteristics that define the province's and country's ruling classes, khaki as well as civilian------ their presiding "virtues", since The System is totally inverted, a system of Kali Yuga where the Shudras have usurped the role of the Brahmins----- they are the following: mediocrity, incompetence, nepotism, avarice and cowardice. If I were asked to qualify the evil I witnessed on that day with only one of these mentioned characteristics, I would definitely choose the last: cowards. I was in the presence of four cowards on that day.  

Those who have been writing about "brain-drain" from the "underdeveloped" South for years now are to a great extent justified in their analyses and arguments. The reasons and justifications are varied and very complex, to be sure, but there is no denying that many leave because they have given up or lost any and all hope in The System that is their country. On that very day when I was declared "overqualified" by a bunch of incompetent maskharas masquerading as state ministers and high ranking bureaucrats, I made up my mind about doing everything that was in my power to leave the country for good. I had lost hope. Had lost it completely. But that loss became fodder for something bigger, for a bigger fire within.  A year later, I was in Australia on an international scholarship doing my new Masters in Environmental Studies. From Australia, I went on to the UK and onwards to Canada for further education and work...

In 1996, a repugnant clique of Balochistan Government officials, four cowards intoxicated with transient power (for us mortals in this ephemeral world, is there any other kind?), arrogantly and unjustly rejected me because I was "overqualified" for a senior engineer's position; I rejected them because they were under-qualified, not only as referees and selectors, but more importantly, as human beings lacking basic human virtues of decency, integrity and courage. 

For more, please click on the link below:

A Lament for Quetta, Harf e Dervaish#1 (Urdu)

Quetta: A City of Karezes

Harf-e-Dervaish (Urdu)

Illuminations 5

Quetta Chawni (Cantonment, or Quetta Cantt.): Then and now

 Quetta Chawni (Cantonment, or Quetta Cantt.): Then and now

"All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same way in any country." 

                                Herman Goering, Hitler's minister of propaganda

"The most successful tyranny is not the one that uses force to assure uniformity, but the one that removes awareness of other possibilities."  

                                                                                         Alan Bloom

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It is early evening in late October, just before sunset when the shadows grow longer by the minute under the azure Quetta sky. The air is crisp, soon to turn even crispier, drier and colder with the approach of the night. The perennially dusty streets are littered with shriveled, reddish-brown leaves that are blown around, often in circles, by the gently whistling autumn winds. I look up at the exquisite, cloudless sky, trying to imbibe the vast, serene expanse of that ocean above with all my senses, and utter something that seem to gush from some secret crevice of my consciousness, the meaning of which is lost to me and to my companions standing next to me. “What? Did you say something?” one of them asks me. “Did I? Maybe, I did---I don’t know” I respond without taking my eyes off the blue heavens above us. Having lived in several countries on three continents, I can claim with some certainty that nowhere I have seen autumn skies as beautiful as in Quetta. But I guess this is just the prejudice of an exiled and nostalgic Quettawaal. We are all waiting in front of our friend Daud’s house for him to come out so that we can embark on our long evening walk to Chiltan Market in Quetta Chawni (Cantt.). As we wait, Daud’s father walks out of the door, smiles at us, and quietly informs us that his son will be out soon. A religious man with a long beard, he waves at us, and then walks in the direction of the local masjid (mosque) to offer his maghrib prayer. Minutes later, Daud appears. He joins us and we start our walk.

On most days, there would be the four of us on these all-season evening walks: Mehdi, Jabbar, Daud and yours truly. Sometimes a friend of Mehdi’s or of Daud’s would join us, too. We would start from Daud’s house, off Toghi Road, next to the Tel Gudam area, and walk some 5 to 6kms to Chiltan Market and back. Sometimes we would take the Jinnah Ground route, walk past the TV station building, turn right at the corner across the spacious compound that housed the huge pinkish and white communication tower, walk all the way to the roundabout over which loomed the giant concrete National Bank building, turn left and onward to Chiltan Market tea houses. At other times, we would take the uncomplicated route, via the beautiful, tree-lined Gulistan Road, turn left at the end of that long road and then all the way to the same National Bank roundabout. I enjoyed the autumn walks the best, something that I still do in the small town where I live now far, far away from Quetta.

Chiltan Market, Quetta Chawni

But more than the walk itself, or at least equally interesting and enjoyable as the walk, were our discussions en route to and at the chai shop where we would sip the steaming hot, sugary beverage as we indulged in arguments about subjects ranging from the strictly philosophical (existence of God and the truth of other religions!), to trivia such as Bollywood actors and singers. No matter what the topic, there was always enough disagreement to ensure that the discussions remained lively and generated as much heat as light. We would usually sit outside in the open area behind the old, concrete building of the market. The tea shops were in the rear and in the evening the place would be abuzz, the cheap plastic chairs fully occupied most of the evenings by people like us: civilians who had either driven or walked from different parts of the city to this popular spot in Quetta Cantt.

Except for Jabbar, the three of us would engage in long discussions, often without any meaningful resolutions and which would sometimes continue for days and weeks. Jabbar, because he was the youngest, and temperamentally a bit taciturn---- still a university student at that time----would intermittently jump in and ask something. His often irrelevant, and at times naïve, interruptions, however, had a wisdom-like function of their own: they would become necessary reminders to us that we needed to come to our senses, that we had gone off-track, or that we had transgressed the norms of civilized discussion and debate. Now that I think about it, perhaps they were moments when “the child is the father of man” as Wordsworth has aptly said. Or, perhaps they were even instances when what we usually look down upon as the pathologies of irrationality prove superior to the pathologies of rationality, rationality being something that we---the “educated”, grown up ones--- value and cherish so much that we often become blind to its partial and passionate nature. Modernity places this faculty of ratiocination above all else within man whereas traditional cultures have always considered it part of the passionate soul, as part of an inner hierarchy and below what the ancient Greeks called nous, and other (religious) traditions, Intellect or Spirit of which 'the heart' is the seat, hence the Arabic ayn al qalb, the Persian chashm e dil and the Sanskrit third eye. "The heart has reasons that the reason knows not of" as Blaise Pascal has reminded us.

A digression, but, oh, how I miss those days!

Gulistan Road, Quetta Chawni

That was then. Things are very different now. Quetta Chawni, as we knew it then----the location of so many of our best memories, from the weekend visits to, and swimming in, the famous Hanna Lake, picnics with family and friends in the cool Urak Valley and Wali Tangi, the bicycle races to Spin Karez, the motorcycle trips to Digari to eat the famous truck-driver tarka daal, and the long jogs and walks-----is no longer accessible, or not in the way it used to be, at least not to those of us who belong to that odd colonial category of mortal beings known as “civilians” in the godforsaken country of Pakistan. This often pejorative term, “civilian”, or its more civilized and politer version, “bloody civilian”, when used by a certain uniformed, booted usurper class gains more in crudity and ugliness in a brutalized and brutally neglected corner of the country, such as the city of Quetta in the internally-colonized province of Balochistan. On my recent visit to Quetta, I tried the impossible task of re-living those rather innocent bits of the past, for memory’s sake, for the good old times' and good old friends' sake. I soon found out the futility, if not the outright stupidity, of my intention of strolling over to Jinnah Ground in the Chawni area.

