Karachi Series 1, 2009, Bani Abadi

Core 101
Rhetoric & Communication

Fall 2024
 READINGS

-Muhammad Jinnah, “Mr. Jinnah's presidential address to the Constituent Assembly of Pakistan”,
11 Aug, 1947
-“How to Write about Pakistan”, Granta 112 (Pakistan issue), Sep 2010
https://granta.com/how-to-write-about-pakistan/

Theme 1: Past Karachi

-Nadeem Paracha, "Visual Karachi: From Paris of Asia, to City of Lights, to Hell on Earth", DAWN, 26
Sep, 2014
https://www.dawn.com/news/1134284
-Gulraiz Khan, "Karachi Is Hard to Love", DAWN, 14 Jun, 2022
https://www.dawn.com/news/1689970
-Kamila Shamsie, “Pop Idols,” Granta 112 (Pakistan issue), Sep 2010
-Richard Francis Burton, Chapters 2, 3, 4, Sind Revisited, orig. published 1877

Theme 2: Displacement/Land Rights

-Shahana Rajani and Shayan Rajani, “Making Karachi", (excerpt republished in Tanqeed, May 2016),
Exhausted Geographies, eds. Shahana Rajani, Zahra Malkani, et al. (2015)
-Fahim Zaman, Naziha Syed Ali, "Bahria Town, Karachi: Greed Unlimited", DAWN , 18 Apr, 2016,
https://www.dawn.com/news/1252809
-Arif Hasan, Dhuha Alvi, Anum Mufti, "Inside the Underbelly of Karachi", DAWN, 27 Nov, 2022
https://www.dawn.com/news/1723403

Theme 3: Environment
-Marvi Mazhar, Anushka Maqbool, Harmain Ahmer, "Reclaiming Karachi's Edge," DAWN, 23 Aug,
2020
https://www.dawn.com/news/1575686
-Sabrina Toppa, "Dry Dams, Water Pipes, and Tanker Mafias - Karachi's Water Crisis", Guardian, 28
Jun, 2016
https://www.theguardian.com/global-development-professionals-network/2016/jun/28/karachi-
pakistan-water-crisis

Theme 4: Women’s Spaces

-Arif Hasan, Dhuha Alvi, Khadija Imran, "The Changing Status of Karachi's Women", DAWN
https://www.dawn.com/news/1769913
-Imtiaz, People Think We're from Another Planet: Meet Karachi's Female Cyclists", Guardian
https://www.theguardian.com/cities/2019/jun/26/people-think-were-from-another-planet-meet-
karachis-female-cyclists

Theme 5: Violence
-Shaheryar Mirza, “Karachi’s Turf Wars: Violence Is a Political Tool in a City That Never Sleeps”, The
Caravan, 1 Aug, 2011
https://caravanmagazine.in/perspectives/karachis-turf-wars
-Nicola Khan, “Political Madness, Ethics, and Story-Making in Liaquatabad,” Cityscapes of Violence
in Karachi, ed. Nicola Khan (New York: Oxford University Press, 2017)
Theme 6: Karachi’s “Cosmopolitan Writers”
-Sarah Waheed, “A Different Story: New Fiction in English on Karachi”, The Caravan, 1 Feb, 2016
https://caravanmagazine.in/reviews-essays/a-different-story-new-english-fiction-karachi
-Mohammed Hanif, "Karachi Calling", Guardian, 24 Jun, 2008
https://www.theguardian.com/world/2008/jun/24/pakistan.healthandwellbeing#:~:text=When%20n
ovelist%20Mohammed%20Hanif%20told,answer%20proved%20surprisingly%20simple%20...
-Bina Shah interview, with Lory Hough, “On Bland Food, Binders, and Being Outspoken”, Ed.
Magazine, Harvard Graduate School of Education, 14 May, 2016
https://www.gse.harvard.edu/ideas/ed-magazine/16/05/bland-food-binders-and-being-outspoken
-Bina Shah, “Ask a Local: Bina Shah, Karachi, Pakistan”, The Common: A Modern Sense of Place, 24 Apr,
2019
https://www.thecommononline.org/ask-a-local-bina-shah-karachi-pakistan/
-Kamile Shamsie, “Kamile Shamsie on Leaving and Returning to Karachi”, Guardian, 13 Mar, 2010
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2010/mar/13/karachi-leaving-london-writing-fiction

Theme 7: Minority
-Fatima Bhutto, “Mangho Pir”, Granta 112 (Pakistan issue), Sep 2010
 WRITING

Rhetorical (Verbal/Linguistic/Alphabetic) Analysis

-Elements of Rhetorical (Verbal/Linguistic/Alphabetic) Analysis
-Structure of Rhetorical (Verbal/Linguistic/Alphabetic) Analysis
-General Structure of Analytical Essay

Rhetorical (Spatial) Analysis

-Elements of Rhetorical (Spatial) Analysis
-Structure of Rhetorical (Spatial) Analysis
-General Structure of Analytical Essay

Rhetorical (Visual) Analysis

-Elements of Rhetorical (Visual) Analysis
-Structure of Rhetorical (Visual) Analysis

Annotated Bibliography with Short Research Proposal

-What Is a Research Proposal
-Narrowing a Topic and Developing a Research Question
What Is an Annotated Bibliography
-APA Guide

Issue Analysis
-What Is an Issue Analysis
-Issue Analysis Matrix
-APA Guide
-Sample Issue Analysis Paper with Comments

General Writing
-Formatting Titles of Works
-Topic Sentences
-Quotations (sheet 1)
-Quotations (sheet 2)
-Titles
Links: Constitution of Pakistan | Legislation | www.pakistani.org

Mr. Jinnah's presidential address to the Constituent Assembly of

Pakistan
August 11, 1947

Mr. President, Ladies and Gentlemen!

I cordially thank you, with the utmost sincerity, for the honour you have conferred upon me - the greatest honour
that is possible to confer - by electing me as your first President. I also thank those leaders who have spoken in
appreciation of my services and their personal references to me. I sincerely hope that with your support and your
co-operation we shall make this Constituent Assembly an example to the world. The Constituent Assembly has
got two main functions to perform. The first is the very onerous and responsible task of framing the future
constitution of Pakistan and the second of functioning as a full and complete sovereign body as the Federal
Legislature of Pakistan. We have to do the best we can in adopting a provisional constitution for the Federal
Legislature of Pakistan. You know really that not only we ourselves are wondering but, I think, the whole world
is wondering at this unprecedented cyclonic revolution which has brought about the clan of creating and
establishing two independent sovereign Dominions in this sub-continent. As it is, it has been unprecedented;
there is no parallel in the history of the world. This mighty sub-continent with all kinds of inhabitants has been
brought under a plan which is titanic, unknown, unparalleled. And what is very important with regards to it is
that we have achieved it peacefully and by means of an evolution of the greatest possible character.

Dealing with our first function in this Assembly, I cannot make any well-considered pronouncement at this
moment, but I shall say a few things as they occur to me. The first and the foremost thing that I would like to
emphasize is this: remember that you are now a sovereign legislative body and you have got all the powers. It,
therefore, places on you the gravest responsibility as to how you should take your decisions. The first
observation that I would like to make is this: You will no doubt agree with me that the first duty of a government
is to maintain law and order, so that the life, property and religious beliefs of its subjects are fully protected by
the State.

The second thing that occurs to me is this: One of the biggest curses from which India is suffering - I do not say
that other countries are free from it, but, I think our condition is much worse - is bribery and corruption. That
really is a poison. We must put that down with an iron hand and I hope that you will take adequate measures as
soon as it is possible for this Assembly to do so.

Black-marketing is another curse. Well, I know that blackmarketeers are frequently caught and punished. Judicial
sentences are passed or sometimes fines only are imposed. Now you have to tackle this monster, which today is a
colossal crime against society, in our distressed conditions, when we constantly face shortage of food and other
essential commodities of life. A citizen who does black-marketing commits, I think, a greater crime than the
biggest and most grievous of crimes. These blackmarketeers are really knowing, intelligent and ordinarily
responsible people, and when they indulge in black-marketing, I think they ought to be very severely punished,
because the entire system of control and regulation of foodstuffs and essential commodities, and cause wholesale
starvation and want and even death.

The next thing that strikes me is this: Here again it is a legacy which has been passed on to us. Along with many
other things, good and bad, has arrived this great evil, the evil of nepotism and jobbery. I want to make it quite
clear that I shall never tolerate any kind of jobbery, nepotism or any any influence directly of indirectly brought
to bear upon me. Whenever I will find that such a practice is in vogue or is continuing anywhere, low or high, I
shall certainly not countenance it.
I know there are people who do not quite agree with the division of India and the partition of the Punjab and
Bengal. Much has been said against it, but now that it has been accepted, it is the duty of everyone of us to
loyally abide by it and honourably act according to the agreement which is now final and binding on all. But you
must remember, as I have said, that this mighty revolution that has taken place is unprecedented. One can quite
understand the feeling that exists between the two communities wherever one community is in majority and the
other is in minority. But the question is, whether it was possible or practicable to act otherwise than what has
been done, A division had to take place. On both sides, in Hindustan and Pakistan, there are sections of people
who may not agree with it, who may not like it, but in my judgement there was no other solution and I am sure
future history will record is verdict in favour of it. And what is more, it will be proved by actual experience as we
go on that was the only solution of India's constitutional problem. Any idea of a united India could never have
worked and in my judgement it would have led us to terrific disaster. Maybe that view is correct; maybe it is not;
that remains to be seen. All the same, in this division it was impossible to avoid the question of minorities being
in one Dominion or the other. Now that was unavoidable. There is no other solution. Now what shall we do?
Now, if we want to make this great State of Pakistan happy and prosperous, we should wholly and solely
concentrate on the well-being of the people, and especially of the masses and the poor. If you will work in co-
operation, forgetting the past, burying the hatchet, you are bound to succeed. If you change your past and work
together in a spirit that everyone of you, no matter to what community he belongs, no matter what relations he
had with you in the past, no matter what is his colour, caste or creed, is first, second and last a citizen of this
State with equal rights, privileges, and obligations, there will be on end to the progress you will make.

I cannot emphasize it too much. We should begin to work in that spirit and in course of time all these angularities
of the majority and minority communities, the Hindu community and the Muslim community, because even as
regards Muslims you have Pathans, Punjabis, Shias, Sunnis and so on, and among the Hindus you have
Brahmins, Vashnavas, Khatris, also Bengalis, Madrasis and so on, will vanish. Indeed if you ask me, this has
been the biggest hindrance in the way of India to attain the freedom and independence and but for this we would
have been free people long long ago. No power can hold another nation, and specially a nation of 400 million
souls in subjection; nobody could have conquered you, and even if it had happened, nobody could have
continued its hold on you for any length of time, but for this. Therefore, we must learn a lesson from this. You
are free; you are free to go to your temples, you are free to go to your mosques or to any other place or worship
in this State of Pakistan. You may belong to any religion or caste or creed that has nothing to do with the
business of the State. As you know, history shows that in England, conditions, some time ago, were much worse
than those prevailing in India today. The Roman Catholics and the Protestants persecuted each other. Even now
there are some States in existence where there are discriminations made and bars imposed against a particular
class. Thank God, we are not starting in those days. We are starting in the days where there is no discrimination,
no distinction between one community and another, no discrimination between one caste or creed and another.
We are starting with this fundamental principle that we are all citizens and equal citizens of one State. The
people of England in course of time had to face the realities of the situation and had to discharge the
responsibilities and burdens placed upon them by the government of their country and they went through that fire
step by step. Today, you might say with justice that Roman Catholics and Protestants do not exist; what exists
now is that every man is a citizen, an equal citizen of Great Britain and they are all members of the Nation.

Now I think we should keep that in front of us as our ideal and you will find that in course of time Hindus would
cease to be Hindus and Muslims would cease to be Muslims, not in the religious sense, because that is the
personal faith of each individual, but in the political sense as citizens of the State.

Well, gentlemen, I do not wish to take up any more of your time and thank you again for the honour you have
done to me. I shall always be guided by the principles of justice and fairplay without any, as is put in the political
language, prejudice or ill-will, in other words, partiality or favouritism. My guiding principle will be justice and
complete impartiality, and I am sure that with your support and co-operation, I can look forward to Pakistan
becoming one of the greatest nations of the world.

