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Besancon,
La Belle... A BBCD writes about certain truths she can no longer keep to herself By Aleha Ahmed There are peacocks somewhere close to my room who keep me up all night, or at least most part of it. Now I don't know much about the breeding pattern of peacocks or the subtle implications of their various noises but I do know that the unholy cacophony of sounds they emit, closely resembles what I can only imagine, would be the sound of a monkey in labour and an inebriated duck combined. Not conducive to a good night's sleep, and certainly not normal, for me at least. Peacocks are not a normal part of daily routine in London. Before you try to guess, I'd
like to set one thing straight... I am a BBCD (British Born Confused Desi, as
you all know). On a purely technical level, I was not born in Britain and
return to Pakistan The best place to start would be from the beginning. What's in a name? A name is the fundamental label that is given to a being in its most raw, unaltered form. Regardless of the subconsciousness of the reaction when we are introduced to someone, we instantly judge them. It is understandable, if not expected that my Arabic name would not be easily accepted in a western society, but what is most peculiar is that my name triggers a similar bewildered reaction in Pakistan. It does not fit in. Therefore, would it be too far fetched to suggest that my name has had some sort of bearing on the life I've led? The instincts that we are either born with or later adopt to suit our environment are crucial to every human being. It's the age old game of nature versus nurture. Regardless of whether they make you that shy, unassuming person or the one that can't help but argue, they are individual and so reflect our individual circumstances. When, however, our circumstances change, as mine have, our instincts become subjective; they falter. After graduating, I decided I would take an extended trip to Pakistan, which has played havoc with my instincts. I have found myself constantly checking whether my reactions to normal situations are typically gora, or increasingly desi. Sometimes I become like that 'uncool' aunty who looks at the younger generation who is wearing, let's call them progressive outfits, and can't help but shake her head in shock at the almost magical rate they (guess what?) seem to be disappearing. At other times, however, I cannot understand the 'control' emanating from all sides -- from the patriarchal society we live in to the undeniable hold of controversial interpretations of our religion on the government and our fundamental freedoms. I have found myself enraged with the claustrophobic nature of the country as a whole. Even on an every day level, each person is grossly dependent on at least a handful of others. It is no wonder that we complain so much -- since we are so out of control. Although we are most verbal about our grievances with the driver or the incompetence of our national electricity provider, we accept our fate and refuse to take action. It seems that the phenomenon we endure of suspended dust in our country is more than an environmental one. We all seem to be suspended in a passive hiatus. Since the army coup, or coups should I say, our people have relinquished control of what are our legitimate fundamental rights. Because we have been forced to live with an unelected governing body, we continue to accept violations of basic freedoms; to be reticent. What is most frustrating of all, however, is that the current nature of our polity is not inherent or physical. It can be changed. Although I might be a 'confused desi', our education, the mere fact that we can read this newspaper, has made us all confused. It makes us question, judge and choose. More importantly, it has given us an edge. To some extent, I have made peace with my peculiarities. I understand that most people will think that I remind them of 'that English girl in Rang de Basanti'. But I know that no matter how much I might hate cockroaches, wince when that layer of cream that's formed on milk comes into my mouth, get exasperated when there's a power failure and I'm on the last page of an internet credit card form, I have been allowed that choice. I may have a constant strain in my neck as a back seat-passenger reaction to my driver's driving skills, I refuse to look away. Although it could be ugly, it's my life and I want to make sure that I don't relinquish all my control. I have the right to tell him to slow down or stop changing lanes without indicating. As trivial and mundane as it might sound, the repercussions can be great. Perhaps I am fortunate that I am not used to this culture. It means that I can see the endless possibilities that lie ahead for Pakistan. So I tolerate the peacocks, because although they make a lot of noise, they're so beautiful after all.