Pani Taqseem, Quetta Cantt.

Now, as soon as you walk off the Ajab Khan Pul (bridge), as we used to call the bridge that marks the boundary between the civilian and the military areas, you get stopped by a bunch of six-plus-feet tall uniformed men who demand from you, in addition to your usual IDs, four or five different kinds of “entry passes” before they allow you to cross the line that separates the two species of Pakistanis: the civilians and the wardi wallas, or the Chawni people. “But I live here, my forefathers, ancestors have lived and died here, have lived here for many generations, grew up here and this is our public area, our town, our land. Why do I need a pass just for an evening stroll?”, I protest naively. “Saab ka order hai” or “Ooper sei order hai, paas dikao” comes the dry, monotonous, machine-gun-like reply in a dialect that is an insult to both proper Urdu and Punjabi. Clearly, arguing with them is useless, even dangerous. After all, these brutalized, thoroughly dehumanized, deprogramed and then re-programmed, unfeeling automatons in uniform and boots are just doing their “job”, following their SOPs, as the jargon goes. They have “orders from above”. And it is that “above” that decides who can enter and who cannot, or who can enter with what kind of entry pass or parchi.

In some of my posts here on this blog site I have talked about glittering generalities, those sacred cows---words, expressions, concepts or categories of knowledge---that compartmentalize and colonize our imagination. They imprison us with narrow, suffocating intellectual categories that kill meaningful conversations, halt critical questioning, marginalize alternative worldviews, criminalize dissent, and which are often deployed as masks by hypocritical wielders of power against the powerless and the marginalized. Whether they deliver the goods that they claim to deliver is not the concern here; what we need to understand is that what else is carried out in their name. The political psychologist and cultural critic Ashis Nandy has argued that, "Today, the really powerful and the truly dangerous are those who justify themselves in the name of science, rationality, universality, equality, democracy and other such lofty Enlightenment values."

One such potent glittering generality is the term “security”, a convenient shorthand term used frequently these days for all sorts of nefarious and criminal ends. Like its siblings----development, progress, democracy, care, hope, humanitarian, sustainable, terrorism, social justice, stakeholder, community, empowerment, liberty and so on----security is now the demagogues’ word of choice the world over. For example, in the western world, but especially in the USA of post 9-11, this dumbing generality has been the most important justification, the raison de'tre, for the systematic erosion of civil liberties, for invasion of privacy, for demonizing critical inquiry and dissent, for the institutionalization of a pervasive and perverse system of surveillance that extends to peoples’ bedrooms and even toilets; in short, for the radical transfer of power from the people to the criminal oligarchies that lord over those lands and their peoples. Security is, first and foremost, about anxiety and fear. Fear, after all, is an effective tool: invent a hobgoblin, a boogeyman---the menacing other, the Hindu, the Muslim, the Yehudi, the barbarian at the gates---parade and analyze its evil nature ad nauseum on the mass media through obscene talking heads, all those rented anchors and hired pens that one critic has called "the presstitudes", make people afraid and then you can do anything you want to do to them. The more afraid they are, the easier it will be to manipulate them. Fear provides the most effective justification for silencing dissent and for oppression. Fear causes confusion and disorientation and nobody is more susceptible to control than a disoriented person. It is the oppressor demagogues’ favorite tool in his or her arsenal of control and domination.

Quetta Club, Quetta Chawni

It is in this context that one needs to understand what has happened, and is still happening, in certain areas of Pakistan, as well, and especially in a place like Quetta, Balochistan. In fact, in Pakistan as a whole, this one particular glittering generality---security---has been the epistemic category or methodological narrative framework of choice for the powers-that-be for more than six decades. The ruling classes, the masters of the country who have kept their deadly grip on the levers of power like a giant killer squid either directly or indirectly through their front men and women----those cowardly and opportunist puppets who always sell their souls and do Faustian deals with the most powerful or highest bidder----have perennially used “security” or “national security” as the main justification for the oppressive status quo and, therefore, for their illegitimate political experiments and adventures.

A relevant and close to home example of this “security”, “parchi” and “entry pass" culture is on display in Gwadar. As it gets fenced, gated and “secured” (secured for whom, from whom, one might ask?), the poor fishermen of Gwadar and surrounding areas, who have been fishing in the Arabian Sea for hundreds, if not thousands, of years now have to beg some low ranking, semi-literate sentry from Sahiwal, Sialkot, Cheecha Watani or Jehlum for a “parchi” so that they can do, even on a very limited basis, what they have been doing for ages freely, without any restrictions. This is, we are told once again, “development” for them----Chinese style, this time around! But it is already obvious, to those who have eyes to see, who is getting developed at whose expense. No multi-million dollar pizza franchises in western metropolises, no plots and luxury SUVs, no advisory and consultancy portfolios in high corridors of power for the locals of Gwadar, but more systematic marginalization, mini-genocides, violent exclusion from their own ancestral lands and resources.

Gwadar and "development"

One word: “development…a debauched word, a whore of a word whose users can’t look you in the eye” as Leonard Frank once wrote.

These excluded "stakeholders" of peripheral regions like Gwadar are lectured with the toxic rhetoric of "care", "empowerment", "charity" and even "social justice", and who "struggle towards their graves...listening to the lofty verbiage promising poverty alleviation, the right to work, development, progress, human rights and democracy...development has claimed more lives than outright war or race-based genocides in the twentieth century", say Ashis Nandy and Vinay Lal. The historian and cultural critic Vinay Lal has argued that, "Modern, largely invisible, holocausts are being perpetrated on significant sections of the world's population....there is every possibility that the twenty-first century might be richer still in other, hitherto still invisible, holocausts. Nothing furnishes more vivid illustrations of this argument than the idea of 'development', which remains indubitably the clearest example of genocidal violence perpetrated by modern knowledge systems on the integrity of human communities. The saga of Soviet terror originated in the brutal collectivization of Russian agriculture and in the impulse to industrialize rapidly, and consequently increase productivity, by the use of forced labour. Millions of deaths were achieved, not by superior forms of armament, but by coolly and rationally conceiving of these deaths as the necessary price to pay for development. In a similar vein is the Chinese Communist Party's heartless embrace of ruinous economic policies, the attempt by political functionaries to make the subjects of the state partake in the Great Leap Forward, and the consequence of this extreme folly: 25 - 30 million people dead from starvation." (The concentration camp and development: The pasts and future of genocide, Vinay Lal, 2005.)