I have received a message from the United States of America addressed to me. It reads:

I have the honour to communicate to you, in Your Excellency's capacity as President of the
Constituent Assembly of Pakistan, the following message which I have just received from the
 Secretary of State of the United States:

On the occasion of of the first meeting of the Constituent Assembly for Pakistan, I extend to you and
to the members of the Assembly, the best wishes of the Government and the people of the United
States for the successful conclusion of the great work you are about to undertake.

Source: Dawn, Independence Day Supplement, August 14, 1999.

Transcribed from printed copy by Shehzaad Nakhoda

Links: Constitution of Pakistan | Legislation | www.pakistani.org

 SIGN
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IN

How to Write
About
Pakistan
Various Contributors
‘Fundamentalist
mangoes must have
more texture; secular
mangoes should have
artificial flavouring.’

ESSAYS & MEMOIR THE ONLINE EDITION 28th September 2010

Four contributors to our Pakistan issue – Mohsin Hamid, Mohammed Hanif, Daniyal Mueenuddin
and Kamila Shamsie – tell you, in case you’re thinking of starting out, How to Write About Pakistan.

1. Must have mangoes.

2. Must have maids who serve mangoes.
3. Maids must have affairs with man servants who should occasionally steal mangoes.
4. Masters must lecture on history of mangoes and forgive the thieving servant.
5. Calls to prayer must be rendered to capture the mood of a nation disappointed by the failing crop
of mangoes.
6. The mango flavour must linger for a few paragraphs.
7. And turn into a flashback to Partition.
8. Characters originating in rural areas must fight to prove that their mango is bigger than yours.
9. Fundamentalist mangoes must have more texture; secular mangoes should have artificial
flavouring.
10. Mangoes that ripen in creative writing workshops must be rushed to the market before they go
bad.

If you are sick of mangoes then try reading:

Najam Hussain Syed

Afzal Ahmed Sayed
Hasan Dars

All poets? Poets who don’t write poetry in English? Not even in Urdu? You could get your maid or
that genius mad uncle to translate little bits for you.

Or, if you like prose:

Ali Akbar Natiq

Asad Mohammed Khan
Shamsu Rehman Farouqi

All fiction writers, some available in English. Ask your Pakistani friends to translate bits for you. Your
Pakistani friend can’t read Urdu? Surely she has a maid who can. Or is she too busy serving
mangoes?

II

Pakistan is just like India, except when it’s just like Afghanistan. (Has anyone else noticed how we
seem to have geographically shifted from being a side-thought of the subcontinent to a major player
in the Greater Middle East? Is this progress?) It will become clear whether the Pakistan of our work
is Indo-Pak or Af-Pak depending on whether the cover has paisley designs or
bombs/minarets/menacing men in shalwar kameezes (there are no other kinds of men in shalwar
kameezes.) If woman are on the cover, then the two possible Pakistans are expressed through choice
of clothing: is it bridal wear or burkhas?

On the subject of women, they never have agency. Unless they break all the rules, in which case
they’re going to end up dead. I don’t think there’s anything else to be said about them, is there?

III

Lying in my bed at 7.48 a.m., laptop on lap. Too much writing in this position over the years has
given me neck-aches. I’d do yoga if it weren’t such a non-Pakistani sounding activity. For a Pakistani
writer to do yoga feels like questioning the two-nation theory. So I complain, which brings enormous
relief and a sense of oneness with my subject matter.

When it comes to Pakistani writing, I would encourage us all to remember the brand. We are
custodians of brand Pakistan. And beneficiaries. The brand slaps an extra zero onto our advances, if
not more. Branding can be the difference between a novel about brown people and a best-selling
novel about brown people. It is our duty to maintain and build that brand.

I know I don’t need to reiterate here what brand Pakistan stands for, but since my future income-
stream is tied up with what you all do with it, I’m going to do so anyway. Brand Pakistan is a horror
brand. It’s like the Friday the 13th series. Or if you’re into humor, like Scary Movie. Or Jaws, if
nature-writing is your thing.

Anyway, the point is that people from all over the world have come to know and love brand Pakistan
for its ability to scare the shit out of them. Whatever you write, please respect this legacy. We’re
providing a service here. We’re a twenty-storey straight-down vertical-dropping roller coaster for the
mind. Yes, love etcetera is permissible. But bear in mind that Pakistan is a market-leader. The Most
Dangerous Place in the Worldtm.

It took a lot of writing to get us here, miles of fiction and non-fiction in blood-drenched black and
white. Please don’t undo it. Or at least please don’t undo it until I’ve cashed in a couple more times.
Apartments abroad are expensive.

IV

Desi Masala

The banyan tree, the gulmahor,

and all mem-sahibs of Lahore –
I sing of you, for love and cash
(for poets need a place to crash,
in Islington, if not Mayfair –
Please God, not Newham is my prayer).
Lahore is fine in winter time,
but when the temp begins to climb
we brave the food on PIA
to pen our eclogues far away.
So, gentle reader, do not stray,
I promise you that same bouquet,
the one I sold you once before,
the spice and smells of old Lahore,
and chauffeured cars and so much more.

Photograph by Sara Fratti

Mohsin Hamid
Mohsin Hamid grew up in Lahore, Pakistan. He studied at
Princeton under Toni Morrison and Harvard Law, and currently
lives in New York City.
MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR →

Mohammed Hanif
Mohammed Hanif was born in Okara. A former head of the BBC
Urdu Service, he is the author of A Case of Exploding Mangoes.
He lives in Karachi.

MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR →

Daniyal Mueenuddin
Daniyal Mueenuddin is the author of the short-story collection In
Other Rooms, Other Wonders. He lives in Lahore, Pakistan, with
his wife and son. Kristal Slama is the protagonist of his
forthcoming novel, No Loving Cup Tonight.

MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR →

Kamila Shamsie
Kamila Shamsie was born in Karachi, Pakistan, in 1973. She has
received degrees from Hamilton College, Clinton, New York and
the University of Massachusetts. This is her first novel.

MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR →

More on Granta.com

ESSAYS & THE ONLINE ESSAYS & ISSUE THE ONLINE

| | FICTION |
MEMOIR EDITION MEMOIR 92 EDITION
 Where to Begin How to Write About Exit West
Africa
Nadeem Aslam Mohsin Hamid
Binyavanga Wainaina
‘Pages five, six and seven ‘Everyone was foreign, and
make her into a Pakistani, ‘Always end your book so, in a sense, no one was.’
but for the first four pages with Nelson Mandela
she is nothing but a human saying something about
being.’ rainbows or renaissances.
Because you care.’

ESSAYS & ISSUE ESSAYS & THE ONLINE FICTION | ISSUE 122
| |
MEMOIR 138 MEMOIR EDITION

Mohsin Hamid | Is Defining Betrayal Don’t Fall in Love

Travel Writing Dead? Various Contributors Mohsin Hamid
Mohsin Hamid ‘I think of betrayal as a ‘She does not stare at you,
‘I have come to believe that crack in the veneer of but when your eyes meet,
we are all migrants, that humanity, an act that she does not look away.’
the experience of reveals to us, and others,
migration unites all human our base animal nature.’
beings.’

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Theme 1: Past Karachi
 E-PAPER | JULY 14, 2024

Visual Karachi: From Paris of Asia, to City of

Lights, to Hell on Earth
Nadeem F. Paracha | Published September 26, 2014

JOIN OUR WHATSAPP CHANNEL

Clustered diversity

Karachi confuses people – sometimes even those who live

in it.

The capital of Pakistan’s Sindh province, it is the country’s

largest city – a colossal, ever-expanding metropolis with a
population of about 20 million (and growing).

It is also the country’s most ethnically diverse city. But over

the last three decades this diversity largely consists of
bulky groups of homogenous ethnic populations that
mostly reside in their own areas of influence and majority,
only interacting and intermingling with other ethnic
groups in the city’s more neutral points of economic and
recreational activity.

That’s why Karachi may also give the impression of being a

city holding various small cities. Cities within a city.

Apart from this aspect of its clustered ethnic diversity, the

city also hosts a number of people belonging to various
Muslim sects and sub-sects. There are also quite a few
Christians (both Catholic and Protestant), Hindus and
Zoroastrians.

Many pockets in the city are also exclusively dedicated to

housing only the Shia Muslim sect and various Sunni sub-
sects. Even Hindu and Christian populations are
sometimes settled in and around tiny areas where they are
in a majority, further reflecting the city’s clustered
diversity.

Most of those belonging to clustered ethnicities, Muslim

sects, sub-sects and ‘minority’ religions reside in their own
areas of majority and they only venture out of these areas
when they have to trade, work or play in the city’s more
neutral economic and cultural spaces.

The survival and, more so, the economic viability of the

neutral spaces depends on these spaces remaining largely
detached in matters of ethnic and sectarian/sub-sectarian
claims and biases.

Such spaces include areas that hold the city’s various

private multinational and state organisations, factories,
shopping malls and (central) bazaars and recreational
spots.

Whereas the clustered areas have often witnessed ethnic

and sectarian strife and violence mainly due to one cluster
of the ethnic/sectarian/sub-sectarian population accusing
the other of encroaching upon the area of the other, the
neutral points and zones have remained somewhat
conflict-free in this context.

Police commandos patrol Karachi’s violent Kati Pahari (Split Mountain)

area. One side of the hill is populated by Mohajirs and the other by
Pakhtuns.

The neutral points have enjoyed a relatively strife-free

environment due to their being multicultural and also
because here is where the writ of the state and government
is most present and appreciated. However, since all this
has helped the neutral zones to generate much of the
economic capital that the city generates, these neutral
spaces have become a natural target of crimes such as
robberies, muggings, kidnapping for ransom, extortion,
etc.

The criminals in this respect, usually emerge from the

clustered areas that have become extremely congested,
stagnant and cut-off from most of the state and
government institutions, and ravaged by decades of ethnic
and sectarian violence.

Though the ethnic, sectarian/intra-sectarian, economic

and political interests of the clustered areas are ‘protected’
by various legal, as well as banned outfits in their own
areas of influence, all these outfits compete with each other
for their economic interests in the neutral zones because
here is where much of the money is.

Karachi’s long Shahra-e-Faisal Road. One of the city’s ‘neutral zones’.

Just why does (or did) this happen in a city that once had
the potential of becoming a truly cosmopolitan bastion of
ethnic and religious diversity, and robust economic activity
in South Asia?

This can be investigated by tracing the city’s political,

economic and demographic trajectories and evolution ever
since it first began to emerge as an economic hub more
than a century and a half ago.

Birth of a trading post... and ‘Paris of Asia’

Karachi is not an ancient city. It was a small

fishing village that became a medium-sized trading
post in the 18th century. British Colonialists
further developed this area as a place of business
and trade.

‘Paris of Asia?’ – Karachi (in 1910). Karachi was

always a city of migrants. Hindus and Muslims
alike came here from various parts of India to do
business and many of them settled here along with
some British. In the early 1900s, encouraged by
the city’s booming economy and political stability,
the British authorities and the then mayor of
Karachi, Seth Harchandari (a Hindu
businessman), began a ‘beautification project’ that
saw the development of brand new roads, parks
and residential and recreational areas. One British
author described Karachi as being ‘the Paris of
Asia.’

A group of British, Muslim and Hindu female

students at a school in Karachi in 1910: Till the
creation of Pakistan in 1947, about 50 per cent of
the population of the city was Hindu,
approximately 40 per cent was Muslim, and the
rest was Christian (both British and local),
Zoroastrian, Buddhist and (some) Jews.
Members of Muslim, Hindu and Zoroastrian
families pose for a photograph before heading
towards one of Karachi’s many beaches for a
picnic in 1925: Karachi continued to perform well
as a robust centre of commerce and remained
remarkably peaceful and tolerant even at the
height of tensions between the British, the Hindus
and the Muslims of India between the 1920s and
1940s.

A British couple soon after getting married at a

church in Karachi in 1927.
A group of traders standing near the Karachi
Municipal Corporation (KMC) building in the
1930s.

Karachi Airport in 1943. It was one of the largest in

the region.
Karachi’s Frere Hall and Garden with Queen
Victoria’s statue in 1942.

