Pakistan Academy of Letters has come out with its second collection of women’s writings after a gap of fourteen years. The first collection came out in 1994, depicting the increasing trend of women writing in Pakistan. Women writers have started writing on many subjects indicating their greater participation in the wider area of knowledge. Their main thrust, however, remains creative writings. The present selection by Yasmeen Hameed, too, is mostly comprised of poems, short stories, novels and essays.

History bears witness to women’s struggle as writers. Even in the so-called advanced societies, female writers had to mask their gender in order to get their work published. Jane Austen and George Eliot, two of the famous examples, had to conceal their identities to be perceived as serious writers. In India too, especially among the Muslims, it was unbecoming of a woman to get herself heard beyond the four walls of her house. Very few women from the nobility ventured forth to express themselves in poetry, but that preceded the printing press and its outreach was very limited as it echoed back and forth in the thick walls of the the living quarters of royalty never reaching the bazaar below. In the early twentieth century, women started to write and Rashida tun Nisa and Zay Khan Sheen’s heavily laced moralizing began the modern phase of women’s writings. Similarly, in poetry, the range did become wide with a larger variety of poetic forms and expressions.

The present collection begins with Hijab Imtiaz Ali’s stories and moves to more realistic pieces of the Progressive Writers Association’s phase, leading to the absurdist era and finally ends at a direct expression in writing balantly stating the issues.

The best aspect of the selection is that it comprises writings from all languages in the country. It has not been restricted to the official and the national languages of the country but includes Punjabi, Pushto, Sindhi and Balochi. This makes the selection more comprehensive and representative of the writings by women. Since the issue is in English, all these have been translated into English, placing the onus on the translators. It is difficult to judge the quality of translation when one is not fully exposed to the original.

The dearth of good translators has affected our writers who have not been translated profusely and in better quality English. This has limited their exposure in international market making the world believe there are only a few good writers and fewer women writers in our part of the world.That is not to say that Pakistanis should start writing in English. Rather, the translations should show a qualitative improvement. The otherwise inaccessible literatures like the Russian, French, Persian, Turkish and Arabic are only available through translations. The list of translators in Pakistan includes some very competent names like Salim ur Rehman. In a magazine of this stature it is expected that the translations would maintain the balance between faithfulness to the original and good idiomatic expression.

Women writers have been significantly contributing to the increasingly growing body of literature in English. As in poetry, the fiction writer also faces the challenge to create the ethos in English while retaining the local idiom. The increasing number of volumes published in India encouraged the writers in Pakistan to treat English as a local language. In India — because of the huge North South divide — English plays the role of a link as does Urdu in Pakistan between the four major linguistic units of the country. Since English was the only language that had a national appeal, it reached out to many Indians who, helped by their official language and a sound education system, started to write in English. Consequently, English writings in India are being recognised internationally too.

In Pakistan very few women writers have written in English. The recognition given to Indians writers writing in English and the natural access to an international market has proven a fillip to creative writings in English. The quality is better and the volume bigger. But the real test lies in local languages and their English translations. With more such publications, the quality of translation will improve and be a worthy reflection of the original.

Time was when I liked to travel; I dread it now because travel means getting into a plane and fastening your seat belt and hoping that the plane would take off which it often doesn’t because someone has decided to stay behind, or the runway is not clear, or the caterers have forgotten to bring lunch boxes.

It is difficult to determine what is worse: sitting in a plane which doesn’t take off, for whatever reason, or sitting in the lounge of an airport well past the time your flight is supposed to take off. I can never forget the time I was stranded at Oran airport. The plane developed a fault and we had to wait at the small airport for a little over 16 hours.

The lounge had no more than five or six chairs which were occupied by local gendarmes who sat there picking their teeth, shaking their knees, fastening and unfastening their shirt buttons. The passengers walked up and down the hall or stood in groups for as long as they could and, eventually, settled down on the hard floor. Some of us leaned against the wall.

I was on my way from Algeria to Tunisia. The stopover in Oran was meant to last no more than three quarters of an hour so I left my overnight bag with my books and journals on my seat as I left the plane. How I rued my decision as I shifted my weight from one leg to the other.