One needs to observe that the fruits of this new variety of “development” in Gwadar is being distributed in a rather brutally asymmetrical manner among the “stakeholders". Given its ugly, violently exploitative and Eurocentric history, especially in the non-white South in the latter half of the ”century of terror” (Eric Hobsbawm’s term) that ended some twenty years ago, to say that "development is genocide" (as many cultural critics and historians have argued) would not be an exaggeration. It is now a thoroughly discredited concept for authentic human well-being----to the point that it is even seen as a form of racism. (See, for example, The Development Dictionary ed. Wolfgang Sachs, The Post-Development Reader ed. Majid Rahnema/Victoria Bawtree and Encountering Development by Arturo Escobar, among many others)

My friend Sardar Kharkaftar of Helsinki (another exiled Quettawaal who now lives up-north in Finland and who also laments the sorry state of the city of his birth) says that “Quetta is now more like a war zone, like a huge concentration camp”. In his last email to me, after I wrote to him about my recent trip to Quetta and the story of “entry passes”, he wrote back the following, and with which I am going to end this meditation on Quetta Chawni:

Cantonments, DHAs and other gated communities in Pakistan

“We need to see through these pathological charades like development and security. We especially need to understand the sick political shows that are staged every few years in the name of "elections" by the real masters of the land. The problem, the crisis, is decades old, structural and systematic and no amount of cosmetic whitewashing will do. For any real, humane and long lasting change to take root in Pakistan, and especially in its internally colonized and plundered peripheral lands like Balochistan, first and foremost, the decadent and humiliating colonial culture of batman and bungalow, officers’ clubs/mess, golf courses and gymkhanas, of lucrative allotment of plots, of the apartheid-like townships called cantonments, DHAs and Bahria Towns and all the other gated colonies and exclusivist enclaves that create demeaning hierarchies and divisions in society, for example, those between the intellectually bamboozled, morally corrupt brown sahibs that make up the class----the criminal cabal, the oligarchic Lahore-Pindi Shudra mafia often referred to with the atrocious euphemism of “establishment"----and the “bloody civilians”, the rest of us, that is, all these will have to be completely abolished because they are insulting relics of a racialist, colonial past, a past with which there should have been a radical break in 1947 but which has survived and even thrived in different forms in contemporary (both old and naya) Pakistan. A real, dignified and just Pakistan will be a place where there will be real justice and the rule of law, or more relevantly here, a place where you and I, civilians and others alike, will not need a parchi or an entry pass from some lowly sentry, or semi-educated uniformed chowkidar, in order to fish in our ancestral waters, to till our ancestral lands and to just go for a stroll in the public spaces of our towns and cities”.

For more, click: The Hollow Men , The Picture , A Lament

Quetta: Hazara Ethnic Cleansing

Illuminations 5

Illuminations # 5

Light and Darkness


"Except before it die, the seed will bear no fruit."      (Anonymous)

"The knowledge which results in renunciation (zuhd) consists of the realization that what is renounced is of little value in comparison with what is received". 

                                       Abu Hamid Ibn e Muhammad Al Ghazzali

"Desire is slavery; renunciation is freedom."                       Hermes
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Jalwa: It's what you do in your khalwa.

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On fasting, on Ramzan.

An old German proverb tells us that it is not possible for us to be truly cultured if we do not practice some degree of asceticism in our lives. When we deny ourselves our basest desires and cravings, we prepare ourselves for actualizing our potential to be truly human. When we say "no" to our lower, animal instincts, we say "yes" to our higher, spiritual yearnings issuing from the Spirit that resides in all of us because we are the "ashraf al makhluqat", because we carry the "breath" or the "light" that has been placed within us by the Creator. When we resist the incessant demands of habit, of what has become our second nature in this world of transience and contingency, we begin to recall and remember the forgotten melodies of our primordial nature (our fitrah). When we refuse to plunge and drown in the hellish depths of the corporeal 'self' (nafs), we make ourselves ready for flight, for transcendence, which is the real purpose of our temporary existence in this world". Says Robert Browning, "A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" 

Fasting is a kind of knowing, or a way of acquiring knowledge where you don't think or intellectualize your way to the truth of a matter. When we fast, instead of knowing something abstractly, we experience or intuit it, or we taste a higher form of knowledge, hence we taste the truth, with our being. This kind of immediate, direct and existential knowing is much more profound than any other form of exclusively cerebral knowing. It is like the unveiling of mystery, a form of kashf. Imagine describing or explaining water to a thirsty person in contrast to giving him a glass of water. Just as that water is more meaningful, or it has more reality (wujud) than its descriptions and explanations for the thirsty person, similarly the conscious self denial of water and food (and all the other things for which they are used as symbols) gives us access to those faculties within us with which we can taste of that (higher) Reality whose reflection all these other realities are. From water to thirst, from reality to Reality: in the former, we seek to quench our thirst; in the latter, we seek thirst. In the former, we seek shade in the sun; in the latter, we want to become light, we seek the sun.  This is why Rumi says, "Seek thirst, not water". We partake of God's gifts, which are the contingent lower realities, to satiate our transient selves; we deny our transient selves those gifts (the ephemeral realities, which are ultimately unreal, or are mere shadows of the Real) in order to taste of the eternal Reality. God gives us when He gives us, and He gives us more when He takes from us. "Often in giving you something He is (in reality) denying you something, just as He may, in denying you something, be really bestowing a gift upon you." (Ibn e Ata Allah al-Iskandari)

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What is most complicated and complex in modernity can only be countered with traditional simplicity; the toxic worldview of modernity can be effectively countered by the "salt of the earth".

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Modernity and its profane worldview: feed the nafs and then sit back and watch the destruction of the heedless, the deracinated and the uprooted.

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Modern diseases of hedonism and boredom: "The fire of hell is veiled by passionate desires, while Paradise is veiled by undesirable things."   (A Hadith)

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Progress, from Descartes to Transhumanist Postmodernism: "I think, therefore I am (Cogito ergo sum)" to "I am online, therefore I am (real)".

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Your wealth, your possessions, your fame and popularity, your knowledge and rank, even your good words and good deeds, will not save you if you are not sincere. The essence of faith is sincerity.