A 1940 board laying out the Karachi city

government’s policy towards racism.
Lyari in 1930 - Karachi’s oldest area (and first
slum): Even though Karachi emerged as a bastion
of economic prosperity (with a strategically
located sea port); and of religious harmony in the
first half of the 20th century, with the prosperity
also came certain disparities that were mainly
centred in areas populated by the city’s growing
daily-wage workers. By the 1930s, Lyari had
already become a congested area with dwindling
resources and a degrading infrastructure.

Shifting sands: Karachi becomes part of Pakistan

Karachiites celebrate the creation of Pakistan
(August 14, 1947) at the city’s Kakri Ground: The
demography and political disposition of the city
was turned on its head when the city became part
of the newly created Pakistan. Though much of
India was being torn apart by vicious communal
clashes between the Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs at
the time, Karachi remained largely peaceful.

A train carrying Muslim refugees from India

arrives at Karachi’s Cantt Station (via Lahore) in
1948.
Hindus prepare to board a ship from Karachi’s
main seaport for Bombay in 1948. To the bitter
disappointment of Pakistan’s founder, Mohammad
Ali Jinnah (a resident of Karachi), the city
witnessed an exodus of its Hindu majority. Jinnah
was banking on the Hindu business community of
the city to remain in Karachi and help shape the
new country’s economy.

Commuters board a tram in Karachi’s Saddar area

in 1951: As if overnight, the 50-40 ratio of the city’s
population (50 Hindu, 40 Muslim) drastically
changed after 1947. Now over 90 per cent of the
city’s population was made up of Muslims with
more than 70 per cent of these being new arrivals.
A majority of the new arrivals were Urdu-speaking
Muslims (Mohajirs) from various North Indian
cities and towns. Since many of them had roots in
urban and semi-urban areas of India and were also
educated, they quickly adapted to the urbanism of
Karachi and became vital clogs in the city’s
emerging bureaucracy and economy.
Karachi’s rebirth as the ‘City of Lights’

Karachi’s Burns Road in 1963: It grew into a major

Mohajir-dominated area. By the late 1950s,
Karachi began to regenerate itself as a busy and
vigorous centre of commerce and trade. It was also
Pakistan’s first federal capital. It was the only port
city of Pakistan and by the 1960s it had risen to
become the country’s economic hub.

Karachi 1961: Brand new buildings and roads in

the city began to emerge in the 1960s. The
government of Field Martial Ayub Khan that came
into power through a military coup in 1958
unfolded aggressive industrialisation and
business-friendly policies, and Karachi became a
natural city for the government to solidify its
economic policies.

The II Chundgrigar Road in 1962: It was in the

1960s that this area began to develop into
becoming Karachi’s main business hub. It began
being called ‘Pakistan’s Wall Street.’

1963: Construction underway of the Habib Bank

Plaza on Karachi’s II Chundrigarh Road. The
building would rise to become the country’s tallest
till the 2000s when two more buildings (also in
Karachi) outgrew it.

Saddar area in 1965: Trendy shops, cinemas, bars

and nightclubs began to emerge here in the 1960s
and it became one of the most popular areas of
Karachi. With Karachi’s regeneration as an
economic hub, its traditional business and
pleasure ethics too returned that consisted of
uninterrupted economic activity by the day and an
unabashed indulgence in leisure activities in the
evenings.
A Pakhtun rickshaw driver at Karachi’s Clifton
Beach in 1962. Though the Ayub regime moved the
capital to the newly built city of Islamabad, the
economic regeneration enjoyed by Karachi during
the Ayub regime’s first six years attracted a wave
of inner-country migration to the city. A large
number of Punjabis from the Punjab province and
Pakhtuns from the former NWFP (present-day
Khyber Pakhtunkhwa) began to arrive looking for
work from the early 1960s onwards. But with the
seat of power being moved from Karachi to
Islamabad by the Ayub regime, the Mohajirs for
the first time began to feel that they were being
ousted from the country’s ruling elite.
A 1963 newspaper clipping with a report on how
Pakistani pop fans gate-crashed their way into a
bar at the Karachi Airport where members of the
famous pop band The Beatles were having a drink.
They had arrived in Karachi to get a connecting
flight to Hong Kong.

A local pop band playing at a nightclub in Karachi

in 1968: It was during the Ayub regime that the
term ‘City of Lights’ was first used (by the
government) for Karachi as brand new buildings,
residential areas and recreational spots continued
to spring up.
Western tourists shopping in the city’s Saddar
area in 1966.

A donkey-cart owner and his son in Lyari (1967):

Karachi once again became a city of trade,
business and all kinds of pleasures, and yet, the
industrialisation that it enjoyed during the period
and the continuous growth in its population began
to create economic fissures that the city was
largely unequipped to address. The economic
disparities and the ever-growing gaps between the
rich and the poor triggered by the Ayub regime’s
lopsided economic policies became most visible in
Karachi’s growing slums.

Many shanty towns like this one sprang up in the

outskirts of Karachi in the 1960s. Criminal mafias
involved in land scams, robberies, muggings and
drug peddling in such areas found willing recruits
in the shape of unemployed and poverty-stricken
youth residing in the slums.
Police and military troops patrol the streets at
Karachi’s Club Road area during a 1968 strike
called by opposition parties against the Ayub
government. Resentment against Ayub among the
Mohajir middle and lower middle-classes (for
supposedly side-lining the Mohajir community),
and the growing economic disparities and crime in
the city’s Baloch and Mohajir dominated shanty
towns turned Karachi into a fertile ground for left-
wing student groups, radical labour unions and
progressive opposition parties who began a
concentrated movement against the Ayub regime
in the late 1960s (across Pakistan). Ayub resigned
in 1969.

Sleaze city: Fun and fire in the time of melancholia

Chairman of the left-wing PPP, ZA Bhutto
addressing a rally in Karachi just before the 1970
election. The PPP became the country’s new ruling
party in 1972. After the end of the ‘One Unit’ (and
separation of East Pakistan), Karachi became the
capital of Sindh. Bhutto was eager to win the
support of Karachi’s Mohajir majority. In various
memos written by him to the then Chief Minister
of Sindh, Bhutto expressed his desire to once again
make Karachi the ‘Paris of Asia.’

Karachi’s ‘Three Swords’ area in 1974. It was

‘beautified’ during the Bhutto regime but today has
become a busy and congested artery connecting
Clifton with the centre of the city. It was during the
Bhutto government that the city’s first three-lane
roads were constructed (Shara-e-Faisal), dotted
with trees; the Clifton area was further beautified;
foundation of the country’s first steel mill laid (in
Karachi); and the construction of a large casino
started (near the shores of the Clifton Beach) to
accommodate the ever-growing traffic of
European, American and Arab tourists.

A 1973 Karachi brochure for tourists who were

visiting Karachi in the 1970s.

A newspaper report on the 1972 ‘Language Riots’

in Karachi: Bhutto failed to get the desired support
of the Mohajirs. This was mainly due to his
government’s ‘socialist’ policies that saw the
nationalisation of large industries, banks,
factories, educational institutions and insurance
companies. This alienated the Mohajir business
community and the city’s middle-classes. Also,
since Bhutto was a Sindhi and the PPP had won a
large number of seats from the Sindhi-speaking
areas of Sindh, he encouraged the Sindhis to come
to Karachi and participate in the city’s economic
and governing activities. This created tensions
between the city’s Mohajir majority and the
Sindhis arriving in Karachi after Bhutto’s rise to
power.

The insomniac metropolis: The city that never slept

Karachi in the 1970s gave a look of a city in a limbo

- caught between its optimistic and enterprising
past and a decadent present. It behaved like a city
on the edge of some impending disaster or on the
verge of an existential collapse.

Most Karachiites would go through the motions of

traveling to work or study by the day, and by night they
would plunge into the various chambers of its steamy and
colourful nightlife …

From ‘elitist’ nightclubs …

… to seedy ‘low/middle-income’ dance and drink
joints, Karachiites looked to escape a melancholic
existence by heading towards the city’s many
recreational outlets in the 1970s.

A 1973 press ad (in DAWN newspaper) of one of

Karachi’s many famous nightclubs of the 1970s,
The Oasis.

Nishat Cinema 1974: Cinemas in Karachi were

usually packed with people in the 1970s.

Playland 1975: One of Karachi’s most famous

recreational and amusement areas for families
was the (now defunct) Playland.
Students at the Karachi University in 1973.

A group of students at the Karachi University in

1975.
Urdu news being delivered from Pakistan
Television’s Karachi Studios (1974).

Crowd at a cricket Test match being played at

Karachi’s National Stadium in 1976.
Karachi’s congested Merewether Tower area in
1976. A badly managed economy (through
haphazard nationalisation), and the reluctance of
the private sector to invest in the city’s once
thriving businesses strengthened the unregulated
aspects of a growing informal economy that began
to serve the needs of the city’s population. The flip
side of this informal economic enterprise was the
creeping corruption in the police and other
government institutions that began to extort
money from these unfettered and informal
businesses.

The rupture
Protesters go on a rampage during the anti-Bhutto
movement in Karachi’s Nazimabad area (April
1977). In 1977 the city finally imploded. After a 9-
party alliance, the Pakistan National Alliance
(PNA) – that was led by the country’s three leading
religious parties – refused to accept the results of
the 1977 election; Karachi became the epicentre of
the anti-Bhutto protest movement.
A policeman beats up a protesting shopkeeper in
the city’s Saddar area during the PNA movement (
1977). The protests were often violent and the
government called in the army. The protests were
squarely centred in areas largely populated by the
Mohajir middle and lower middle classes. Apart
from attacking police stations, mobs of
angry/unemployed Mohajir youth also attacked
cinemas, bars and nightclubs; as if the
government’s economic policies had been the
doing of Waheed Murad films and belly dancers!
The bars and clubs were closed down in April 1977.
Future MQM chief Altaf Hussain on a Karachi
University bus (1977): As the PNA protests led to
the toppling of the Bhutto regime (through a
reactionary military coup by General Ziaul Haq in
July 1977), within a year a group of young Mohajirs
were already exhibiting their disillusionment with
the ‘PNA revolution.’ In 1978 two students at the
Karachi University – Altaf Hussain and Azim
Ahmed Tariq - formed the All Pakistan Mohajir
Students Organization (APMSO). They accused the
religious parties of using the Mohajirs as ladders
to enter the corridors of power while doing
nothing to address the economic plight of the
community.

Prosperity, piety, plunder

The American contingent parade past spectators at
the 1980 ‘Karachi Olympics’: Zia’s dictatorship
managed to strengthen itself soon after the Soviet
forces invaded neighbouring Afghanistan in
December 1979. Once the US resolved to oppose
the Soviet invasion, it (along with Saudi Arabia),
began pumping in an unprecedented amount of
financial and military aid into Pakistan.
Foreigners enjoy a cruise on the waters of
Karachi’s Kemari area in 1982.

Future US President Barak Obama visited Karachi

as a visiting university student and stayed with a
roommate of his in Karachi (1981).
Apart from the fact that Karachi’s university and college
campuses exploded with protests against Zia (and then
violent clashes between progressive student groups and the
pro-Zia right-wing outfits), the city largely returned to
normalcy and its status of being Pakistan’s economic hub
was revived.

The continuous flow of aid helped the Zia regime stabilise

the country’s economy. But underneath this new normalcy
something extremely troubling was already brewing.

Since most of the sophisticated weapons from the US (for

the Afghan Mujahideen) were arriving at Karachi’s seaport,
a whole clandestine enterprise involving overnight
gunrunners and corrupt police and customs officials
emerged that (after siphoning off chunks of the US
consignments), began selling guns, grenades and rockets to
militant students (both on the left and right sides of the
divide) and to a new breed of criminal gangs.

From the northwest of Pakistan came the once little known

drug called heroin, brought into Pakistan and then into
Karachi by Afghan refugees who began pouring into the
country soon after the beginning of the anti-Soviet Afghan
insurgency in Afghanistan…
The Taj Mahal Hotel 1982: A number of newly-
built hotels sprang up in Karachi during the
economic boom of the early 1980s. However, many
critics were of the view that most of them were
built with ‘black money.’

Poverty and drug addiction saw an alarming

increase in Karachi in the 1980s.
1985: School and college students chant slogans
against the government and Karachi’s ‘transport
mafia’ the day after a Mohajir student, Bushra
Zaidi was run-over by a bus. The accident sparked
a series of deadly riots between the Mohajirs and
the Pakhtuns of Karachi.

