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essay The need for
superheroes
They left their homes and migrated in search of safety, prosperity, acceptance but they faced a dilemma when they tried to maintain a separate identity. Multicultural acceptance could also mean the loss of identity or a new sense of pluralist identity By Haris Tohid Siddiqui The last of the street
lamps faded away, leaving the street in darkness. The eerie silence would be "Nawab Ganj was no more the lively place it used to be." Recalls my grandmother Razia Tohid. She was 15 years old when Partition took place but vividly remembers the horrifying tales that ensued in its aftermath. It was the end of August and mornings were a bit hazy (or so my grandmother remembers; for her it was a nightmare that she was happy had ended). As the first rays shimmered through the window, silhouettes could be seen accompanying the rising sun. But as Razia rubbed her eyes to see clearly, she recognized the familiar faces. Haji Sahib, a hakim by profession who worked with her father at Bara Hindu Rao was walking behind his family, carrying a bundle packed with his belongings. He was making his way to the Red Fort one of the many "Muslim zones" where thousands of Muslims from all over Delhi had gathered either to leave for Pakistan or come back once the "Partition dust" or "Partition violence" settles. "Delhi was not a safe place in those times; it was flooded with 'Hindu and Sikh refugees' from Punjab," recalls Razia who was once a resident of a predominantly Muslim area, located between the ever-vivacious Sabzi Mandi and Bara Hindu Rao. The refugees had brought with them harrowing tales of loot, plunder, rape and arson from across the divide and, according to a fortnightly report of Chief Commissioner of Police, Delhi, Sahibzada Khurshid, reproduced by Vazira Fazila Yaqoobali Zamindar in her book The Long Partition and the Making of Modern South Asia: Refugees, Boundaries, Histories, the refugees "naturally gained the sympathy of their co-religionists in Delhi," igniting violence against Muslims of the city. "The sky turns red when the blood of the innocent is spilt," Said my grandmother, sketching a picture of plunder by the refugee looters that had turned the skies over Dehli red. Another Dilli wala, Brigadier A.R Siddiqui provides credence to my grandmother's claim as he describes how the refugees had "stalked up and down the rest of the old city between the Red Fort and the Fathepuri Mosque carrying naked Kirpans, eyeing Muslim shops and property to grab." With Muslim exodus from Delhi, the Muslim houses were out for grabs. Indian government however termed them as "evacuees," placing them on a watch-list and providing for a temporary abode to the "displaced people" from Pakistan until the rightful owners return. But as the time passed by, the return of these Muslim refugees back to their homes, Zamindar writes, "Threatened the rehabilitation of Hindu and Sikh refugees." And this impending fear coupled with both the governments' eagerness to put the issue of refugees under the carpet legitimized the stay of the displaced people, disowning the once inhabitants. Siddiqui's latest book Partition and the Making of Mohajir Mindset provides an insight into the predicament of the refugees on the Pakistan side, who came to be known as Mohajirs eluding the migration of Holy Prophet PBUH and his companions to Medina – home of the Ansars. But according to Ian Talbot, author of Divided Cities: Partition and its Aftermath in Lahore and Amritsar 1947-57, "the mohajir-ansar paradigm did not however prevent conflict in Sindh. Nor even in Lahore did it always result in exemplary behavior." As the Dilli walas, A.R Siddiqui and my grandmother's family made their way to what they termed as their "Article of Faith," Pakistan, a conglomerate of Muslim majority areas in the subcontinent, had little space for the incoming men of faith. It was a "moth-eaten, truncated" Pakistan, under-staffed and under pressure from the influx of "panaghir" or "mohajir." Karachi was no exception. Home to almost 4 lakhs Hindus at the time of Partition, Karachi was settled by the Hindu and Parsi community since the 18th century. So much so had they become part of the cultural, economic and social fabric of Sindh that Ayub khuhro, the premier at the time, resisted the tide of mohajirs on the basis, as Sarah Ansari , a Sindh historian, elucidates that "Sind's economic and cultural life would be impaired by the Hindu exodus." One of the leaving Hindus was L.K Advani, who later became the President of the Bhartiya Janata Party, a nationalist political force in India. For him it was the "cultural