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The crisis of The System in Pakistan: The Vampires, the hollow men, have been exposed like never before, and that is the best thing that has happened in all this turmoil and chaos of Imran Khan's dethronement.
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Pakistan: the rulers are guilty because they have committed innumerable crimes; the people, the awam, are guilty because they have been committing the sin of tolerating all those crimes for too long.
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When it became difficult to say what one wanted to say, when it became almost impossible to develop any kind of meaningful relationship between "reality" and words, geniuses like Garcia Marquez, Bulgakov, Calvino and even that pompous ass Rushdie and others came up with "magical realism". What next? What now in Pakistan?
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Two things sell the most and the quickest on the Internet: food and sex. Start a food channel and you will get thousands of views and followers (and "likes") in a day or two, if not in an hour or two. Upload your own,  or your or somebody else's wife's, daughter's, sister's explicitly nude or even sexually suggestive images and videos, and millions will rush to your website or to your channel. Modern digital technology is by default, by its very conception and design, meant to enslave us to our bestial instincts, to make us slave to our carnal desires and appetitive faculties. Or, it is nafs-oriented. On social media, send/share/forward anything that will titillate them below the waist and you will become a celebrity overnight, a hero with lots and lots of followers and loads of "likes". Send anything that will require the use of that strange thing they carry around on their shoulders and chances are you will either be ignored or will get blocked! And then there are the qualifying excuses that are often instinctively, knee-jerkingly, added to arguments such as, "...but there is so much good...." which are  nothing but symptoms of naivety about and ignorance of these digital contraptions. Of course it is true, just as there are some good things and good people in hell, too. But that does not change the nature of hell.

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Who is a traitor in Pakistan?

The disappeared or those who carry out the disappearing?

Those who are vilified as traitors, or those who are paid to vilify others as traitors?

Those who sell their conscience (zameer), or those who force them to do so?

The rulers of the awam, or the overlords of these awami rulers?

Those who make and defend unjust laws, or those who break them?

Those who break their fast with dates grown and harvested in Gwadar and Turbat, or those who start and break their fast with Papa Jones pizza?

Those who start dollar jihad, or those who do a jihad against such fake jihad?

The innocent who get hanged and murdered, or the criminals who flee the country after murdering and hanging the innocent?

The blackmailed or the blackmailer?

Those under the boots, or the wearers of those boots?

The whisky drinking, cocaine snorting armchair jihadi ideologues, or those who blow themselves up under the influence of much deadlier drugs, both concreate/material and abstract/ideological?

The Sick of the Centre, or the deceived of the periphery?

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For more: On the significance of fasting

Illuminations #3

Harf e Dervaish #5

The Picture

Stray Crumbs, Uncle Marx

Illuminations # 4

 

Light and Darkness

"There are thoughts which are prayers. There are moments when, whatever the posture of the body, the soul is on its knees." 

                                                                                        Victor Hugo
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Open your eyes

Open your eyes before it is too late.
Open your eyes and see,
what the world of appearances hides from you.
See all the beauty and the goodness
that is around you, that surround you----
the khair and jamal that engulf you
and that do not cost a penny.
Open your eyes to see the usefulness of all
that you have been taught to regard as useless.
See with that opened eye the worth and the value
of all that cannot be measured and counted, hence
they don't count, are worthless and valueless.
They are beautiful because they are free;
they are wonderful because they are useless.
Take pleasure in them, celebrate them,
only because they are uncountable, meaningless.
We flee from, because we are blind to,
the beauty and the grandeur of all that is Reality,
of all that have been made for us,
and take refuge in illusion, in ugliness---in reality---
in images that are imitations of imitations.

Everything's on display. It's always been so.
It's all there, hurled wide and deep by Generosity,
scattered out in all directions by Mercy.
It's all there brothers and sisters,
for us to see, to comprehend and celebrate.

Open your eyes and see.
Open your eyes before it is too late.

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Some questions

Who would they blame for all the miseries of the people if there was no India?

Or, how would they, the ruling criminal mafias of Pakistan, justify their crimes if there was no country next door called India?

What would Pakistan be like if it had four (or more) provinces instead of just one?

What if the police and the army had the same salaries and privileges?

How would things be if anyone who said "Don't you know who I am?" was given 18 lashes on his backside in public, just like in the old days of that mustachioed Jallandhari monster?

What would justice really look like if those who kill civilians were also tried and hanged---those who frame and hang civilians through kangaroo courts and sell out judges?

What would the appeared (who had been disappeared) tell the world if they knew they could talk without the fear of getting disappeared again?

How would things be if the journalists and the judges of the land had conscience?

Would Pakistan finally win some medals at the Olympic Games if cricket was declared haram by all the certified muftis of the country?

What would happen to education in Pakistan if teachers took their job not as that only but as a vocation, as the most important profession in a society?

What would happen if Pakistani entertainers and celebrities---TV, movie actors, singers etc.--- were to educate the public about their plight and the causes of their miseries and not narcotize them into becoming pathological copies of the narcissistic clowns that they themselves are?

Why not make those who teach at LUMS and IBA teach at jihadi madrassahs in remote Balochistan and KPK and make the madrassah mullahs teach the students at LUMS and IBA? It would be an excellent opportunity for mutually beneficial indoctrination, a win-win situation, as they say!

Why not make Khuzdar or Loralai the capital of Pakistan? That would be one good way of showing concern for the historically ignored and exploited province and solidarity with its neglected and oppressed people.

How about making Coke Studio celebrities, especially the female ones, perform live concerts at the jihadi madrassahs all over the country, like the ones mentioned above? The money could come from the Gulf States, especially from the obscenely rich clown princes of the region who are now doing the same in their own sheikhdoms.

For more, click: Harf e Dervaish #10 , Harf e Dervaish #1

And:  Illuminations #1 , Illuminations # 3, Education: Old and New

Illuminations # 3

Light and Darkness

"People look and talk and smile and are nice and the abyss yawns. The niceness is terrifying."                     Walker Percy, Love in Ruins

" If you look too deeply, everything breaks your heart."
                                                        Ben Okri, Songs of Enchantment

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Old Quetta: goodness and beauty were essential; evil and ugliness, accidental.

New Quetta: evil and ugliness are essential; goodness and beauty, accidental.

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The eleventh hour or signs of the times (in Pakistan)

A soft-spoken, BMW driving mullah massages the "conscience" of the members of the criminal wealthy classes and whispers sweetly in their ears, "You have done nothing wrong."

An obscene, self promoting maskhara sells vulgarity on the screens citing and reciting from the sacred books of the Deen.

TV and movie actors imitate the already corrupted and unreal reality around them and then reality is made in the image of that imitation art and.... It is an infinite regress, a race to the bottom.

Social justice warriors scream and protest, make a lot of ugly noise, both on screen and off screen, until they receive their salvation ticket from the lords of humanity: a visa to a worldly paradise in the modern West.

Whiskey guzzling, cocaine sniffing power elites after adequately programming and training them, let the head chopping, self blowing jihadi monsters loose upon the PSL and Coke Studio watching narcotized and bamboozled awam (the public).

Perverse hustling is the new religion of the land. Everything's for sale: people, town, country, dignity, respect, principles, laws, morality and conscience...

The spectacle of spectacles: TV "senior" anal-ysts analyze nothing that really needs critical analysis and, instead, constantly engage in anus gazing.