Front-page news reports about the deadly 1986

Mohajir-Pakhtun riots in Urdu daily, Jang. As the
armed student groups fought each other to near-
extinction on the city’s campuses, the violence,
now heightened by sophisticated weapons, became
the domain of criminal gangs in the city’s Baloch
and Pakhtun dominated areas. Most of these gangs
had been operating as hoodlums peddling hashish,
smuggled goods and running illegal prostitution
dens in the 1970s. After the sale of alcohol (to
Muslims) was banned in April 1977, they added the
business of making and selling cheap whisky to
their enterprise before they discovered the
profitable wonders of selling guns and heroin.
They were sometimes also used by political
parties, as well as intelligence agencies for various
political reasons.

Military personnel arrest a rioter in Karachi’s

Orangi Town area in 1986. Working-class and
lower-middle-class areas like Lyari and Orangi
were the first two sections of the city to be hit by
gang violence and heroin addiction in the 1980s.
The suddenly rich: Huge bungalows came up in the
city’s ‘posh localities’ in the 1980s. A booming
economy based on the continuous flow of financial
aid arriving from the US and Saudi Arabia and
generated by a somewhat anarchic form of
capitalism paralleled urban prosperity with
growing class disparities. It encouraged a free-for-
all rush towards grabbing the chaotic political and
economic fruits of such an economy.

Team of PTV’s social satire show, ‘Fifty-Fifty’ often

parodied the rise of greed and corruption and the
social idiosyncrasies of the ‘nonveau-riche’ that
emerged from the 1980’s anarchic brand of
capitalism.

Mohajir Qaumi Movement (MQM) chief, Altaf

Hussain, speaking at a large party rally in Karachi
in 1987. The mohajirs claimed that Karachi’s
transport and real estate businesses had been
taken over by gangs of Afghan gun and drug mafias
and that the Mohajirs were being forcibly ousted
from various areas of the city by refugees arriving
in Karachi from Afghanistan. MQM decided to
organise the Mohajir community into a cohesive
ethnic whole.

A 1987 hoarding in Karachi’s Mohajir-dominated

Nazimabad area. The deadly 1986 riots triggered
the gradual formation of the city’s clustered
diversity (see first section) as Karachi’s various
ethnicities began to reside in areas where their
respective ethnicities were in a majority.
A wall in Lyari plastered with PPP posters in 1988.
Lyari remained to be the party’s main support base
in Karachi. It also saw a number of anti-Zia
protests throughout the 1980s.

Ziaul Haq during a visit to Karachi’s busy

shipyard: In the early 1980s, though Karachi did
return to becoming the country’s economic hub
again, this time much of its booming economics
was based on a parallel ‘black economy’ fuelled by
the large amounts of money floated by drug, land
and gun mafias. Instead of addressing such issues,
the regime stuck to offering moralistic eyewashes
through highly propagated and hyped postures of
piety and certain draconian laws that were
imposed in the name of morality and faith …

Women activists protesting against Zia’s ‘moral

policing’ outside the Sindh Chief Minister House in
Karachi (1986).

Chairperson of the PPP and Zia’s leading

opponent, Benazir Bhutto, waves to the crowd
during her wedding ceremony (held in Lyari) in
1986.
In 1987 a massive bomb exploded in the busy
Saddar area of the city, killing dozens of people.
This was the first such incident in a Pakistani city
and Karachiites were left shocked and badly
shaken. The regime accused ‘communist agents.’

As the exhilaration of the superficial and

contradictory economic boom experienced by the
city in the early and mid-1980s began to recede,
Karachi looked like a city in shambles with a
rapidly growing population and a crumbling
infrastructure. Its slums and many low-income
areas were now crawling with drug peddlers and
drug addicts and its lower-middle-class areas
taken-over by armed youth, patrolling the streets,
extorting money in the name of protecting the
areas from possible hostile infiltration by
members of ‘enemy ethnicities.’ Prosperity had
mutated into becoming paranoia.

Descent into chaos

A young MQM supporter wearing an Altaf Hussain

T-Shirt in Karachi’s Liaqatabad area (1989). When
the MQM swept the first post-Zia election in 1988
in Karachi, this was the first time (ever since the
city’s status as capital of Pakistan was withdrawn
in 1962) that its representatives became a direct
part of the government at the centre and in Sindh.
The PPP had been returned to power in the
election and it formed a coalition government with
the MQM.

Benazir and Asif Zardari meet Altaf Hussain in

1989 to form PPP-MQM coalition governments in
the centre and Sindh. The new government
struggled to come to grips with the shock that the
country’s economy and politics experienced after
generous hand-outs from the US and Saudi Arabia
began to dry out considerably at the end of the so-
called ‘anti-Soviet Afghan jihad.’

A Pajero belonging to a leader of a religious leader

in 1990 in Karachi: The cultural dynamics of the
society had been radically altered. Amoral and
cynical materialism nonchalantly ran in
conjunction with a two-fold rise in the need and
impulse to stridently exhibit ones ‘piety.’

Najeeb Ahmed – the Karachi President of the

PPP’s student-wing, the PSF – during a press
conference in 1990. He was killed in an armed
ambush: The permanent matter of Karachi’s ever-
growing population, depleting resources and
tensions between its various clustered ethnicities
soon triggered a wave of violence as MQM and the
PPP went to war in the streets and campuses of the
city. The violence in Karachi became the pretext of
the dismissal of Benazir Bhutto’s first regime and
the controversial election of Mian Nawaz Sharif as
the new prime minister in 1990.
Nawaz, Altaf and Jam Sadiq at a rally in Karachi in
1991: Sharif vowed to turn Karachi into an
economic hub again and for this he chose a former
PPP member, Jam Sadiq Ali, as Sindh’s new Chief
Minister. Jam had been a member of the PPP till
he was ousted by Benazir in 1986. Sharif used his
grudge against the PPP to undermine the party’s
influence in Sindh. In Karachi, Jam gave a free
hand to the MQM. Though MQM used this
opportunity to launch a number of developmental
projects in the city’s mohajir-majority areas, at the
same time it unleashed its activists against Jam’s
‘enemies’ (both real and imagined).
COAS General Asif Nawaz (left) and Nawaz Sharif
in Karachi in 1992: By 1992, with the country’s
economy still showing no signs of recovery, and
the corruption that first began to rear its head in
the 1980s was continuing to grow, Karachi now
truly looked like a crumbling city held hostage to
the whims and tantrums of the MQM-Jam nexus.
Alarmed by the situation, the military forced
Nawaz to launch an operation against extortionists
and MQM activists. Nawaz reluctantly agreed and
in 1992 the operation was launched.

Cops encircle a dead body of an MQM activist in

Karachi’s Burns Road area during the Govt-
Military operation in Karachi in 1992: Karachi
would see a total of three intense operations
against the MQM across the 1990s. This decade is
still said to be the most violent in the city’s history.
Hundreds of civilians, cops and members of
paramilitary forces lost their lives.

Pakistan playing against South Africa at Karachi’s

National Stadium during the 1996 Cricket World
Cup.

A pop concert at Karachi’s KMC Complex in 1996.

1996: By the end of the 1990s, the city’s
infrastructure had almost completely collapsed,
crippled by ethnic and political violence, strikes
and curfews. Major businesses began to move out
from the city, factories began to close down and
incidents of extra-judicial killings, revenge
murders, extortion and kidnapping became a
norm. Heaps of garbage dumps unattended for
months symbolised what had become of this once
‘Paris of Asia’ and a bastion of economic ingenuity.
The turmoil in the city finally came to a sudden
end when General Pervez Musharraf toppled the
second Nawaz Sharif government in 1999.

A brief interlude: The lights shine again

Musharraf distributing gifts to a child from one of
Karachi’s slum areas in 2003. This was the year
when the MQM regrouped and regenerated itself
and got into an alliance with the Musharraf
regime.

A fashion show being held at a Karachi hotel in

2003: In the first five years of his dictatorship,
Musharraf managed to inject a sense of stability.
Ethnic violence greatly receded, the economy
bolstered, and neo-liberal capitalist manoeuvres
strengthened the economic status of the middle-
classes.
Karachi’s Seaview area in 2004.

The mall by the sea: The city’s largest shopping

area, the Dolmen Mall, began being built during
the Musharraf regime.
Karachi’s massive Bin Qasim Park was completed
during the Musharraf era.

The Karachi Stock Exchange: During the first five

years of the Musharraf regime, Karachiites were
doing more business.
MQM’s Mustafa Kamal: As Mayor of Karachi
during the Musharraf regime, he was largely
successful in not only launching numerous
developmental and recreational projects in the
city, but also turned Karachi into a vibrant city
once again.

The bubble bursts

Karachi, May 12, 2007: Body of a young man lies

on a road. He was one of the many who died
during clashes between MQM, PPP and ANP
militants during Justice Iftikhar Chaudhry’s
aborted visit to Karachi. By 2007, the upbeat
economic and cultural disposition of the
Musharraf regime and its achievements began to
steadily crumble due to the gradual erosion and
rollback of the economy. In 2007, this polarisation
came out with a force when the economy began to
fold and a wave of angry religious conservatism
began to sweep the country. The regime came
under attack from two sides: A powerful political
movement (‘Lawyers Movement’) and the private
media outlets on the one side, and a more violent
and assertive brand of religious extremism on the
other. The MQM did not support the anti-
Musharraf movement.

The aftermath of a suicide bomb blast that targeted

the procession accompanying Benazir Bhutto on
Karachi’s Karsaz Road (2007). Dozens were killed
in the carnage. Though Benazir survived the
attack, she was finally taken out by terrorists in
December 2007 in Rawalpindi. The Karsaz attack
was also one of the first clear signs that banned
extremists/sectarian organisations had begun to
use Karachi as a base of their operations.

MQM supporters celebrate MQM’s victory in

Karachi during the 2008 election. The party
formed a coalition government with PPP and ANP
in the centre and Sindh.

Hell on Earth?

When the MQM was regenerating itself during the

Musharraf regime, it did not completely dismantle its
problematic wings – despite the fact that the party’s appeal
began to cut across all ethnic groups in Karachi during
Kamal’s mayorship.

However, by 2008, the growth in the city’s Pakhtun

population managed to give the Pakhtun nationalist party,
the ANP, a greater sense of power in Karachi. To ward off
the perceived threat from MQM and the growing tussle
between the city’s Mohajir and Pakhtun communities over
Karachi’s economic resources, ANP too decided to compete
with the MQM at its own game.
The PPP, the third major political power in the city already
had violent elements in its midst and even though all three
parties were in a coalition government, they often fought
for political and economic control of Karachi. Many
members of the parties’ wings also began getting involved
in major crimes, so much so that it became tough for even
their party bosses to rein them in.

The PPP tried to dismantle its wing but by then the wing
had already gotten embroiled in the vicious ‘gang wars’ in
Lyari. The gangs got involved in drug and gun running,
kidnappings, theft, muggings and ‘target killing.’ They
often fought one another and the police.

ANP’s wing was wiped out along with the party in the areas
where they enjoyed influence. This was not done by MQM
or PPP, but by various groups of extremist and sectarian
outfits that had begun to establish themselves in Karachi
from 2009 onwards. They right away got involved in the
many illegal activities and crimes that witnessed a
dramatic increase, making Karachi one of the most crime-
infested city in South Asia …
ANP’s Shahi Syed being welcomed by ANP
supporters outside Karachi’s Jinnah Airport. Syed
and ANP enjoyed a brief rise to power in Karachi
after the 2008 election but was brutally cut to size
by various extremist organisations that began to
infiltrate the Pakhtun-dominated areas of the city.

Rangers get hold of a trouble-maker in Lyari – an

area plagued by poverty and violent ‘gang wars.’
Though Lyari is a PPP strong-hold, action here was
approved by the PPP regime in Sindh.

Fire rages from a naval base in Karachi that was

attacked by extremists in 2012.
A Ranger’s van patrol one of Karachi’s many
sensitive areas.

Hoping for a better tomorrow: Women waiting to

cast their vote in Karachi during the 2013 election.
 Karachi is hard to love
Karachi has not always been a miserable place to live,
and it didn’t become one because of lack of planning.

