Karachi

I went today to the Arabian sea, where it all began. Out of its red, raucous rage rises, roaring reckless, Karachi, home. Though I was born in New York, a city of similar temperament, Karachi is where I am from.

While Raf and Nadia, slippers in hand, pant legs rolled, sauntered along the sea, I stood on the sand in my suit and saw the red sun submerge into the warm, wistful water. Couples, hand in hand, sand squeezing between their toes, sighed, while Makrani
mares raced, manes flapping in the sea breeze, down Clifton Beach. On the horizon, a fisherman’s boat bobbed.

It was an incongruously serene moment in a city that has been called a ‘hotbed of international terrorism’ (Time Magazine), ‘crime capital of Pakistan’ (Seattle Post), ‘political ground zero’ (Dawn). On May 9, thirty people were killed in clashes between the MQM, the country’s largest ethnic political party, and supporters of the recently deposed Chief Justice. Last Friday, 5 kilograms of explosives were found at The Point, an up-market shopping mall; the same night, a speeding motor bike hit my own uncle, destroying his right leg and fracturing his skull. It is the city where Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearle was kidnapped and brutally murder, where one of the 9/11 masterminds was captured, where eleven French construction workers were killed in front of the country’s largest 5-star hotels. Indeed, Karachi lives up to the headlines.

But that’s not the whole story.

Karachi is too vast, too complex to be pigeon holed by sensationalist journalists. Of course there’s going to be terrorism, it is the largest city in Pakistan, a country that has been the eye of War on Terror storm; of course there there’s going to be crime, 14 million people in a third world metropolis are bound to bump up again each other; of course there’s going to be political unrest, it is the largest melting pot of cultures in the sub-continent. But all this is certainly not what defines the city, which, despite the tumult, has surged ahead unfazed, swallowing up its maladies, and taking the rest of the country along with it.

I intern on I.I. Chundrigarh road, Karachi’s Wall Street, for a multinational investment bank that has seen an explosion in its IPO and M&A businesses. From my office window on the 8th floor of UniTower, I can see Karachi Ports to the West, burgeoning with trade and commerce from across the globe, and the Hills of Nazimabad to the east, where a new and prosperous middle class is reaping the benefits of Pakistan booming economy. Below me, downtown Karachi thrives with activity as bankers and brokers rub shoulders with paan wallas and rickshaw drivers, where traders flirt with secretaries and Mercedes’ jostle with Suzukis. The city pulsates with energy.

Over the weekend, I danced, inebriated, to Europe’s hottest club tracks at downtown night club, watched a stand-up comedy act Purple Haze, saw an Indian movie at the four-screen Cineplex, and attended an open-air rock concert. A few days ago, I was whisked away by a friend to appear on one of Pakistan's seventy three private television channels, all of which have aired in the last five years, for a panel discussion on students studying abroad. Yesterday, I went to the Mohatta Palace for a Jamil Naqsh exhibit, followed by a visit to the gallery/house of Amin Gulgee, a charismatic gay sculptor, just in time to catch him before his exhibition tour to Malaysia. This weekend, there’s a Qawali somewhere in Kharadar, then a late night beach rave in Hawks Bay. Saturday is race night. 'Party to the city where heat is on.'

Dear readers, come to Karachi, come to my home. This page is not enough for me to describe its complexity, its beauty, but rest assured that this is one of the most cultural, complex, energetic, exciting cities in the world. It certainly has its problems, but then again, so does New York.

Islamabad: Death in the Midst of Tranquility

Islamabad: the city of Islam, roughly translated, is tidy matrix of residences, markets and official monstrosities. It sits neatly at the foot of the Margalla hills, themselves pretty little things with features of their more regal cousins up north, the Kharakurums, protecting the city from vagaries of the outside world. The climate is relatively mild, and the people peaceful in their concrete villas and imported vehicles. Foreign diplomats and native bureaucrats blissfully glide through the neatly carpeted streets and tidy sidewalks, browsing the overpriced bookstores and spending inordinate amounts of time at Shaheen Chemist, a hub of social activity. It’s a cosmopolitan place—no one is ever really from Islamabad—and , for the most part, an inviting blend of Pakistani cultural sensibilities and foreign sophistication. The city only really comes alive during the morning hours, when government offices throng with civic complainants, and the city’s tiny but rapidly growing businesses jolt into action. By 9pm lights are out and Islamabad becomes a serene village, a quiet suburb, the residents collectively stargazing on their thatched charpaees. In short: it’s a good place to catch up on your Rushdie.

Brewing recently, however, under this picture of tranquility was the bitter broth of religious extremism and moral intolerance. For months the clergy of the Lal Masjid (Red mosque), and the students of the affiliate madrassa, the Jamia Hafsa, had embarked on a Taliban-styled moral purge the capital. Bands of roaming students, both bearded men and veiled women, began to enforce their interpretation of a strict, ultra-orthodox Islamic society. After a series of kidnappings of alleged prostitutes and, more peculiarly, Chinese masseurs, as well as the harassments of local music and video shops, the otherwise apathetic citizens of Islamabad began to feel a little uneasy, not so much about the Lal Masjid’s objectives, but about the disturbance of their sacred peace.