nationalism" that binds the "regions into a natural national entity." But the Muslim migrants were transcendental in their approach. As scores of Hindu migrants departed for unknown territories, Muslim mohajirs arrived to the 'Land of the Pure' bringing with them their cultural sensibilities and a distinct life style. From food stalls to clothes shops, from meat vendors to tailors, all catered to non-local tastes. Brig. Siddiqui categorizes the Delhiites and UP walas into three social groups residing in Karachi; the first being the "Elfi set," occupants of posh apartments, those which Siddiqui feels "look(ed) down upon the locals as second-class citizens." The second category being the occupants of flats who "created a little Delhi and Lucknow of their own" and the third set "still looking for shelter, living in makeshift thatched tents." In entirety, the local Sindh felt alienated as "Punjabi-refugee" bond flourished. No borders in real sense existed. Refugees from both sides moved freely across the divide. Then suddenly, in 1949 the Indian government dropped a bomb shell by starting a permit system for regularizing the inflow of migrants. Pakistan mirrored the system and just like Imperialist Partition, the bearers of colonialism solidified the divide. "The passport system was introduced", writes Zamindar, "between the two countries in 1952 at Pakistan government's insistence, to curtail the flood of UP Muslims". The "Two Nation Theory" failed at this very instance, although some trace it to as late as the 1971 debacle. Radha Kumar in her book "Making peace with Partition" mentions one such story The Wagah Canal by writer Fikr Tausvi who describes how the once porous northern border "across which millions fled or arrived dying, became a meeting point" during 1948-49 which he crossed twice but was denied an entry the third time because he did not hold a passport. The border which had become an "informal free market" after the Partition, Tausvi saw the introduction of the passport as "setting the seal on a separation he had hoped might be in name alone." But few shared his optimism. My grandmother was one of them. Having married and settled in Larkana, the interior part of Sindh, she had accepted Pakistan as her homeland. But it was difficult for the locals to approve of the lifestyle of the mohajirs who they believed were "benefitting from the Partition." Being a first generation Mohajir, my father was brought up in a mix of Sindhi and UP mores and culture but he laments being never considered as "son of the soil." The wave of Partition and displacement had settled by the late 50's in both the countries but for Ghulam Ali it was a "long, drawn out process," which until the end of the record in 1961 resulted in him being an "undefined" and "foreigner" in his home. Ghulam Ali, a limb fitter in the Army at the time of Partition, opted for Indian Army due to familial ties in Lucknow but violence in Rawalpindi (his station at that time) and the war in Kashmir prevented him from returning to India. Absconder at the Indian side and rejecting service in Pak Army, Ghulam Ali was arrested, dragged to court and humiliated on both sides and till the surviving record was given no identity. His was a "perennial state of refuge hood" as described by Brig. Siddiqui. But marginalization of the migrants' children born in the first decade of Independence in the Adopted Land, at the hands of "true" sons of soil was no different than that of Ghulam Ali. Nostalgia seeps in and brings back harsh memories of Fareed's teen, where in late 60's he remembers the Jeay Sindh movement resonating the province. On his way back home from Sindh University, Jamshoro in the 70s on board the Bolan Mail, he was inquired by a group of local youth whether he was a Sindhi or not. The affirmative reply subjected him to a test in Sindhi which he passed with excellent grades. The guy next to him was not that lucky. Mauled and harangued, the poor chap left the scar of Mohajir wound on Fareed's soul. "Urdu, the recognized national language of the Pakistan, came to be associated with the ethnic group branded as mohajirs", notes Brig. Siddiqui. And with the introduction of Sindhi Language Bill, language riots broke out in 1972. "It felt another partition is about to take place. Two families took refuge in our house fearing for their lives since many local families had close ties with our elders," recalls my father. Army had to be called in to quell the riots but the damage was already done and left many shattered. The sky had indeed turned red but it had been the same over East Pakistan since early 71'. Ghulam Ali could not have felt sorrier for Biharis when