[Reader-list] On the floods in Pakistan

[SJabbar]

Shame
 
 
 
The bridge suspended over the Indus at Thalpan is a magnificent structure,
spanning the breadth of a river swollen with the silt-laden burden it
carries along its journey to the sea.  I have walked across this incredible
specimen of civil engineering several times on my quest for the ancient
carvings which grace the igneous rock littering the banks of the Indus all
the way from Ladakh in India to Swat Kohistan.  The carving of two Buddhas,
two Bodhisatvas, and a Purnaghata or vase of plenty etched into the
rock-face alongside the Karakoram Highway has already been defaced, painted
over by the Sipah e Sahaba for whom any representation of humans, sacred or
otherwise, is considered sacrilegious.  An inscription in either Kharoshti
or Brahmi, (it is too distant for me to make the distinction), is partially
obscured by the rising tide of water in the river.  I stare at the water as
it swirls beneath the bridge, breaking against the black rocks which rise
from the river like beasts woken from a long slumber. The river is angry,
and I fear the consequence of this anger as it travels along its veins
through a body which has been neglected and abused for too long.
 
Within three days of my sojourn in Chilas, the Indus had risen to inundate
the terraced fields located on its northern bank. Along the many nullah¹s
which stream down from melting glaciers, the icy water has uprooted trees
and devastated homes situated on rocky precipices, carrying men, women,
children and livestock into the torrent.  Timber which must have held up a
thatched roof lies smashed against the rocks, an animal bobs in the water, I
hold my breath, praying that it was still alive. I look away ­ I know it is
too late to save it.  Children run after drift wood; one falls in trying to
salvage what he can, never to emerge from the depths of the angry, swirling
water.  I know I can do nothing, I know it is too late to save him.
 
But that does not absolve me, the fact that I was not at the right place at
the right place, doing the right thing.  The fact that this is the largest
disaster to have hit our beloved country does not mean that nobody can be
apportioned responsibility.  It is not the magnitude of the crisis which
lies at the doorstep of government, but the magnitude of its neglect and
ineptitude which sits squarely at the doorstep of State apparatus.  For a
country which is hurtling from one crisis to another, disaster preparedness
should have been a national priority.  All able-bodied citizens should have
received at least the most fundamental training to cope with crises of all
sorts, for times are uncertain, and the only certitude lies in the fact that
the fabric which has been stretched, pulled, burnt, slashed, and mutilated
is no longer able to provide shelter to those who have nothing but the open
sky. 
 
 How long can the banks of the Mighty Indus contain the anger which flows
within?  How long will the people of Pakistan be told to exercise patience,
to ³sacrifice their futures for the sake of the country²?  How long will
children have to suffer hunger and deprivation, women the denial of their
rights, men the abuse of their dignity? How long will inept bureaucrats
implement short-sighted policy crafted by myopic politicians whose primary
concern is to make back their election costs plus more?  How long shall the
crooked in power grant contracts to their brethren in kind?  How long shall
thieves rule us, and traitors befool us?  How long shall the ³enlightened²
who sit at the same table as the guilty remain chaste and untouched by the
sludge of decrepitude? How long shall we wallow in the flood waters of
shame?
 
In Birmingham another drama is played out as Larkana and Jamshoro are
threatened with drowning. It is not just the poor timing of President Asif
Ali Zardari¹s European jaunt or his brazen visit to the Villa of Ill-Gotten
Gains.  It is the arrogance of his indifference, the vacuous content of his
speech, the half-hearted cheering of the dismal Rent-a-Jiyala which is
pathetic and reprehensible.  It is the defence of the indefensible which is
shameless and shameful at the same time. Only a nation drowning in ignominy
can tolerate such disgrace.  It is time for us to find a foothold before we
lurch towards the abyss over which we slide toward the deep.
 
 
 
Feryal Ali Gauhar

Feryal Ali Gauhar is a Lahore-based filmmaker, actor and writer.