Gulraiz Khan | Published June 14, 2022

Karachi is hard to love. Its treacherous seas tried to

devour Sanval, the husband of the city’s founding
matriarch, Kolachi . Its lush mangroves lured the city’s
first colonising fleet, only to disappoint as a “gloomy
portal of a desolate and uninteresting country”. Lady
Lloyd felt so sick during her stay that she had her husband
make a pier in Clifton that would take her, every evening,
as far away from the city as possible. TE Lawrence, of the
Lawrence of Arabia fame, was so unimpressed by the
“sorry place” that he barely ever left his garrison at Drigh
Road in a year and half of being posted here. Fehmida Riaz
wistfully longed for a liver firm enough to bear the city.
Perveen Shakir swore that it was “a whore”.

But Karachi is also hard to ignore. Shah Abdul Latif

bemoaned the city’s metaphorical whirlpools. “Whoever
goes to Kalachi, never comes back,” he lamented. Legions
of peripatetic saints, from the 7th to the 20th century,
made this unremarkable pitstop their home. One Pir,
Mangho, and at least seven Shahs — Abdullah, Ghaiban,
Hassan, Yousuf, Misri, Ali and Mewa — retired along the
sea and riverfront, like true city elites. Millions have
followed in their footsteps since, including my family, in
waves after waves. Today, anywhere between 15 to 20
million people, depending on who you ask, live here
precariously, suspended between the city’s promise and
peril.

This essay, and the accompanying set of maps, are not a

descriptive history of Karachi’s public transit or a
prescriptive proposal for its future. This is a story — of a
colonial hangover, a race to the bottom, a fever dream and
a future set right. It is a manifesto for a more accessible
and equitable city. It is an invitation for a conversation on
why we, the residents of Karachi, deserve better. If
nothing else, it is a reverie for a city that is not impossible
to love.

Prologue
Cities are abstractions — ideological, material, and social.
For all their shrines and temples and claims to divine
origins, they are essentially human: sites for flows of
people, their ideas, and goods. The more easily people,
goods and ideas can flow through, and within, a city, the
more successful they become. No one moves to a
stagnant or decaying town, no matter how beautiful the
landscape. Karachi’s prosperity and promise made it the
destination of choice for migrants not just from the
length and breadth of Pakistan, but from Iran and
Afghanistan to Sri Lanka and Bangladesh throughout the
latter half of the 20th century.

After the shock of partition, where the population

swelled from 400,000 in 1941 to a million in 1950,
Karachi galloped at an average growth rate of around five
per cent for the next 50 years. At the turn of the century,
in the year 2000, the city clocked in roughly 10m
residents. In this half century, Karachi was to south and
west Asia what New York was to a war-torn Europe in the
first half of the 20th century. From 1890 to 1945, the
newly consolidated New York City grew from a regional
powerhouse of 1.5m residents to a 7.5m strong global
metropolis. Despite this similarity in population growth,
their trajectories could not have been more different.
New York harnessed this half century of migration to
become a global financial capital. Karachi squandered this
opportunity and ended up being an inglorious regional
backwater.

In 1948, the two cities briefly collided in a fortuitous and

almost foretelling encounter. Ghulam Ali Allana, the first
mayor of independent Karachi, visited New York during a
larger official visit that he documented in a travelogue.
Like a fish out of water, he was unable to grasp the
complexity of post-war, diverse, eclectic New York. With
all the energy of a middle-aged, privileged Pakistani man,
he was most impressed by Times Square and the
synchronised traffic lights, and hoped to bring the latter
to Karachi. The city’s lifeline and engineering marvel, the
subway, merely got a passing mention . A perceptive
administrator may have picked up on the transformative
power of rapid mobility. Allana however took taxis
everywhere as he uncritically navigated New York’s
youthful post-war exuberance. By the time his trip ended,
it was painfully obvious that Karachi and New York exist
in two wildly divergent worlds and will continue to in the
foreseeable future.

Colonial hangover
When the first post-partition migrants arrived in the early
1950s, Karachi was the city worth moving to. The city had
a centuries-long maritime tradition, cemented by the
thriving seaport, an airport and rail connections to up-
country. There were robust municipal services, public
transport, and an air of cosmopolitanism. A 1930 colonial
town planning consultant’s report termed Karachi “one
of the cleanest and best kept cities … in India”.

The shock of partition was still raw, and the bulk of the
city’s non-Muslim population had left. Their markers,
however, were aplenty. Standing at Eidgah on Bandar
Road and looking south through the dust-specked late
afternoon light, the domes and spires of municipal
buildings, commercial offices, clock towers and public
halls, the shikhara of the Swaminarayan Temple and the
tapered minarets of New Memon Masjid must have been
both a spectre and a spectacle. It left an indelible mark on
at least one immigrant from Hyderabad Deccan, Ahmed
Rushdi, whose preppy song “Bandar Road se Keamari”
would immortalise the road and jumpstart Rushdi’s
career as a playback singer.

While Rushdie set out in his horse-drawn carriage,

Bandar Road bustled as the spine of the country’s only
urban transit system. Sixty-four petrol-powered trams
shuttled citizens from Cantt and Soldier Bazar to Saddar,
and down Bandar Road all the way to Keamari, all for an
anna. A branch line from Gandhi Garden along Lawrence
Road brought residents of the old, dense quarters —
Bhimpura, Chakiwara, Ramswamy, Ranchore Lines — all
the way down to the boisterous Boulton Market junction.
In 1949, the East India Tramway Company was sold to a
Karachi merchant, Sheikh Mohamedali, and became the
Mohamedali Tramways Company.

Karachi in the 1950s was a dense, multi-ethnic, multi-

class city, and both my sets of grandparents set roots in
close proximity to Bandar Road and Cantt Station. It was
a worthy capital of this new country and the energy was
palpable. The city was bursting at its colonial seams, and
foreign consultants had been summoned to develop a
Greater Karachi Plan to accommodate the influx of
migrants and the demands of a new capital. A 1952
masterplan plan by a consortium of British and Swedish
firms, Merz Rendel Vatten (Pakistan) (MRVP), expected
Karachi to treble in population to 3m by the year 2000.
The Report on Greater Karachi Plan consolidated the
primacy of Bandar Road and extended the administrative
centre of the capital further north-east along the same
axis. For future growth, it proposed dense, self-sustaining
satellite spurts, in all four directions, all connected by a
robust light rail public transport system and
supplemented by rapid and local buses. In comparison,
mass transit did not feature in any of Lahore’s
masterplans until the 1990s.
The exuberance, however, was short-lived. The capital
was shifted to the north, and the rug was pulled from
under the aspirations of the 1952 MRVP plan. Instead,
irked by the presence of refugees in the city centre, the
martial law administration commissioned a Greater
Karachi Resettlement Plan in 1956, this time by a Greek
firm Doxiadis Associates (DA). The firm proposed two
satellite townships, Landhi-Korangi in the east and New
Karachi in the north. Dictator Ayub Khan, desperate for
visible signs of progress, ran with the idea of Korangi
before DA could even finish the detailed plans, and built
15,000 houses by 1959. But once the dust settled, there
was little of the promised industry to support the
residents and the Korangi dream started falling apart as
quickly as it had been conjured into being.

Before the lights went out though, Karachi experienced a

flash of public work brilliance the likes of which it will not
see for decades. The city built the country’s first urban rail
transit system, the Karachi Circular Railway (KCR), a
scaled-down version of the local railway system proposed
in the MRVP Plan of 1952. It was initially launched for
goods and limited internal service in 1964 but, when the
loop was completed in 1969 and service was opened to
the public, it was an instant hit. Ridership soared almost
immediately. At its peak, over a hundred trains would
shuttle people constantly across the loop and main line
of the KCR.

It was an urban marvel, both in its essence (rapid mobility

for everyone) and ambition (a well-connected, growing
city), but unfortunately it arrived at the wrong place, at
the wrong time. Globally, the private automobile was
ascendant and cities were rapidly reconfiguring
themselves to accommodate this new beast. Under
Robert Moses, New York had been shaped in the image of
the automobile — highways running down the east and
west coast of Manhattan, connected to bridges strung
over the East River to Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx.
The impact was not limited to private transport only.
After a 30-year building spree, subway construction in
New York City came to a halt and the dense network of
electrified streetcar lines connecting Brooklyn to Queens
was replaced by a fleet of buses. Rail-based public
transport will take a back seat for some time now.
Karachi’s tram network was a casualty of this broader
shift in mobility patterns. Under local ownership, the
system was unable to keep up with the city’s growing
demand and shifting dynamics. Maintenance was poor, as
reported by concerned citizens, and while the number of
trams had increased significantly, not a mile had been
added to the system even as the city had rapidly grown all
around it. Increasing automobile traffic led to congestion
along tram routes and the trams were routinely involved
in accidents. The local administration shifted its focus to
buses, in line with global trends. In April 1975, exactly 90
years after it first opened to service, the Mohamedali
Tramways Company which had been chugging along
privately since 1949 unceremoniously shut down.

This was the city that the second wave of migrants

arrived at, from a now-independent Bangladesh. The
centre was crowded, so they camped at Orangi. The state
turned a blind eye to their needs. The city had already
crossed the 3m mark in 1970 before their arrival. Seven
years of the Bhutto government and rapid nationalisation
of industries, an inordinate proportion of which were
based in Karachi, brought more migrants from within the
country. The population swelled to 5m before the decade
was over.

The music had stopped playing and the party was

beginning to end, but you couldn’t tell above the feverish
din of the decade’s popular politics.

Race to the bottom

Shifting demographics and simmering grievances created
ethnic flashpoints that blew into a full-scale multi-ethnic
conflict in the 1980s. The third wave of migration, from
neighbouring Afghanistan, added a new dimension and
plenty of ammunition to the conflict. When a young
woman, Bushra Zaidi, was run over by a minibus in
Nazimabad in 1985, it hardly mattered what the ethnicity
of the bus driver was. The bus was burnt, riots ensued,
and the city was charred . Altaf Hussain rose from the
ashes of popular grievances and captured the imagination
of the city’s Urdu-speaking residents. His party and
workers were beaten to a pulp in the early 90s, but his
iron grip over the city persisted. For decades, he would be
able to shut down the city in minutes, over a croaky,
scratchy phone call from London.

When my parents married in 1984, they moved out to an

apartment in Shadman Town on the northern edge of
North Nazimabad. My father wanted to start fresh, with
some breathing space. But after a few months of a
frustrating daily commute to Chundrigar Road and back,
they packed up and moved back into an apartment in
Lighthouse, off Bandar Road, close to my father’s work
and extended family. In the mid 90s, we moved to another
apartment in Araam Bagh which was fairly unremarkable
except, while I was growing up, it gave us an unenviable
front-seat to Altaf Hussain’s phone calls that were
broadcast in the Araam Bagh mosque grounds late into
the nights.

The 90s were a blur of military operations, shutter-down

strikes, targeted killings, and bodies in gunny sacks. The
ethnic strife boiled over and sectarian groups jumped in,
adding a religious zeal to this macabre ballet. Against this
bonfire, the city literally came to a grinding halt. A few
seminal events in this period from the mid-80s to 2000
would transform urban mobility for the worse and bring
Karachi to the brink.

After several failed attempts to run a bus-based mass

transit system, the provincial government deregulated
and privatised public transport. What this basically
translated into was that the transport department would
only issue route permits, after some palm greasing, and
look the other way. Private transporters, backed by loan
sharks, snapped up permits as public transport was
ghettoised along ethnic lines. During strikes, the
minibuses were the first to be torched. This deregulated
transport model was eminently unsustainable, and the
number of buses plummeted as the quality of service and
vehicles nosedived. It was a race to the bottom, but with
the kitsch amped up.

For all the initial enthusiasm, the Karachi Circular

Railway started losing steam soon enough. There was a
constellation of reasons cited for its decline: fare
evasion leading to financial losses, reduced service
frequency, competition from private buses and rickshaws,
lack of integration with other public transit modes, lack of
investment for upgrades, lack of interest from the
military regime, dilapidation, petty crime and so on. The
system declined steadily through the 1980s and in
December 1999, a mere 30 years after it first opened to
the public, the Karachi Circular Railway was packed up
completely. That probably qualified it for the dubious
distinction of being the shortest-lived mass transit
system in global urban transit history.

But these challenges were only for the city’s millions of

poor. For the handful of rich, a new era was about to dawn
where their mobility needs would trump everyone else’s.
The city built its first flyovers — at Drigh Road,
Nazimabad, and NIPA. Earlier, bridges were built over
bodies of water and railway lines to overcome natural or
man-made obstructions to the flow of all traffic. These
new bridges, or flyovers, were built to overcome the
congestion caused by automobiles themselves. They were
monuments to, and for the explicit facilitation of, private
automobiles. It was the beginning of the erosion of the
city.