their "support of the Pakistan Army and administration" against the "revanchist fury of Bengalis" during the East Pakistan separation bore no patriotic fruits on the West Pakistan soil. They were abandoned on the Bangladeshi side to rot. Brig. Siddiqui raises a pertinent question at this juncture: "If some two to three million Pashto-speaking Afghan refugees could be accepted virtually as Pakistan nationals, then why not Biharis, who are still branded as Pakistani by the Bangladesh government?" Is it because they do not share the language / cultural bond with the rest of Pakistanis? The late 60's saw this bond gaining further strength through inter-marriages between the Mohajir and the local families. But Ian Talbot in Divided Cities notes that "the contracting of marriages in a strange locality was one of the greatest problems facing refugee families." And one such apprehensive family was the Alavis. They got their son married to his cousin in India as late as the late 70s. But Mrs. Sajida is still sometimes questioned about her allegiance to Pakistan. After every Indian defeat on the cricketing field, her two sons, although jokingly, turn towards her for commiseration. Initially, she would explain "I'm a Pakistani. I left India to marry your father. This is my home now." But now she's learned to ignore and keep quiet. However, not all Mohajirs were as timid. Being branded as Mohajirs and treated as non-locals, the first generation of migrants searched for a platform to voice their concerns. 1978 saw the emergence of the 'All Pakistan Mohajir Student Organization' which later transformed into a political party 'Mohajir Qaumi Movement'. "Mohajirism, until then a mere abstraction, acquired a concrete status within the conceptual and political framework of the MQM" analyzes Brig. Siddiqui. In 1997, MQM dropped Mohajir from their name and instead became the 'Muttahida Qaumi Movement'. It was not a mere shifting of sand in the political landscape that made the MQM change its initial stance but rather a necessity of time. Half a century later, the word Mohajir had lost its distinctiveness in the Pakistani society. What remains is a "selective (or total) amnesia or a relatively more sober and conscious version of past events that are now part of history". A new cultural milieu had emerged from the ashes of Partition. And I, the second generation of Migrants, was born in that environment. Having travelled and lived in different parts of the country, I've met people belonging to distinct mores and cultures. My social circle varies from a Punjabi to a Balochi. We share the same aspirations; enjoy the same jokes and relate to each others worries. A Karachiwala is how I introduced myself to almost each one of them; on a more background check I would call myself an 'Urdu Speaker'. For me the word Mohajir is as distant memory of my forefathers. Noble laureate V.S Naipul in his book A Turn in the South describes his shock when he encounters a group of Indians from Martinique. For him he "had no means of sharing the world view of these people whose history at some stage had been like mine, but who now racially and in other ways, had become something other." It is not just the shared sense of history, an affiliation to the past that can hold people together. During the recently concluded Asia Cup, I met some of the visiting Indian journalists. Belonging to almost the same economic, social background, the Muslim and Hindu journalists from Dehli had more in common than what I could relate to as a grand child of a Delhiwalla. According to renowned economist Amartya Sen, "culture does matter". In his acclaimed book Identity and Violence: The Illusion of Destiny, he talks what constitutes an individual and how the society moulds his perspective of life and how ideas of identities relate to violence in the world. So what constitutes a culture? Is it just the "stark and separated boxes of civilization or religious identities" or does it transcend to "national, ethnic or racial backgrounds". If the cultural generalization does imply all of this then, the culture that I was born to, encapsulates the Islamic lifestyle, UP sensibilities, Pakistani mores and Sindhi traditions. A long list of variables goes in defining my identity and the choices I make in deciding my own. For Brig. Siddiqui, he "is obliged to live in a state without any choices…returning to what was and staying with what is" is hardly a choice for him. "The Islamic bond simply melts away without the shared ethno-lingual attachment and the resulting fellow-feeling…. [leaving] the Urdu-speaking mohajir the odd man out." "Identities are robustly plural", says Amartya Sen, "the