Too many preachers and reformers but the only progress is a steady decline and constant regress in the most basic forms of human decency.

The fraud of CPEC: The Sick of the Centre tell the deceived of the periphery, "Forget the rickety trawlers and the fish. Soon you will all be eating Papa Jones Pizza. Very soon, you all will be developed to death."

Social media: everybody now has the full freedom and the right to bully and blackmail everybody else.

Mera jism, meri marzi: yes, the jism is yours but the marzi is not yours at all. It would be nice if it really were your marzi.

The naked emperor threatens everybody who dares to talk about his non-existent clothes.

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Religious Violence vs. Secular Violence

Force is part and parcel of nature. Any denial of this fact is itself an act of violence.
As a means to an end, ideally speaking, religious force (which is always carried out to restore mizan, or equilibrium) has one very important and distinct feature. Every act of outward force, or violence against the "other" or the world, is at the same time countered or balanced with a much bigger effort, or violence against the self. The first is the smaller battle (jihad e asghar) and the latter, the larger battle (jihad e akbar). Only in this way the outer violence is justified in authentic religious worldview. And this is also the meaning of Imam Ali's (AS) double-edged, twin-tipped sword, The Zulfiqar: one cannot fight the demons without (outside), without also fighting the bigger demons within. In other words, this is a combination of action and contemplation, one can never be without the other. Now compare this ideal with contemporary force, or violence, that is carried out in the name of religion.

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Theodicy, or the problem of evil

Where there is light, there is shadow, too. That is how we should see the problem of evil vis-a-vis goodness. Man wants light and when light is made available for him, he protests and cries, "Why is there shadow?"

"If God is, whence come evil things? If He is not, whence comes good?"        

(Boethius, Consolation of Philosophy).
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Observe and understand the symbols in the daily prayer: when you stand upright, you are the Khalifa Allah; in prostration, you are Abd Allah. Man is both lord and vassal in the castle. Only when he is a vassal to the Lord of the lords, he can be a lord of the castle; otherwise, he is nothing but a lowly servant to all the other (pseudo) lords.

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Contemporary Pakistan: Orwellian contradictions all around

The mullahs corrupt and destroy religion; lawyers destroy the laws, judges dispense injustice; teachers destroy education; doctors destroy health and well being; politicians destroy politics and damage democracy (whatever that means now); journalists and TV anchors distort truth and lie through their teeth; the police create fear, protect the criminals, murder the innocent and destroy public trust; the men in uniform encourage all this corruption, this decadence and, therefore, help destroy all state institutions, save their own.

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Pakistan: some of us are innocent. Some are ignorant. Some are the victims. Others, the victimizers. Some, the oppressed; others, the oppressors. But we are ALL responsible. 

(to borrow from Rabbi Joshua Heschel)

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Hope: there is a lot of it still there. In the dark ocean of inhumanity which is becoming darker and meaner by the day, like a huge eutrophic lake, these powerful rays of light still penetrate and sustain life. Find them, join them, become light and save yourself.

For more: On Belief ,   The Two Perspectives ,  Religiosity

And some more: Harf e Dervaish # 10 ,  Illuminations # 1

Illuminations #2 (Urdu)

روشنیاں

ریت کے ذرے میں کائنات کو دیکھنا

اور جنگلی پھول میں جنت کو دیکھنا

اپنے ہاتھ کی ہتھیلی میں لامحدودیت کوتھامنا

اورایک لمحے میں ابدیت کوسمیٹنا، اسیرکرنا

(ولیم بلیک)

خوبصورتی دنیا کو بچائے گی۔       (فیوڈور دوستوفسکی)

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خدا اور ایک مکھی

ایک مکھی پھول کے اندر ہے۔

ایک پھول باغ کے اندر ہے۔

ایک باغ مٹی کی باڑ کے اندر ہے۔

گاؤں کے اندرمٹی کی ایک باڑ لگی ہوئی ہے۔

ایک گاؤں جاپان کے اندر ہے۔

جاپان دنیا کے اندر ہے۔

دنیا خدا کے اندر ہے۔

اور اس طرح، خدا ایک چھوٹی مکھی کے اندر ہے۔

( میسوزو کانیکو، ( پلکوں پر قوس قزح) جاپانی سے اردو میں ترجمہ)

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ایک چھوٹا پرندہ، ایک گھنٹی اور میں

اگرچہ میں اپنے بازو چوڑے کھولتی ہوں، پھر بھی میں آسمان پر نہیں اڑ سکتی۔

لیکن ایک چھوٹا سا پرندہ جو اڑ سکتا ہے، زمین پر میری طرح تیز نہیں دوڑ سکتا۔

اگرچہ میں اپنے جسم کو ہلا تی ہوں، پھر بھی میں گھنٹی کی طرح خوبصورت آواز نہیں نکال سکتی ۔

لیکن وہ گھنٹی اپنی خوبصورت بجتی ہوئی آواز کے ساتھ، میرے جتنے گیت نہیں جانتی۔

ایک گھنٹی، ایک چھوٹا پرندہ اور میں

ہم سب مختلف ہیں اور ہم سب خوبصورت ہیں۔

( میسوزو کانیکو، ( پلکوں پر قوس قزح) جاپانی سے اردو میں ترجمہ)

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معمہ

میں اپنے آپ کو یہ تعجب کرنے سے نہیں روک سکتی کہ کالے بادلوں سے گرنے والی بارش کے قطرے چمکدار چاندی کی طرح کیوں ہوتے ہیں۔

میں اپنے آپ کو یہ تعجب کرنے سے نہیں روک سکتی کہ کس طرح لوکی کا پودا کسی کے چھوئے بغیر خود ہی پھول اورکھل جاتا ہے۔

میں اپنے آپ کو تعجب کرنے سے نہیں روک سکتی ۔

اور جس سے بھی میں پوچھتی ہوں، وہ صرف ہنستے ہیں۔

اور کہتے ہیں، یہ کوئی تعجب کی بات نہیں ہے۔

( میسوزو کانیکو، ( پلکوں پر قوس قزح) جاپانی سے اردو میں ترجمہ)

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فریڈی: ایک پتے کی کہانی

موسم بہار آیا

فریڈی جو ایک پتہ تھا، ایک اونچے درخت کی شاخ پر پیدا ہوا۔

فریڈی کی طرح سینکڑوں دوسرے پتے بھی اس درخت پر پیدا ہوئے۔

وہ سب ایک دوسرے کے دوست تھے۔

ایک ساتھ، وہ ہوا کے جھونکے میں رقص کرتے تھے اور روشن دھوپ والے دنوں میں نیلے آسمان کے نیچے کھیلتے تھے۔