Throughout the 1990s, several plans for mobility

corridors in a vastly expanded city were drawn and even
officially notified, but the exorbitant price tags and
political instability meant the plans never left the papers
they were printed on. They did, however, form the
backbone of all future transit plans, decades later. Karachi
topped 10m in population, at probably the most
precarious point in its recorded history, as it limped into
the new millennium.

Fever dream
9/11 thrust Karachi as a transit node in the global war on
terror. As the region’s largest seaport, Karachi had little
choice but to bend over for American and Nato military
supplies headed to the Afghan war theatre. Driven
primarily by this logistical need, General Pervez
Musharraf decided to micromanage Karachi through
federal agencies and two rounds of hand-picked local
governments. Armed with a shovel and a blank
chequebook, Karachi was about to get a total facelift.

It started innocuously enough with a Rs29 billion

“Tameer-e-Karachi Package ”, a much-needed
investment in the city’s infrastructure after decades of
neglect. A flyover here and a bridge there to ease traffic
congestion. Parks. Sewage lines. But it wasn’t long before
the steroids kicked in. Signal-free corridors rolled off
everyone’s tongues. SITE to Karsaz. Surjani to Drigh
Road. Saddar to Toll Plaza. Metropole to Malir. Northern
Bypass. Southern Bypass. Lyari Expressway. Flyovers on
Underpasses. Flyovers on flyovers. Dinosaur sculptures
in city parks and traffic medians. Conocarpus trees all
around.
For the first decade of the new century, Karachi was a
fever dream, fuelled by cheap consumer loans,
“enlightened moderation”, a “benevolent dictator”, and a
“representative, empowered” city government. All this
road building was not for nothing. The number of
registered cars in Karachi doubled : from a million in
2004 to over 2m in 2011. The number of motorcycles
trebled: from 400,000 to over a million. Except for a few
dozen deep green Swedish buses, and outlandish MOUs
with obscure foreign companies for monorails and
Maglev trains, there was no work or investment in public
transport. Karachi was being definitively shaped in the
image of the automobile.

Our family was caught up in this euphoria too. My father

was able to take a home loan from his bank, and we moved
out from Aram Bagh to a more spacious apartment in
PECHS. A car followed, and so did a handful of credit
cards. We had cheap money, and a car to go around and
spend it. We shopped at Park Towers and dined out at
Zamzama. It was all heady until he had to take an early
retirement, in 2009, and spent half his retirement funds
to pay off the maxed-out credit cards.

When Musharraf departed in 2008, the elected PPP

government threw out the local government baby with
the dictatorship bathwater. The locus of decision-making
shifted, but not the development direction. The PPP took
a leaf out of the MQM and Musharraf book and plunged
head-first into building roads and bridges and
underpasses. In the world of electoral politics and public
works spectacle, it made sense. For instance, few city
arteries have received as much love from politicians and
administrators over the last two decades as the 15 km-
long Shahrah-i-Faisal: eight flyovers, two underpasses,
two remodels of older bridges, and an overall widening
project. That’s 13 foundation laying ceremonies and 13
ribbon cutting ceremonies. Twenty-six public work
spectacles for political mileage. Each flyover or underpass
takes three to six months to complete. The total rupee
cost of this two-decade-long serial spectacle: about Rs5.4
billion. Adjusted for inflation: roughly Rs10bn. Political
mileage: priceless.

Compare this to the proposed transit projects. The Green

Line BRT will probably finish at around Rs30bn. The
KCR, when last checked with the Japanese who
completed a detailed feasibility in 2012, was going to
cost over $2.5bn. That’s Rs425bn today. The Red and
Yellow Lines, loans for which have been secured from the
ADB and World Bank, will each cost roughly $500m.
Each. And if the current execution capacity is any
indication, each of these projects will take upwards of six
years to complete. What is the 2021-22 budgeted
development allocation for the Sindh government’s
transport department? A paltry Rs8bn. The city’s needs
do not match its fiscal, electoral, and administrative
reality. The provincial government knows the best they
can realistically do right now is a flyover here and an
underpass there, while keeping the political-builder gravy
train running. There is no appetite, or aspiration, for
anything more ambitious. Why take a political risk?

Pakistan's sick man

It seems avoidable until you can taste the despair —
brackish — at the back of your throat.

Karachi’s days of preeminence as Pakistan’s most vibrant

and diverse metropolis, and an economic juggernaut, are
numbered. The reckoning came in the 2017 census .
Karachi’s population growth rate has slowed down over
the decades, which is not surprising given that this
usually happens as income levels rise. It’s a global pattern.
What was surprising to most observers though was that
this was only true for Karachi. Lahore, Islamabad, and a
host of other cities have been growing much faster than
Karachi.

Some observers chalked this to statistical errors , or

deliberate undercounting of the city’s migrants, but it
should not have been all that surprising.

What hubris was it to think that decades of divestment,

violence, and plummeting quality of life would not make
Karachi an undesirable place to live? The signs have been
all around. The World Bank’s City Diagnostic Report
looked at night-time light intensity, along with data on
labour productivity and economic growth, and argued
that there is evidence that “Karachi’s economic growth
may have stalled” from 2004 onwards.

The dimming lights in the city’s core point to reduced

economic activity, corroborated by declining rates of
labour productivity when compared to the rest of the
country. The city is still big and growing, but it’s not
growing qualitatively. The report argues that the city is
losing competitiveness, especially in manufacturing, and
there is a definitive shift from formal, high-productivity
jobs to low-productivity informal work across industries.
This is again corroborated by the speculative property
and construction boom, especially at the periphery of the
city, where night-time light intensity has grown and
where low-wage, low-skill labour is employed. The report
also highlights extremely low female labour force
participation, driven, among other things, by “inadequate,
unreliable, and unsafe public transport for women”.

The provincial government, meanwhile, has little to show

in improved governance and municipal services for its
decade of absolute control over Karachi. The city
consistently bottoms out on global Quality of Living
indices. Are we surprised that all the investment in signal-
free corridors did not make Karachi a more livable, vibrant
and desirable city? Who could have predicted that
destroying the city’s public transport infrastructure
wouldn’t just hamper poor people’s mobility, but would
eventually slow down the city’s economic engine?
Restoring Karachi to health requires, at the foremost,
restoring flow for millions of its residents and their
goods, quickly, cheaply, and strategically. The city needs a
blueprint for its final act. Fortunately, it already has one.

A Karachi Transport Improvement Project 2030 study

by JICA built on the mass transit corridors proposed by
the ADB in 1995 and suggested a revival of the Karachi
Circular Railway, supplemented by eight bus and rail-
based rapid transit lines. By the time the study was made
public, Punjab Chief Minister Shehbaz Sharif has already
built the country’s first Bus Rapid Transit line, the
MetroBus, in Lahore and started work on the Orange Line
Metro Train. The Sindh government takes the JICA plan
to donors and agencies, but the only money that comes
through is from the Nawaz-led federal government that
dropped Rs15 bn in the bank and kickstarted the building
of the 35-kilometre long Green Line BRT in 2016. Red-
faced, the Sindh government coughed up enough money
to add a small 4-kilometre appendage, the Orange Line.

It’s been five years, and both those corridors are yet to
open. Shehbaz Sharif, meanwhile, built BRTs in
Rawalpindi-Islamabad and Multan, and his Orange Line
trains, despite court cases and delay tactics by opponents,
rolled onto the tracks in October 2020. Even Peshawar
managed to launch its scandal-prone BRT. All this while,
from Gurumandir to Surjani, Karachi residents wistfully
look out from their apartment balconies at the almost
complete tracks and dust-covered stations of the Green
Line, wondering when (or if) they will get to use it. What is
also gathering dust is Karachi’s future, and its continued
existence as a significant city. Pakistan’s sick man is
terminally ill.
Fortunately, cities are an abstraction. A human construct.
Karachi can, and should, be revived, and there could not
be a more opportune moment. The next 25 years are
symbolically significant. Eight years from now, in 2029,
Karachi will celebrate the third centennial of its founding
as a native fort. A decade after, in 2039, the second
centennial of its declaration as a modern port city. Eight
years after, in 2047, the city will mark the first centennial
as the workhorse of a post-colonial, independent nation.
Will Karachi make it to 2047? Will we have a city worth
living in, let alone one worth celebrating? What follows
from here, is pure fiction.
Tripping over the last mile
The Green and Orange Lines opens to much fanfare in
early 2022, albeit six years too late. Karachi finally has
good quality public transport, 23 years after the last one,
KCR, shut down. Hassan Raheem and Talal Qureshi shoot
a music video on it, and it’s a total bop. Pakistan’s largest
bank wraps every square-inch of available surface on the
stations in its corporate colours, supporting the project
and promoting PSL 8.

The enthusiasm is short-lived though. Ridership is

limited, and the impact on congestion imperceptible.
Traffic still snarls every evening at Patel Para and
Golimar. This isn’t surprising. People don’t change their
mobility patterns overnight. It took decades for people to
shift to motorbikes and shape their lives around it. They
are not going to give it up because a 39-kilometre corridor
has opened in a city with over 10,000 kilometres of roads.
Meanwhile, ground has broken on construction of the Red
and Yellow lines, and the digging up of University and
Korangi roads is causing hours-long bumper-to-bumper
traffic jams. The projects threaten to become a political
liability for the provincial government, right around the
election year. The routinely meddling and perennially
anti-poor Supreme Court takes suo moto notice.

How does the government justify the exorbitant cost of

the project and a continued subsidy to the tune of Rs2 bn
per year, given low ridership and continued congestion?
More importantly, on what grounds does it justify taking
foreign loans worth $1 bn for the Red and Yellow BRTs?
The BRTs are a costly public nuisance, and why should
they not be shut down and dismantled immediately?
There is, after all, a precedent for this in Delhi, where
the BRT was dismantled in 2016, eight years after it was
opened, after public pressure and a court case which
argued that the badly designed and implemented BRT
worsened the traffic conditions.

The provincial government fumbles before the court’s

questioning, but fortunately for the people of Karachi,
Arif Hasan is around. Pensively hunched over in his
trademark safari suit, Arif looks up unamused and, in his
authoritative voice, says the one thing he has repeatedly
said for decades: transit corridors need to be rezoned for
high density, with provision for low-income residents. If
the people who will use the buses cannot live and work
close to it, why would anyone use it at all? This logic is
simple and universal but has eluded Pakistani politicians
and policy makers across provinces: Shehbaz never
rezoned the Lahore Metrobus or the Orange Line corridor.
To this day, PTI tries to run the project to the ground on
Twitter, citing low ridership. At home in Peshawar, the
PTI provincial government faces the same accusation
when it comes to the Peshawar BRT. The Zu bikes across
Hayatabad are fun, but not a scalable last mile solution.

Last mile connectivity is a serious challenge for trunk

transit projects. Without feeder services and deliberate
rezoning, these projects become white elephants, and a
drag on scarce public resources. The time to rezone is not
after the project is completed, but when the route is
finalised and the construction begins. Incentivised by
better connectivity and available space, businesses will
move closer to major transit nodes first. People will
follow suit, living close to stations along the corridor. The
shift happens over years, if not decades.

The provincial government is forced, against its will, to

table a bill rezoning the Green, Yellow, Orange and Red
Line corridors. There is much arm-twisting behind the
scenes. Federal agencies and cantonment boards are now
legally bound to give up un- or under-utilised land along
the transit corridors. They won’t give it up without a fight.
The provincial government finds itself between the devil
and the deep blue sea. The Red and Yellow Lines finish in
2029, five years behind schedule and billions of rupees
over budget. They are jointly opened at the 300-year
celebration of Karachi’s founding as a native fort, Kolachi.
It is now possible to go from Surjani to Landhi, or from
Korangi to Orangi, quickly, affordably, and with one’s
dignity intact.