importance of one identity need not obliterate the importance of others." My identity as a member of an Urdu speaking family cannot hamper my ability to be an able Sindhi or a patriotic Pakistani. I might not share the historic evolution of a Sindhi but I do understand the joys and sorrows of being a Sindhi as part of an Independent Pakistan. Fareed Zakaria, author of "The Post-American World" writes that "globalization and economic modernization are breeding political nationalism…they [people] gain greater and greater power if they stay together as a group. This twin ascendancy of identity means that…sub-nationalism is also growing." It is the unity in diversity that Zakaria talks about. There is no harm in strengthening regional ties as long as the holistic aim is to see your country prosper. As my grandmother takes a breather from her anecdotes, she looks outside the window. "It doesn't feel like an Independence Day this time around. Fewer flags, no national songs. When we were young, it was something of an event." I guess when I was young; it was an occasion worth waiting for. And I suppose when our children will celebrate, it will be different to what we and our forefathers experienced. As time progresses, the culture of a nation nurtures and develops into a unique entity different from the time of its birth. Amartya Sen argues that "the culture of the community [is] freely chosen by persons with adequate opportunity to learn and reason about alternatives" and not just its imposition. The days of the Partition are long gone leaving behind the vestiges of the bloody past. The predicament of Mohajirs on both sides of the border is lamentable but for me it is just a historical event witnessed by my forefathers. The culture they were brought up into and the ones that they ended up living in, was their culture. It was their choice to adapt to their surroundings. I along with people of my generation have chosen our culture…that of a multi-cultural Pakistan. Our children will choose theirs. The need for superheroes The
Terror Dream: By Babar Mirza In Hollywood, it has been a
golden era for superhero movies ever since Spider-Man earned a The answer however lies not in isolation but in a larger web of cultural trends parallel to those exemplified in superhero movies. In fact, on a deeper analysis, the movies serve just as the mass distributors of certain political and social dogmas which conceal the real face of the state from the citizens, both men and women. America has not fought a war on its own territory since 1812, and therefore has to make its people believe that they are at war with another country, especially when the adversary is not really a competition: the political realm creates justifications for the war and the cultural realm produces inspiring heroes. The latter is the focus of Susan Faludi's third book The Terror Dream: Fear and Fantasy in Post-9/11 America. Susan Faludi is a feminist and her earlier books were titled Stiffed: The Betrayal of the American Man and Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women. But before the general conception of a feminist as a man-hating, humourless dogmatist should turn you away from this book, let me point out that The Terror Dream does have some substance worth your attention. The book's argument is basically two-pronged. Firstly, after 9/11, "the cultural troika of media, entertainment, and advertising" glorified the image of a father-protector-rescuer man and recast the image of a woman as "a damsel in distress." Secondly, this machismo "belonged to a long-standing American pattern of response to threat" repeating itself ever since the "original wilderness experience." Faludi convincingly argues that America started looking for chivalrous superheroes immediately after the attacks. First, they looked for heroism among the rescuers at ground zero but found that there was no one to rescue. "It's just body parts. You're just going there to recover body parts," remarked a paramedic at the scene. Few people in the towers and none in the four hijacked planes had survived. However, there were a few brief cell phone calls from Flight 93 just before it crashed in a field in Pennsylvania. One passenger was heard saying: "You ready? OK. Let's roll." This one line served as the basis for that elaborate media raving about a totally imaginary heroic struggle of passengers on Flight 93 against the highjackers that led to the Congress drawing up the True American Heroes Act to award gold medals to heroes of Flight 93 – initially, the four men media had eulogised, but later, on protest of families of other passengers, all 44 people on Flight 93 and every government employee who had responded to the attacks. In the meantime, those looking for heroes made heroes out of themselves. Rumsfeld was christened by People as one of the sexiest man alive. A Newsweek columnist declared Rudy Guiliani, the mayor of New York, to be "our Winston Churchill." Dick Cheney was "The Rock." An exultant columnist in the Wall Street Journal half expected Bush to "tear open his shirt and reveal the big 'S' on his chest." Eventually, it was the New York City firefighters, 97 percent male, who were declared to be the heroes of 9/11 – "knights in shining fire helmets" who saved America. 