By mid-afternoon most passengers were sprawled on the floor. Most of them slept or pretended to sleep. There was only one kiosk in the lounge which displayed sad looking sandwiches surrounded by lettuce which had been dead for some days. I wouldn’t have minded trying one of these for, after a few hours of utter tedium, I was peckish, but I didn’t have any dirhams or dinars. All my credit cards and a few dollars and pounds were in a wallet which was resting snugly in an inside pocket of my overnight bag. I cursed myself loudly as I walked away from the kiosk. The airline had apparently chosen to abandon its passengers.

After what seemed an eternity, two men in Arab robes appeared with bucket-like baskets and began to distribute a bread roll and a greenish fizzy drink which tasted vaguely of vinegar. They doled them out like nuns giving alms to the tramps.

I squatted on the floor to eat my squishy, unappetising roll which had about three and a half slivers of shredded cheese buried in the centre. A few other passengers joined me. There was nothing to do but give vent to our frustration which we did for as long as we could and then fell silent. Someone suggested we should play ‘sweep,’ but no one had a pack of cards. The initiator of the scheme was not one to give up easily. He went in search of a pack and returned with a stack of cardboard leaflets announcing the glories of Tunisia. We all set about the task of folding the leaflets and tearing them into two halves until we had 52 cards. They were then marked as spades, hearts, diamonds and clubs.

We went on playing different games until the cards turned into crunched up balls of cardboard. The gendarmes sitting with legs wide apart, had now gone to sleep, their heads rolled to the side.

We all waited. God knows what kind of a fault the plane had. It was rumoured that a vital part of the engine had conked out and that the spare part had been handed over to a truck driver in Algers who had lost his way. Curiously enough, the passengers remained fairly good-humoured.

It was a different scenario when I was stranded inside an aircraft for nearly ten hours because the local airport refused to accept the passengers. The passengers became so rebellious that they assaulted the captain. The police were summoned and they announced that anyone attempting to leave the plane would be shot down.

These journeys were undertaken at a time when you didn’t have to arrive at an airport four hours before the departure of your plane, when you didn’t have to stand in a line with your shoes off, like criminals in an identity parade. The ordeal doesn’t end there. Often, you are stopped just before getting into the plane and told to step aside. You are then asked for your identity papers which, in my case, is only my passport.

The inquisitor to whom you hand over your passport looks through it, convinced that it is a forged document. He looks at the picture then looks at me, unable to decide whether I really am the same person. My briefcase is then scrutinised once again, only this time more sophisticated gadgetry is employed to examine the webbing as well as the seams. I am then asked how much currency I am carrying. It does not matter what my answer is because he goes through my pockets anyway.

He finally hands over the passport to me, waving me, condescendingly, to go inside the plane with a look which says, "OK, we’re letting you off this time, but remember we’ve got you taped."

This is what happens on international flights. When you travel within the United States it is an absolute nightmare. It is uncanny but the fact is that whenever I take a flight (from Indianapolis to Huston or Saginaw to San Francisco) I am singled out at the check-in counter for what the airline official calls ‘extra security check-up.’ I am given a slip of paper with a red line across it. My luggage is not put on the conveyor belt carrying it to the plane but in a specially designed trolley which is wheeled out to a spot where thick-jowled men with red armbands on their uniforms, await potential hijackers.

Casually, but methodically, a beefy white or black guard goes through the contents of my bag. Not finding anything lethal except a nail file which he scoops out form within my dop-bag, he asks me to sit in a special chair, take off my socks and raise my two legs up in the air. This, mind you, is in full view of all other passengers, most of whom are catching the same flight. He examines the soles of my feet with a rubberised instrument, looks through the turn-ups of my trousers, then beckons me to sit up so he can run the same instrument all the way along my back.

I am now asked to stand so that my armpits can be pummelled. Defeated, that he hasn’t been able to detect the secret weapon, I am allowed to get dressed. When I get on the plane every passenger, who has seen me being drilled, avoids my eyes.