Ephemeral infrastructure
It is 2030 and images of flooded subway stations from
across the world are a recurring feature on the news cycle.
As cities everywhere grapple with more frequent
hurricanes, storms, and heavy downpours, they struggle
to keep their underground public transit infrastructure
dry. The global opinion on large, fixed infrastructure is
shifting, much like it shifted on large dams a few decades
ago. Multilateral agencies, such as ADB and the World
Bank, have pulled the plug on all such investments.
Without foreign funding, the Blue, Brown, Aqua, Purple
and Silver Lines are non-starters.
Rahul Mehrotra, Chair of the Department of Urban
Planning and Design at the Graduate School of Design at
Harvard, had published a book titled Ephemeral
Urbanisms in 2017, exploring uncertainty and
ephemerality in the context of planning. He cites the
example of the world’s largest human gathering, the
Kumbh Mela, for which a city of 100m people in the
Ganges floodplain is assembled, inhabited, and then
dismantled, all within the space of five months, once
every 12 years. The idea of dynamic and ephemeral, as
opposed to static and fixed, infrastructure takes on a fresh
urgency in this climate ravaged world.

In the face of increasing demand following the success of

rezoned Green and Red corridors, and limited fiscal
capacity, the provincial government in Karachi is forced to
innovate. They convert the remaining BRT corridors into
busways, an experiment pioneered on the 14th Street in
New York City a decade ago. High quality buses travel in
marked lanes along existing roads, separated from the
remaining traffic by plastic bollards. Instead of
concretised grade separation that earned BRTs their
moniker “jangla bus”, busways are enforced through
traffic cameras and good old Karachi Traffic Police
officers, now with their NFC-enabled mobile challan
devices for pesky bus lane violators. Stations are pre-cast
and modular, and can be shifted along the corridor if
required. There are no more flyovers and underpasses at
every intersection. Priority signalling allows buses
through, while holding back turning traffic. With the hard,
civil infrastructure removed, project costs plummet, and
execution takes a few months, rather than years.
The provincial government takes a Minimum Viable
Product (MVP) approach, used for decades in digital
product development, to public infrastructure.

They test out the first MVP on the extensions of the

Green and Orange Lines. It is a hit. They scale it up to the
extensions of Blue Line and the Common Corridor, before
going back to the drawing board to redesign the Brown,
Aqua, Pink and Purple lines as ephemeral transitways.
The work is groundbreaking, and for the first time,
Karachi is noticed in global urban conversations as an
innovative leader.

In 2039, Karachi has built nine of the ten transit corridors

proposed in the JICA plan. The only one missing is the
Circular Railway. Density within the city swells, as
corridors are rezoned and people move closer to stations.
The city is much more livable than it has been in decades.

Karachi consolidated
Karachi Circular Railway continues to be a non-starter.
The wrestling between federal and provincial
governments over ownership of the land has made it a
toxic project for any funding, even from lenders of the last
resort — the local banks. The transit corridor rezoning bill
has been a thorn in the sides of the city’s various
landowning agencies. It started with the pesky
progressives, but the centrist and centre-right parties are
also jumping onto the bandwagon. Popular opinion has
shifted. Karachi’s fragmented governance problem can no
longer be brushed under the carpet.
To build and rehabilitate large scale infrastructure,
including water, sewage and garbage collection, the city’s
governance needs to be consolidated under a single
authority, much like it was done in the case of New York
in 1898.

It’s an old demand but is now reaching a crescendo. Land-

owning agencies, including cantonments, need to forfeit
their municipal functions within defined city limits. The
battle is dirty, drawn out, and mostly behind the scenes.
Provincial governments collapse frequently. There is a
stalemate, and a compromise is brokered by the city’s
financiers and industrialists who have much to gain from
this shake up.

On January 1, 2040, Karachi, Clifton and Faisal

Cantonments are decommissioned, as had been
recommended in the city’s first masterplan by MRVP,
and handed over to civil administration. Malir Cantt is
merged with DHA City and incorporated as a new
satellite city, administered by retired brigadiers. They’re
all too happy to leave the swampy peninsula in the south
anyway. The navy keeps strategic locations along the
coast and returns the rest for public development. A ferry
service has started, with stops along Hawkes Bay,
Sandspit, Manora, Keamari, Boat Basin, Clifton, Sea View,
Do Darya, Gizri Creek and Ibrahim Hyderi. Millions in the
city by the sea can finally easily embrace the sea. It is
possible to go to Hawkes Bay from a ferry station in
Clifton, without driving through the loaded trucks on the
cratered Mauripur Road.
Bahria Town, meanwhile, has defaulted on its Rs456bn
fine to the Supreme Court and has been annexed by the
Greater Karachi Metropolitan Authority. The arc of the
moral universe was long, but it bent north of the Super
Highway.

The KCR revival is the first test of city-province

partnership under this new consolidated arrangement.
After a few initial hiccups, the project gets underway in
2042. The timeline is tight, but monumental. There can be
no slippages.

The Karachi Circular Railway re-opens on August 14,

2047. I’m almost 60 and live in the PECHS apartment that
we moved into in the early 2000s. Late afternoon, when
the sun goes down a bit and the inauguration crowds have
thinned, I walk down to the Chanesar Halt station and
take my first ride south to Tower. There is a fresh train
smell and hum, and the articulated electric carriage
snakes south on dedicated tracks. I get off at the
cavernous Tower station. I walk out, cross the road,
passing by Merewether Tower, and look up the glorious
Bandar Road in the dust-speckled golden light. Karachi is
hard to love, but not impossible if you try.

Header illustrations: Shutterstock.com

This article was originally published in the research

journal Hybrid by IVS and has been reproduced here
with permission. The original text can be accessed here:
Karachi is hard to love
 SIND REVISITED
WITH NOTICES OF THE ANGLO-INDIAN ARMY; RAILROADS; PAST,
PRESENT, AND FUTURE, ETC.

BY
RICHARD F. BURTON.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I. & II (Combined)

Originally Published in 1877.

Reproduced by
Sani H. Panhwar (2024)
 CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.
MR. JOHN BULL AND I LAND AT BOMBAY—THE "SEASON" AT THE
PRESIDENCY—TRAVELLING TO SIND IN THE OLD DAY AND IN THE NEW
DAY—THE VOYAGE .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 1

CHAPTER II.
WE MAKE KARÁCHI—FIRST GLIMPSE AT THE "UNHAPPY VALLEY"—NATIVE
TOWN, ANCIENT AND MODERN .. .. .. .. .. .. 14

CHAPTER III.
THE CANTONMENT, KARACHI, AND ITS "HUMOURS"—THE ANGLO-INDIAN
ARMY "ROTTEN FROM HEAD TO FOOT "—SOCIETY AND POLITICS .. 25

CHAPTER IV.
CLIFTON GHISRI BANDAR—THE ALLIGATOR-TANK .. .. .. 40

CHAPTER V.
THE MARCH FROM KARÁCHI—THE MEMORY OF THE VERY
PRETTY PERSIAN GIRL .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 52

CHAPTER VI.
THE LEGEND OF BAMBRÁ, THE RUIN—SINDIA DESERTA, THE FAREWELL
ORDER OF A COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF, AND THE CAMEL-RIDE .. 62

CHAPTER VII.
THATHA AND ITS HOLY HILL .. .. .. .. .. .. 72

CHAPTER VIII.
THE CAPTURE OF THATHA IN THE OLDEN TIME .. .. .. 84

CHAPTER IX.
SHAYKH RÁDHAN—FEVERS—THE HOWLING WASTE .. .. 90

CHAPTER X.
THE SEVEN HEADLESS PROPHETS .. .. .. .. .. .. 100

CHAPTER XI.
SUNDAN AND JARAK—BUDHIST REMAINS .. .. .. .. 110
 CHAPTER XII.
KOTRI—THE RUINED INTRENCHED CAMP—THE TWO ROADS TO
HAYDARÁBÁD .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 119

CHAPTER XIII.
HAYDARÁBÁD FORT—TOMBS AND TOWN .. .. .. .. 127

CHAPTER XIV.
THE HINDUS OF SIND—THEIR RASCALITY AND THEIR
PHILOPROGENITIVENESS .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 138

CHAPTER XV.
THE SINDI MAN—HIS CHARACTER, AND ESPECIALLY
WHAT HE DRINKS .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 151

CHAPTER XVI.
THE SINDI WOMAN—ESPECIALLY HER PERSON AND DRESS .. .. 162

CHAPTER XVII.
LECTURES AND PREACHMENTS .. .. .. .. .. .. 175

CHAPTER XVIII.
WE PREPARE TO QUIT HAYDERÁBÁD .. .. .. .. .. 186

CHAPTER XIX.
REFLECTIONS ON THE FIELD OF MIYÁNI .. .. .. .. .. 191

CHAPTER XX.
DOWN THE PHULÉLI RIVER TO SUDDERAN'S
COLUMN—THE STEP-MOTHER .. .. .. .. .. .. 206

CHAPTER XXI.
A RIDE TO MIR IBRÁHÍM KHAN TALPUR'S VILLAGE .. .. .. 219

CHAPTER XXII.
MIR IBRÁHÍM KHAN TALPUR .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 228

CHAPTER XXIII.
A BELOCH DINNER AND TEA PARTY .. .. .. .. .. 239
 CHAPTER XXIV.
THE MIMOSA BAND; ITS GIANT FACE—SINDIA
PETREA—THE BELOCH MUSE .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 250

CHAPTER XXV.
THE LAKKÍ PASS, AND ITS EVIL SPIRIT—SEHWAN, ITS
BEGGARS AND ITS "ALEXANDER'S CAMP" .. .. .. .. .. 262

CHAPTER XXVI.
LAKE MANCHAR—SANITARIA—LÁRKHÁNA THE PRETTY, AND
MAHTAB, THE DONNA OF LARKHÁNÁ .. .. .. .. .. 275

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE PICTURESQUE "SAKHAR, BAKAR, ROHRI " .. .. .. .. 283

CHAPTER XXVIII.
SHIKÁRPUR—ITS BÁZÁR—ITS HINDÚS, AND ITS FUTURE .. .. 295

CHAPTER XXIX.
SIBI, OR SIWI (NORTHERN SIND)—DURRÁNI HEROISM—THE
DYKE OF AROR—SENTIMENT .. .. .. .. .. .. 306

CHAPTER XXX.
THE RETURN—DOWN THE INDUS TO KOTRI .. .. .. .. 315

CHAPTER XXXI.
THE RAILWAY—RETURN TO KARACHI—FINAL REFLECTIONS—
SIND MARRIED TO THE PANJAB—SHORT ADIEUX .. .. .. 330
 CHAPTER II.

WE MAKE KARACHI—FIRST GLIMPSE AT THE "UN-HAPPY VALLEY"—

NATIVE TOWN, ANCIENT AND MODERN.

"WELL, I never!"

"Of course not, sir. No one-man, woman, or child-ever sighted for the first time the face
of Young Egypt" without some such exclamation.

"Oh, the barren, barren shore! A regular desert; a thread of low coast, sandy as a
Scotchman's whiskers; a bald and dismal glaring waste, with visible and palpable heat
playing over its dirty-white, dirty-yellow, and dirty-brown surface; a get between a
dust-bin and an oven!"

Too severe! You were not so hard upon Ramleh, near Alexandria; and you will like the
look of Karachi better when you prospect it from above. Here, if anywhere, Sind has
some elements of the picturesque. Westward rise the broken, jagged summits of the
Kohistán or Mountain-land, the Pabb Hills and other outliers of Belochistán. Their
sterile walls are said to imprison lovely valleys; but sanitarium-lacking Karáchi will
neglect them because she is ever looking forward to Kelát. These southernmost
ramifications of the Kirthár Mountains,3 formerly called the Hálá Hills, end in the
straight dorsum known as Cape Monz (Muári); and nearer to us stretches the rocky
tongue which, for want of another name, we must baptize "Pír Mangyár." In early
morning, when Surya, the Sun-god, is striving against Megha-Rajah, the Cloud-king,
you will see some fantastic effects of colouring. Within a few yards, yon cloud-shadows
tincture the detached features of our two parallel ranges with every shade of blue, blue-
brown, plum, amethyst, and turquoise-blue, while the distant peaks and crags lie, rose-
tipped and flushing with renewed life, against the milky cerulean sky. Now the warm
rays fall upon the fawn-coloured masses of nummulite; then the distant forms of the
sky-line appear almost transparent and aerial, as if melting into the upper vault. Turn
eastward, and you have the flat Valley of the Indus, a luxuriant green level, blue-glazed
by the intervening air. And throughout Sind you will ever see this contrast of the desert
and the fertile land; of Osiris sitting side by side with his mortal brother-foe-the ass-
headed Set Typhon, god of the rock.