ڈینیئل درخت کا سب سے بڑا پتہ تھا اور وہ فریڈی کا بہترین دوست تھا۔

وہ عقلمند تھا اوربہت سی چیزیں جانتا تھا۔

اس نے فریڈی کو بتایا اور سمجھایا کہ وہ پارک میں ایک بڑے درخت کا حصہ ہیں۔

اس نے فریڈی کو پرندوں، سورج اور چاند کے بارے میں بھی سمجھایا۔

فریڈی کو پتہ بننا پسند تھا۔

موسم گرما خاص طور پر اچھا تھا. اسے گرمیوں کے دن سب سے زیادہ پسند تھے۔

ان دنوں بہت سے لوگ پارک میں آتے تھے۔

ڈینیل نے کہا، 'آئیے ہم اکٹھے ہوں اور لوگوں کو کچھ سایہ فراہم کریں'۔

اس نے وضاحت کی کہ "خدا کی مخلوقات کو سایہ دینا ہمارے مقصد زندگی کا حصہ ہے۔ لوگوں کو خوش کرنا زندگی گزارنے کی ایک بہت اچھی وجہ ہے"۔

بوڑھے لوگ درخت کے نیچے بیٹھ کر پرانے وقتوں کی باتیں کرتے تھے۔

بچے درخت کے ارد گرد اور پارک میں بھاگتے اور ہنستے اور کودتے تھے۔

ان بچوں کو بھاگتے اور چھلا نگھیں لگاتے دیکھنا فریڈی کے لیے خوشی کا باعث تھا۔

اور پھر موسم گرما گزر گیا اور خزاں آ گئی۔

جلد ہی پتوں نے اپنا رنگ بدل لیا۔

کچھ سرخ ہو گئے اور کچھ پیلے ہو گئے۔

فریڈی جامنی ہو گیا۔

وہ سب بہت خوبصورت تھے۔

ایک دن ایک عجیب واقعہ ہوا۔

تیز ٹھنڈی ہوا کی وجہ سے کچھ پتے اڑ گئے۔

سارے پتے خوفزدہ ہو گئے۔

ایک چیخا "یہ کیا ہو رہا ہے"؟

عقلمند بوڑھے پتے ڈینیل نے کہا ' پتوں کے گھر بدلنے کا وقت آ گیا ہے- کچھ لوگ اسے مرنا کہتے ہیں'۔

فریڈی نے پوچھا، 'کیا ہم سب مر جائیں گے'؟

ڈینیل نے جواب دیا 'ہاں، سب مرتے ہیں، ہم میں سے ہر ایک مرجائے گا'۔

فریڈی نے خوف زدہ آواز میں پکارا "میں نہیں مروں گا۔ میں مرنا نہیں چاہتا"۔

لیکن اس کے دوست یکے بعد دیگرے گرنے لگے- جلد ہی درخت تقریباً ننگا یعنی بے پتہ ہو گیا۔۔

فریڈی نے ڈینیئل سے کہا "میں مرنے سے ڈرتا ہوں"۔

ڈینیئل نے جواب دیا "ہم سب مرنے سے ڈرتے ہیں۔ ہم سب ان چیزوں سے ڈرتے ہیں جو ہم نہیں جانتے"۔

اور اس نے مزید کہا "لیکن تم اس وقت نہیں ڈرے جب بہار موسم گرما میں بدل گئی، یا جب موسم گرما خزاں میں بدل گیا- تبدیلیاں فطرت کا حصہ ہیں"۔

فریڈی نے پوچھا "کیا ہم بہار میں واپس آئیں گے"؟

بوڑھے پتے نے کہا "میں نہیں جانتا، لیکن زندگی واپس آ جائے گی. زندگی ہمیشہ رہتی ہے اور ہم سب اس کا حصہ ہیں"۔

فریڈی نے شکایت کی "ہم صرف گرتے ہیں اور مرتے ہیں۔ ہم یہاں کیوں ہیں اور کس کے لیے"؟

عقلمند دوست نے جواب دیا 'دوستوں کے لیے، دھوپ اور چھاؤں کے لیے۔ کیا تمہیں وہ ٹھنڈی ہوا، وہ خوش لوگ اورموسم خزاں کے وہ تمام خوبصورت رنگ یاد نہیں؟

"کیا یہ سب کافی نہیں ہے"؟

اس سرد شام کے آخری پہر، ڈینیل مسکراتے ہوئے درخت سے گرا۔

فریڈی اب درخت کی اس شاخ پر واحد پتہ رہ گیا تھا۔ باقی تمام پتے گر چکے تھے۔

سردیوں کے موسم کی پہلی برف اگلی صبح پڑی۔

ایک تیز ہوا آئی اورتنہا فریڈی کو اس کی شاخ سے اٹھا کر لے گئی- اسے بالکل تکلیف نہیں ہوئی۔

گرتے ہی اس نے پہلی بار پورا درخت دیکھا۔

اور اسے ڈینیئل کے الفاظ یاد آئے "زندگی ہمیشہ کے لیے رہتی ہے"۔

فریڈی نرم اورتازہ برف پر اترا۔

وہ پرسکون تھا۔ اس نے آنکھیں بند کرلی اورسو گیا۔

اسے یہ معلوم نہیں تھا لیکن درخت اور زمین پر سرگوشیاں شروع ہو چکی تھیں۔ یہ سرگوشیاں جو کہ موسم بہار میں نئے پتوں کے نئے منصوبوں کے بارے میں تھیں میٹھے اور سریلے نغموں کی طرح تھیں۔

(دی فال آف فریڈی دی لیف از لیو بسکاگلیا۔ میرا اردو ترجمہ)

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 صبر ۔ شکر۔ توبہ

The Fall of Freddie the Leaf ( a story by Leo Buscaglia)

For more,     Illuminations #1    Harf e Dervaish#6    Harf e Dervaish #2, Solitude

Illuminations #1 (Urdu)

اندھیرا اجالا

جسے کیٹرپلر( سنڈی) اپنا انجام و اختتام کہتا ہے، باقی دنیا اسے تتلی کہتی ہے۔ 

 (لاؤ تزو)

حسن سچائی کی شان ہے۔            (افلاطون)

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جو سچ (حق) ہے وہ تعریف کی رو سے یا لازمی طورپرخوبصورت بھی ہے۔  لیکن ہر وہ چیز جو ہمیں خوبصورت لگتی ہے ضروری نہیں کہ سچ بھی ہو۔ اس کی وجہ یہ ہے کہ اس کا انحصار اس بڑی جنگ یا جہاد اکبر کی معیار یا نوعیت پرہے ۔ وہ جنگ جو ہم اپنے نفس کے خلاف لڑتے ہیں یا جوہمیں لڑنا چاہئیے ۔