343 of them had died that day. But Faludi shows us that they had hardly saved anyone. In fact, a lot less of them would have died if they had heard the Mayday call on their dysfunctional radios that had told them to evacuate the collapsing towers. The city officials obviously deny this, and have consistently refused to answer questions in this regard before the 9/11 Commission. In search of heroism, American media found a renewed interest in post-war era rescue movies, especially John Wayne's The Searchers, wherein a "reluctant but defiant" uncle tries to rescue her niece from the captivity of the Indians. The media seldom represented women as rescuers or volunteers, but only as victims. Women - like Susan Sontag, Katha Pollitt, Barbara Kingsolver - who called for a more compassionate approach to the American problems were labelled as silly, bitchy, and even traitors. The Sunday talk shows would no longer invite female guests, and the percentage of female news editors started to decline. Even in 2005, left-of-centre female commentators were "virtually absent" from TV talk shows. 9/11 was deemed to have served a death blow to feminism and recalled America to "redomesticated femininity and reconstituted Cold Warrior manhood." The evidence presented by Faludi suggests that the myth of invincibility was being used to veil both men and women from seeing the truth in the wake of 9/11. Mohsin Hamid's The Reluctant Fundamentalist, though full of unnecessary italicisations, contains a rare insightful passage (on page 69) which echoes Faludi's argument: "…it seemed to me that America, too, was increasingly giving itself over to a dangerous nostalgia at that time. There was something undeniably retro about the flags and uniforms, about generals addressing cameras in war rooms and newspaper headlines featuring such words as duty and honor… What your fellow countrymen longed for was unclear to me - a time of unquestioned dominance? of safety? of moral certainty? I did not know – but that they were scrambling to don the costumes of another era was apparent." The second part of the book advances the argument that the response to 9/11 was a repetition of misrepresenting and even faking captivity narratives from early in American history. Faludi devotes more than 100 pages to recount the true stories of female captives who were purportedly rescued from Indians and other captors, but in fact, didn't want to be rescued, or did not need any help in this regard. Though the stories are interesting by themselves, they are hardly sufficient to prove the link between captivity narratives and the American myth of invincibility. Faludi's claims in this part can turn readers away from her book. However, considering Faludi's insights into post 9/11 cultural propaganda, renowned historian Chalmers Johnson called The Terror Dream an eye-opener, and this, in my opinion, too, is the substance of this book.
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broken by a faint scream from far away or a smothered whimper from a nearby
house. Sometimes, a stray bullet would pierce the macabre air and ricochet
off the top storey of one of the houses in the neighbourhood. A shriek would
rise up in the air, stifled by the loud recitation of the Quran. Nights, it
seemed, would never come to an end.
whopping $403 millions in 2002, the highest that year. And this year, so far,
is the best: Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk, Hancock, The Dark Knight, and
Hellboy II are doing great on box office. However, despite their popularity,
superhero movies are based on very simple ingredients: a man with six-pack
abs, superhuman powers and a colourful costume, another man, preferably
older, with even superior powers and a grim costume and the fate of the world
somehow depends on the result of a violent battle between the two. Women find
the hero sexually attractive and morally upright, and count on him to be
secured from the captivity of the villain. The crucial question about the
success of this genre from the viewpoint of American culture is this: why
now?