On July 3, 2007, Pakistan Army Rangers set up camp outside the Lal Masjid premises as observation posts, ostensibly to monitor the movements of the students. Most security analysts now agree that the posts were set up as bait for the violently bent militias of the Lal Masjid, daring them to attack, and, thereby, giving the government an excuse to counter attack against what had become a de facto state within a state. The tactic worked. That very morning, a student from the Lal Masjid, in seminary's first show of violence, shot and killed a Pakistan Army Ranger. What ensued was a vicious gun battle that has escalated, in ensuing days, into war on the streets of Islamabad.

I came to sector G6 around 4 pm that afternoon. It was a bright, sunny day, a bit hot, but generally pleasant. The hills were hazy in the distance, but their presence a reassurance of Islamabad’s stability. I presumed that a cab would not be allowed beyond Polly Clinic, where the dead and injured were being brought, and I let taxi driver, who was angry more at the incompetant city administration for incomplete road work, than the Hafsas, drop me off in front of the hospital. Though the police deployment was heavy, there seemed to be no barriers to public commutes and general traffic; it was business as usual for Islamabad’s citizens.

In the distance, a gun shot.

I trekked on towards Melody Market, former home of Melody cinema which was burned down by religious extremists a few years ago. Life, however, in this part of the world, goes on despite political, social and economic vagaries: plans for a new cinema, complete with surround sound and laser projectors, are being designed. Anyway, reaching Aapara Thaana, the police station, I decided to take the long way to Lal Masjid, around the west side of the market. Islamabad Police was everywhere. Standing there in their hundreds, blue uniforms, laathis and all, the Islamabad police was doing what they have become know to do best: nothing. Me, a-barely-20-year-old kid wearing distinctive western attire, sporting a digital camera and Ray Ban shades, waltzed through Aapara police station and down Luqman Heekam road without so much as an official protest.

When I finally arrived in front of the main Melody plaza and, more popularly, Zenos Kabab House—delectable seikh kababs, really, I recommend them to anyone who is ever in the neighborhood—was when I first started getting that burning sensation in my nose and mouth that would become all too familiar as the day progressed. Though it’s called tear gas, the worst symptoms of being in 2000meter hit radius of a tear gas shell is the piercing sensation on your upper lip and the streams of mucus expelling from you nostrils. Not something you want to do everyday, really.

Momentarily hampered, I decided to move through the market towards the usual afternoon festivities of Islamabad’s newly christened Food Street. Unfortunately, that afternoon business was quieter than usual, and only the Islamabad police, in their eternal efficiency, could be seen lunching, accompanied by a group of balding journalists. I waited for the journalists to finish their meal and decided to stay close to them. An inviting bunch, they were just about as clueless about the whole situation as I was. Quite suddenly, like one of those literary signs from God, a loud explosion shattered the very Islamabadi calm that had settled over Food Street.
“Bhainchod shuroo ho gaya hai,” one of the journalists hypothesized, “They’re about to go in.”

A tinge of excitement sparked in our little band of journalistic brothers, and we all ran, cameras dangling, shades falling, towards the explosion. Weaving our way through Melody Market, we finally emerged between United Bank branch office and the Holiday Inn. Once on the main road, the show began.

Reporters, armored vehicles, concerned citizens, rioting mullahs, barbed wire, ambulances, fire trucks, rangers, semi-automatics, tear gas, fire, explosions, smoke. It was all a bit too much to take in really, I didn’t think I would ever be this close to the action. A little way ahead at the intersection before the final stretch of road leading to Lal Masjid, the police had set up a barbed wire barricade, the only hint of any official presence in the area. Following the journalists, with whom, by the way, I had no affiliation, we went past the barricade and into the inferno. Up ahead we saw a sea of people clad in kurta shalwar and sporting beards in various phases of post-pubescent development. As we proceeded, I saw local residents peering over their metal gates, protecting themsevles from stray bullets and inquisitive journalists. Gun shots could be heard emanating from a near by school. The students were in chanting in joyous procession. Occasionally, a bullet would ring out from their midst. I inched closer, being sure to stay among the crowd of onlookers that had gathered, at the threat of their lives, to witness the unfolding saga. At this point, I was in danger of my life: bullets were being indiscriminately fired from both sides without any discernable targets. Commotion from all quarters rang in my ears. Then, so suddenly that I didn’t realize what happened until after the event, three or four stray bullets whizzed into the crowd I was standing in. Panic. I could feel my heart wanting to beat itself out of my chest, I had never been so mortally terrified in my life. People ran in every which direction. The yelling and shouting become more instense, more desperate. Momentary silence ensured. When the dust cleared, a reporter in a blood stained t-shirt announced, tearfully, mournfully, but with a very Islamabadi calm, that Tariq, the photographer of the Daily Khabrain, had been shot dead. I am unequipped, dear reader, to describe how my body, let alone emotions, reacted upon hearing the newsreporter's news.

Stay tuned, it starts getting rough...