اور اس میں کوئی شک نہیں کہ جامع جہالت کے اس نئے تاریک دور میں اب یہی معیار حق پر بھی یکساں طور پر لاگو ہوتا ہے۔ اب بہت سے لوگوں کو یہ بتانے کی ضرورت پڑتی ہے کہ سورج، ستارے اور آسمان جیسی چیزوں کا اپنا وجود ہے۔ ہم اب اس دور میں نہیں رہتے جب اورجہاں حق سورج اورآسمانوں کی طرح تھا، اس طرح کہ وہ نابینا لوگوں کو بھی دکھائی دیتے تھے اوران کے لیے بھی قابل فہم تھے۔ اب ہم بہت ترقی یافتہ اورعقلمند ہو گئے ہیں، جیسا کہ میرا ایک ناخوش قاری بھی مجھے بتاتا رہتا ہے۔

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جدید سیکولرتعلیم: آپ انسان ہیں۔

روایتی تعلیم و تربیت: آپ کو انسان بننا ہے۔

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انسان ہونا ایک طے شدہ خوشگوارحقیقت نہیں ہے۔ بلکہ ایک مسلسل سعی، ایک جدو جہد اورزندگی بھرکا مشکل ترین کام ہے۔

(سورین کیرکیگارڈ کی سوچ کی ایک تشریح )

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رابرٹ لوئس سٹیونسن نے ایک بار کہا تھا کہ شراب بوتل میں بند شاعری ہے۔ میں کہتا ہوں اچھی، کڑاک اورذائقہ دارچائےکا کپ، جیسا کہ پرانے کوئٹہ کے تمام معیاری کیفے اورریستورانوں میں فروخت کیا جاتا تھا، اس پیالے کی طرح ہے جو شاعری اور فلسفہ دونوں سے بھری ہوئی ہے۔ 

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میری تحریروں سے ناخوش قاری نے مجھے کچھ اور مشورے بھیجے ہیں۔ اپنے قیمتی مشوروں اورتجاویزکے ساتھ انھوں نے مجھ پر بعض ناپسندیدہ خصلتوں کے حامل ہونے کا الزام بھی لگایا ہے۔ مثال کے طور پر، انھوں نے مجھ پر بہت تنگ نظر، رجعت پسند اور بہت کم ذہانت کے مالک ، یعنی کند ذہن ہونے کا الزام لگایا ہے۔ (یعنی کم آئی کیو)

ایک طرح سے میں ان تمام الزامات کو تہے دل سے قبول کرتا ہوں۔  اس کی ایک بنیادی وجہ یہ ہے کہ میں ان جیسے تمام علمی، ذہنی، فکری اوراخلاقی خصلتوں کو ماپنے کے تمام جدید ناقص اورفعال طورپرنقصان دہ معیارات کو بلکل اہمیت نہیں دیتا۔ اور کسی اور دن، انشاء اللہ، میں ان کو مزید تفصیل سے بیان کرنے کی کوشش کروں گا۔ فی الحال میں اپنے پیارے لیکن ناخوش قاری سے یہ کہنا چاہتا ہوں۔

ایک وسیع اور کھلا ذہن رکھنا اچھی بات ہے۔۔ یہ ذہن ایک کشادہ کمرے کی طرح ہے جس میں بہت سی چوڑی کھڑکیاں ہیں۔ یہ کمرہ ہمیشہ تازہ اور ہوادار رہتا ہے۔ ہوائیں اس کمرے میں ایک سمت سے داخل ہوتی ہیں اور کمرے کی ہوا کو تازہ کرنے کے بعد کمرے سے دوسری سمت سے باہر نکلتی ہیں۔ لیکن ہمیں یہ بھی یاد رکھنا چاہیے کہ یہ کشادہ اورہوادارکمرہ گھرکا ایک حصہ ہے جس کی دیواریں بھی ہیں، چھت بھی ہے اورسب سے اہم حصہ، ایک مضبوط بنیاد بھی ہے جس پر پورا گھر، بشمول اس  کی دیواریں، اس کی چھت اوراس کی تمام چوڑی کھڑکیاں کھڑی ہیں۔ 

میری عاجزانہ رائے میں، ایک ذہین، ترقی پسند، وسیع اورکھلا ذہن رکھنے والے شخص کے لیے جس کے پاس بہت اعلی آئی کیؤ والی جدید ماڈل کی عقل ہے، یہ مختصر جواب کافی اور موزوں ہے۔ 

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مابعد جدیدیت کی خود متضاد اورمضحکہ خیز منطق۔

یہ فاتحانہ طور پر اعلان کیا جاتا ہے

سچائی، منطق، استدلال، عقلیت، سائنس، فلسفہ، مابعدالطبیعات، فن اور وجود کے بارے میں تمام عظیم داستانیں مر چکی ہیں۔ 

خدا مر گیا ہے (نعوذ باللہ) ۔

سوچنے والا انسان مر چکا ہے۔

تاریخ سب جھوٹ ہے اور یہ بھی دم توڑ چکی ہے۔

مصنف مرچکا ہے۔

متن کا مستند ترجمان فوت ہو گیا ہے۔

الاہئیات، عا لم الاہئیات مر چکا ہے۔

فلسفی مر گیا یا مرنے والا ہے۔

معنویت مرچکی ہے۔

اخلاقیات بھی دم توڑ چکی ہیں۔

جدیدیت دم توڑ چکی ہے۔

مغرب مر چکا ہے یا نازک حالت میں ہے۔

قومی ریاست کا تصوراورحقیقت دونوں دم توڑ چکے ہیں۔

ہر چیز کی بنیادیں منہدم ہو چکی ہیں۔

اور یہی مابعد جدیدیت کی سچی اورعظیم داستان ہے۔ یہ اب آپ کی نجات کی واحد داستان ہے۔ اس پر پورے دل و دماغ سے یقین رکھیں۔

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پاکستان کے مشکل حالات اور عمران خان کی چند بڑی غلطیاں

غلطی نمبر ایک - اخلاقی ، سماجی کینسرفیکٹری کے مالکان کے لیے کام کرنا اور ( بلکل بجا طور پر) ملیریا، ڈائریا اورہیضہ جیسی خطرناک بیماریوں اوران کے بنانے یا پیدا کرنے والوں اورپھیلانے والوں پرمسلسل اورپرتشدد تنقید کرنا۔

 گزشتہ چار سالوں کے دوران، یہ ایک بہت بڑا اورواضح تضاد تھا اورجوعوام کے ساتھ ایک بڑے المناک مذاق کی طرح تھا۔ یہ پورا ایکٹ ایک انتہائی ناقص کوالٹی کامیڈی کی طرح تھا جس نے ہمیں ہنسنے سے زیادہ رلا دیا۔ قومی غیرت، قومی وقاروعزت ، قومی خود مختاری یا خود ارادیت ، نیزجن چیزوں کے بارے میں عمران خان کو بہت زیادہ تشویش ہے، ان جیسی اہم چیزوں کی موت ہیضہ، اسہال اور ملیریا کے مقابلے میں مہلک بیماریوں جیسے اخلاقی اورفکری کینسر کے ساتھ زیادہ یقینی ہوتی ہیں۔