A north-eastern French city, being very near the Swiss border, offers a flavour of Europe's two most beautiful countries By Asmah Hyat I had hardly ever felt
lonelier.Yet, ironically, rarely had I ever felt so much at peace with
nature, I knew there was a conflict of emotions here but it was difficult not to justify both the lonesomeness and the tranquility. Here I was. My third day in an alien city; thousands of miles from home. But then again, I was in the greenest city of France! Even as I looked around, it was impossible not to be overawed by the breathtaking panorama around me. North-eastern France is beautiful anyway. Being very near the Swiss border, it offers you a flavour of Europe's two most beautiful countries. The region is littered with picture-perfect vineyards. The Jura mountain ranges pour forward from within hidden depths, surreal stretches of roaring rivers that gush out as majestic waterfalls and end as tranquil tributaries. One can so easily be lured to believe in the existence of paradise. And the city of Besan¨on simply crowns that belief. As I looked up in the distance I could see the regal ramparts of The Citadel. During the tourist trip I took of the fort, I learnt that it was built in 1668 by the Spanish, according to a design by the French military architect Vauban. Surrounding the central city are walls built in that era, and between the train station and the central city is a complex moat system through which traffic has been directed. All of these fortifications are built with Vauban's classic star points. Surrounding the city a large number of fortifications were built at the time of Vauban, but the crown jewel of these is la Citadelle de Vauban. With the Citadel built upon
a mountaintop, bounded by sheer cliffs on one side, the Doubs River on But I still haven't said why I was there. Besan¨on is the seat of the Universite« de Franche-Comte« (dating back to 1423) and the worldwide famous Centre for Applied Linguistics which teaches ten languages to non-native speakers (French, Arabic, Chinese, English, German, Italian, Japanese, Portuguese, Russian, and Spanish) and any other known language on request. It welcomes more than 3000 students every year from all over the world. I was one of these students. Well, let's just say a teacher student. I was sent there by the Embassy of France in Pakistan for a course aiming at the perfectionnement of my teaching skills. They made us work eight hours a day which was a blessing in disguise as one had no time to think about anything else but the time it would take to rush to the next class and whether or not you had time to grab a bite in between. Yet on weekends if one
declined the trips they offer students around the charming countryside,la«
voila«! time to discover the old world charm of Besan¨on. And so I roamed
the streets, often I gathered little nuggets of information that could remind people why this little city of 2,20,000 people meant something to the world. Victor Hugo had been born here. In Stendhal's novel Le rouge et le noir, Julien Sorel, the main character, studied for a while at the catholic seminary from Besan¨on. Besan¨on is where the Touche«! Series (an Australian series of books that teaches people French), is set. It is also reputed to be France's most environment-friendly city, with a public transport network that has often been cited as a model. Besan¨on also has one of the finest city art galleries in France outside Paris. The Muse«e des Beaux Arts has a collection built up since 1694, expanded over time by a remarkable series of bequests. Among its treasures are a fine collection of classical antiquities and ancient Egyptian artefacts, as well as a very rich collection of paintings including works by Bellini, David, Bonnard, Matisse, Picasso and many others. Perhaps the most remarkable of the city's masterpieces is the massive Virgin and saints altarpiece in the St. Jean's cathedral, by the Italian Renaissance painter Fra Bartolomeo. When I arrived, I'd had to lug my 25 kg suitcase up the steep slopes of the residence at the Bouloie on the outskirts of the city. I had hardly noticed the landscape. But the very next morning when I opened the blinds, I was struck by how magnifique the backdrop was. I silently laughed to myself too; it reminded me of the picture on the box of La Belle Vache, cows and all!!! Over the next few weeks, discovering this picturesque town became a passion. One that quickly overcame my exhaustion from working at the university the whole week. I made wonderful friends. I met Renata from Poland (she reminded me of Big Ethel a la Archie comics, and was every bit as delightful as I could wish a friend to be), Franca from Italy (who adopted me the very first day), Kaotchucuma from Nigeria (who couldn't understand why my being married should be a hitch in our being together!!!), Danielle Auby (one of the best teachers I've had till date, someone who made me feel good encore about being one !) I could fill a whole almanac with names. Luckily, I can just close my eyes and see all of them again. We often scouted the streets together -- the 16th century Palais Granvelle, Vauban's citadel of course, and the remarkable riverside frontage, the St. Jean Cathedral, the horlogerie (the city once housed the largest watch-making industry in France), the Roman remains, the Porte Noire, Place de la Re«publique (the main square), the shops all along the Grande Rue. Memories of Besan¨on are amongst my happiest ever. At a recent reception at the French embassy, the Ambassador's wife let slip the fact that she was from Jura. It was like discovering we had a common friend. We both agreed on the fact that more people should explore France beyond Paris, and that there was no place better to begin than Besan¨on. Remember, it almost makes you believe paradis exists. |
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regularly. I support, although admittedly falteringly at
times, Pakistan and not England in cricket. However, there are certain
inalienable truths I can no longer hide. Much of it, it would seem, has to do
with initial reactions and instincts.
with everything.
the
other (where I often spent my lone, enchanted evenings), looking down on the
unique natural Boucle or Shield surrounding the city centre with the
reverberating river, Besan¨on has a fantastic defensive stance. Upon the
hilltop, in dreamy, starry nights, the Citadelle is illuminated and stands
above the city as a landmark and a crowning achievement to Vauban's
ingenuity. The magnificence of it was also a stark reminder of how I had no
one to share it with every evening. The sight is certainly worth shedding
mushy tears for.
stopping at the poste to send postcards home. It was hard
to contain everything you had to say on the little cartes postales. I hoped
they could feel the magic radiate from the pictures on the cards. Maybe I
could share with them a little of what had enamoured me so.