غلطی نمبر دو - اس کا تعلق نمبر ایک سے ہے۔ پارٹی میں بہت زیادہ گدھوں (گدھ) اورہائیناوں کو شامل کرنا۔ ان مردہ گوشت کھانے والوں کے پاس پیسہ اور وسائل تو ہو سکتے ہیں لیکن ان کے پاس ایک چیز کی کمی ہے جو انہیں زندگی کی باقی تمام دوسری کم سے کم شعورو وجود رکھنے والے انواع واقسام  کے مخلوقات یا پرجاتیوں سے ممتاز کرتی ہے اور وہ ایک چیزہے ضمیر۔ 

غلطی نمبر تین --- اس کا تعلق دوبارہ اوپر کے نکات سے ہے۔ ان گدھ اور چرغوں (ہائینا) میں سے کچھ کو اپنے وزیر بنا کر انہیں اطلاعات ، قا نون اورداخلہ جیسے اہم قلمدان دینا ۔ انسانی شکل میں موجود اس بے ہودہ اورفحش مخلوق نے نہ صرف عمران خان کی پارٹی کو بلکہ پورے پاکستان کے معاشرے اورثقافت کو بہت نقصان پہنچایا ہے۔ ملک اب کھلی جنگ کے میدان کی مانند ہے۔ جہاں بے تربیت اورغیرمہذب نوجوانوں کے متعصب اورجنونی ہجوم زخمی کرنے، جلانے، لٹکانے اور لوگوں کو مارنے اور بیدردی سے قتل کرنے کے لیے دندناتے پھرتے ہیں کیونکہ یہ لوگ ان باتوں پر یقین نہیں رکھتے جن پر وہ یقین رکھتے ہیں۔ اور کیونکہ یہ لوگ ان کے اپنے عظیم اورسچے لیڈر، چاہے وہ جو کوئ بھی ہو، کو پسند نہیں کرتے۔ یہ اونچے منصبوں پر بیٹھی مکروہ مخلوق جو اپنے اعلی حکومتی اورریاستی  عہدوں کوغیرذمہ دارآ نہ ، غیراخلاقی اورمجرمانہ طور پراستعمال کرتی ہے، اس  بدصورت اورپرتشدد کلچرکے راج کا سب سے زیادہ ذمہ دار ہے ۔ انہوں نے آسانی سے بیوقوف بننے والے مظلوموں کی پریشانیوں، الجھنوں اوران   کے پیچیدہ، الجھے ہوئے یا غیرمتعینہ غیض وغضب کوچالا کی سے چھین لیا ہے اوراس بھری ہوئی شیطانی بندوق کے بیرل کو، جو یہ سب متعصب،  بے رحم اوراستحصال زدہ نوجوان ہیں، اپنے ہی دشمنوں کی طرف موڑ دیا ہے جوان جیسے ہی غیرذمہ دار، غیراخلاقی، بے ہودہ اور مجرم ہیں۔

غلطی نمبر چار--ان وجوہات کی بناء پراوراپنی دیگرچھوٹی بڑی غلطیوں اورنا اہلیوں کی وجہ سے، اس نے اب ان تمام دائمی کرپٹ سیاسی ڈاکوؤں، مداریوں، ملاؤں اورخاندانوں کو دوبارہ زندہ کردیا ہے جنہیں دراصل اب تک سیاسی قبرستانوں میں زمین کے اندر اپنی قبروں میں ہمیشہ کے لیے دفن ہوجانا چاہیے تھا۔ 

غلطی نمبر پانچ - طاقتور میڈیا مافیاز، جن کے بڑے تکنیکی اثاثے یا مہارت بلیک میلنگ اور پرسیپشن مینجمنٹ ہیں (عوامی رائے یا رآئے عامہ کو کسی خاص نظریہ کے طابع کرنا یا کسی طے شدہ سمت کی طرف موڑ دینا) ، سے نمٹنے کا نادان ، ناقص اوریہاں تک کہ احمقانہ طریقہ- اپنے آپ کو ہمیشہ بہت زیادہ خوشامد یوں اورچاپلوسی کرنے والوں کے درمیان رکھنے کا منطقی نتیجہ ہمیشہ بہت سارے سفاک  دشمنوں کی شکل میں ظاہر ہوتا ہے۔

غلطی نمبر چھ -- وی آئی پی کلچر پرکڑی تنقید کرنا اورخود ایک گھٹیا اورشوبازوی وی آئی پی بننا۔ جب ملک کا ‘انصا ف ، انصا ف‘ چیختا وزیراعظم جرنیل کی بیوی والی گھٹیا حرکتیں کرے گا توعام عوام بھی کرنل کی بیوی والی وبائ بیماری کو دل وجان سے قبول کر کے اس پرعمل کرے گی۔  بد قسمتی سے یہ کوتا ہی یا غلطی بھی اسی رلا دینے والے مسخرہ بازی کا جزوی حصہ ہے جس کا ذکر اوپر آ چکا ہے۔ 

غلطی نمبر سات -- بلوچستان کے ساتھ وہی غیر منصفانہ، غیرمساوی اور یہاں تک کہ استعماری اورسامراجی رویہ برقراررکھنا جو اس سے پہلے سب کا تھا۔ جس کا مطلب ہے کہ اس کا انصاف کا دعویٰ ایک امتیازی اورمتعصب انصاف کا دعویٰ ہے، صرف کچھ کے لیے اورسب کے لیے نہیں۔ بالکل پہلے کی طرح۔ 

قارئین: آپ اسے، یعنی نمبرسات کو، اس کی غلطی کے بجائے میرا اپنا چھوٹا سا تعصب سمجھ سکتے ہیں سب سے بڑی غلطی -- بے جا تکبراورانتقام کا جنون۔

ان کے علاوہ، مجھے یقین ہے کہ اس سے اور بھی بہت سی غلطیاں ہوئی ہیں۔ لیکن وہ غلطیاں بہت سے لوگوں کو معلوم ہیں۔ میں نے صرف اپنے چند نکات کی صورت میں صورتحال کے بارے میں اپنی رائے پیش کی ہے۔ 

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ٹک ٹاک ویڈیوز: یہ سب وہم اورفریب پرمبنی لالی پاپ یا لڈو ہیں جو دجال کا گدھا آگے بڑھتے ہی اپنی پچھلی ٹانگوں کے درمیان گراتا رہتا ہے۔ 

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صبر۔ شکر۔ توبہ

For more: Harf e Dervaish #9  Harf e Dervaish #7  Lament for Qta.