The charms, however, are purely atmospheric, and, as usual here, noon will wash all
the colouring out of the uniform, glaring, white-hot view. We must be grateful for small
mercies throughout these latitudes of the nearer East. Syria was a land flowing with
milk and honey only in the days before Italy and Southern France were made by man.

3
T heGazetteerhas"Khirthár;"andtheeditorof"S tray Feathers"(1873),"Kitár:"Ifollow M r.W .T .Blanford.

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When I went home on "sick leave," after a voyage round the Cape in the stout teak-built
ship Eliza, which, despite her sixty years, deposited me safely at Plymouth, the pilot-
boat contained an old and "faithful servant" from Central Asia, accompanying his
master to the land of the pork-eater.

"Allah, Allah!" ejaculated Allahdád, as he caught sight of the city, and the turfy hills,
and the wooded parks, and the pretty seats round about the place with the breakwater;
"what manner of men must you Feringhis be, that leave such a Bihisht (paradise), and
travel to such Jahíms (pandemoniums) as ours, without manacles and the persuasion of
the chob (bastinado)!"

And note the change, with the assistance of the "Harbour Improvements" and its map,
the work of Mr. Superintendent W. H. Price. A quarter of a century ago we lay at
anchor outside the bar till the pilot-boats chose to put off. A long billowy sea, blue
tipped with white, swept directly into the narrow rock-girt jaw of the so-called port,
which was more open and dangerous than the Eunostus of Alexandria in A.D. 1800.
You rolled to such an extent that, if you liked the diversion, you could run from one
side of the quarter-deck to the other, each time dipping your fingers in the brine. When
disembarking sepoys, we generally expected some such terse report as—

"Rámji Náik drowned, Sá'b!"

Sometimes we had a little fun in superintending the disembarkation of the stout major,
the stouter major's "lady," and the old black Ayah or Abigail, the stoutest of the trio. The
latter would stick to the ladder, cling to the rope, and fearfully scan the insolent
breakers that now bedewed her extensive display of leg, and then sank into a yawning
abyss, deep in the centre of which lay her boat. Presently, with the aid of an impulse à
tergo, she was rolled down into the "Bátelo," as it rose quivering upon the crest of an
angry wave. She tumbled rotunda as a hedgehog, if not teres, fixed her claws in the pile
of logs and boxes, pulled the veil over her modest head, and renewed the usual series of
outrageous assertions concerning the legitimacy of the boatmen and the general moral
conduct of their feminine relatives. At times, also, one of the shore-boats, weary of
waiting, would make a deliberate attempt to escape; and the marine on guard would
send a bullet whistling through the sail, so very close to the sailors' heads, that the
project was at once nipped in the bud. Or some pepper-pod of an ensign— we call him a
"sub-lieutenant in these days"— threatened the boatmen with "bamboo bakhshish;"
whereat the little whity-browns on board would at once throw themselves into their
quasi-natural element, and strike shorewards like dabchicks, with large frightened eyes,
long brown nightgowns, and small brown bullet-heads glistening in the sun.

These "Bátela" appeared the crankiest of craft, but they were capable of going strangely
well, half over, half under, the foaming waves. I never heard of a capsize. Seated partly
on the gunwale, and partly in the drifting spray, we flew, as if teaming old Neptune's

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 15

drag, over the watery hills and dales, glided beneath Manhó ra Fort, and, crossing the
bar, acknowledged with a hearty "Thank goodness!" the satisfaction of finding
ourselves in smooth water at last. But our troubles were not ended. When the water was
ebbing— still the best time for entering— we were transferred from the larger Bátelo to
the smaller Máchwa; and if the latter were wanting, as it often was, many a tedious
hour was minuted by in the uncomfortable, unaromatic conveyance, or in a
disconsolate ramble among the gulls,4 godwits (Limosa æ gocephala), oyster-catchers
(Haematopus ostralegus), and turn-stones (Strepsilas interpres), along the monotonous
desert shore. Finally, before the stump of pier was begun by Sir Charles, we were
compelled to bestride the damp backs of brawny Sindís, or to walk with legs au naturel,
and nether garments slung over our shoulders, through nearly a mile of mud and
water, averaging two feet deep, and overlying strata of sharp shells and aquatic roots,
which admirably performed the office of man-traps.

In those days the port of Karáchi had no pretensions to be called a port. The roadstead
was dangerously exposed, and the "Town Creek," now the "New Channel," which ran
up to the settlement, was too shallow to admit anything but flat-bottomed steamers and
native craft. The carcases of the larger vessels were stranded upon its mud banks, and,
moored in its centre, you saw some twenty or thirty Ghurábs (Grabs) from Maskat,
Baghlahs from the Persian Gulf, Kotiyahs from Kachh, and Pattimárs and Bátelas from
the Konkan and Bombay. As, however, the whole of the coast, including that of Mekrán,
the land of the Mahi-Kh'árán or Ichthyophagi, is notably deficient in harbours; and as
this, though bad, is palpably the best, it began, immediately after the Conquest, to
thrive upon the ruin of its maritime neighbours.

Presently Karáchi developed pretensions of her own; and she detected in her position,
the point nearest to Europe, a pride of place, a virtue, a natural value which, improved
by Art, would soon raise her high above obsolete and rococo Calcutta, Madras, and
Bombay. Even as the latter almost depopulated Goa, which, in her day, served the same
trick to Surat, so shall Karáchi, said the Karáchi-ites, become the port of Western India.
This, however, will be true only when the Euphrates Valley Railway reaches the shores
of Sind. It may come sooner than you expect, Mr. John Bull. At present your chief
steward grudges a guarantee of five per cent. for a joint affair— not a private
speculation as at home, nor a Government enterprise as in your outlying properties
generally— he does not see the necessity of the line; and he shrewdly suspects that the
object is not commercial, but political. However, the first "shake" in India, or in the
outer Orient, will show him that, if your Eastern estate wants anything, it wants the
Euphrates Valley Railway, almost as much as does your Western the conscription, or
carrying out the militia law.

4
At Karáchichiefly the Larus Occidentalis,and on the S ind L akesLarus Argentatus.T he ternsare ofeight species,
includingthelargeriver-tern(Sterna Aurantia).

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 16

Accordingly, the expenditure of public money, under the Conqueror of Sind, became
ultra-liberal; an army of 20,000 men was collected at Karáchi, and, as the niggard land
provides scarcely sufficient grain to support its scanty population, the import trade
became brisk and regular, and even the export could not help improving. It was then
resolved that Karáchi should have all the advantages required by her strong young
constitution. Accordingly, a stone pier was designed to run from the native town half-
way down the creek. The work had its difficulties; at first it sank nearly as fast as it
could be built. But Patience and Perseverance, they say, "won a wife for his Reverence."
It is now the "Napier Mole Road," or "Causeway," connecting Kyámári Island, that long
yellow line of sandbank, east of the harbour, with the white and green expanse which
we call terra firma. Estimates were ordered to show what expense would attend blowing
up the bar. This ugly feature was a core of rock, garnished with fine sand heaped up by
the south-west monsoon as it met the regular outpour of the Chíni backwater,
commonly called "Chinna Creek," and at times of the Liyári or Malyári Fiumara
winding north of the Extensive fieldworks and fortifications, intended to form a depôt
for the material of war, were made to rise from the barren plain. Thus the harbour-
improvements were begun by the busy brain of eagle-eyed Sir Charles Napier, who
claims the glory of inventing Karáchi, even as Alexander immortalized his name by
perhaps his greatest exploit, the choice of Alexandria as the port-capital of the
Levantine world.

And now observe the change. We will begin with Manhó ra, the conglomerate— capped,
quoin— shaped rock of warm yellow sandstone, rising ninety feet above sea level. It is
nearly a mile in length from north-west to south-east, and it shelves towards the shore
till it sinks into sand and muddy swamp, overgrown by vegetation and overflowed by
every high tide. Upon the summit of this feature, which reminds me of Gwádir
(Jawádur) and Maskat, rises the poor old fort whose tale has been told. Now it is
carefully whitewashed, and capped with a dwelling-house; one bastion bears the Fanal,
a poor catoptric affair which, though 119 feet high, and officially commanding a range
of seventeen miles, is often invisible beyond six. From the hill-base projects to south-
and-by-east a strip of breakwater some 500 yards long: it is built of concrete blocks, not
laid "higgledy-piggledy," as at Port Sa'íd, but ranged in order by a "Triton," or lifting
engine, and tipped with a lamp-post, the lamp looking from afar much like a perched
crow. Very mean and poor, after the Egypto-European works at Alexandria and Port
Sa'id; but meanness is the characteristic of the magnificence of Ind and Sind. At any rate
the pier is useful: once within its embrace you glide through water smooth as a mill-
pond, and the south-west monsoon is no longer at liberty annually to repair the bar.
Two dredges and a half are still working in the Manhó ra or outer port, and a line of
white buoys shows the channel to the inner basin.

On the right is the East pier, the head of "Kyámári Groyne," generally called "the
training Groyne," which continues the "Napier Mole Road." The two walls form an
entrance— channel 500 yards broad, 900 yards long, and now 28, or officially 25, feet

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deep. Here is the Manhó ra harbour, where the largest merchantmen and most of the
steamers lie. You will remember that the first direct ship from London, the Duke of
Argyll (800 tons), made Karáchi in October, 1852; the year grace 1876 already shows us
fourteen, and expects some twenty sail. On the left we see the white-washed bungalows
of the telegraph employés and the three pale-faces constituting the pilot-corps; whilst
above them, on the slopes of Manhó ra Cliff, rise "Saint Paul's," a stiff little English
church, with its red-tiled roof and pierced wall for belfry, and a Hindu Dewul with
pyramid domes, which does not so much offend the eye. Nothing is more remarkable in
Sind, where, generally, the dead are the better lodged, than the extent of "native" burial-
ground. Even this neck of land, which tails off the Manhó ra quoin, is covered with flat-
topped Sunni graves, whose sandstone-slabs bear Arabic sentences in the Suls and
Ruba' characters. The jackal and the utilitarian have made sad work of them, despite the
annual fair and the venerable presence of a Pír, saint or santon. This also is the
dwelling-place of Mr. W. H. Price, who has most worthily continued the work laid
down by the late Mr. James Walker, and begun by Mr. W. Parkes. Unfortunately his
health has suffered severely from overwork and exposure.

I have no intention, sir, of entering into the history of these harbour-improvements, the
first undertaken in India, and the most successful of their kind, despite the opposition
of obstructive Colonel Tremenheere. Mr. Price's "Memoir," maugre its official and
arithmetical form, is an eminently readable paper, showing how the severest difficulties
were met and mastered with hardly a single hitch. The leading idea was to make the
creek-scour clean, drain, and deepen the channel. With this view the notch was opened
in the "Napier Mole Road," and the Chíni backwater was dammed and diverted into the
general outpour. There were, and there are still, some misgivings about the shoals of
tenacious black mud, a peat of mangrove formation, deposited in parts of the port; but
the engineers declare that it will disappear, and their past success entitles them to our
reliance for the future. It has a malignant look, that moist and poisonous black coat; it is
a shirt of Nessus, which "seems to exhale the essence of all the evil things of the earth
and of the waters below the earth."

This year, on dit, a liberal sum has been granted to push on the works; and, as you see,
much remains to be done. The breakwater is almost below water-level, and some
exceptional storm may break it or even carry it bodily away. The lighthouse calls for
more light. There is no room in the harbour to wedge the fleet of ships which will be
wanted for the passenger-traffic, and which are wanted for the growing grain-trade. For
Karáchi is now, like Odessa, Bombay, and Melbourne, a "farinaceous city;" she exports
wheat and other cereals from Bahawalpur and the upper Indus Valley: when she shall
be subjected to the Panjab, which will prefer her to Calcutta and Bombay, we may
expect to see her attain her full development, and stand in readiness for the Euphrates
Valley Railway.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 18

Listen to what I wrote as early as 1851 concerning Karáchi Bay, the western boundary of
India, as that of Bengal is its eastern: "Kurrachee "— so we spelt it in those days, after the
"ultimatum" of that irrepressible Scot, Dr. Gilchrist— "wants many an improvement,
which perhaps old Time, the great Progressionist, has in store for it." To Him we look
for the clearing of the harbour, the drainage of the dirty backwater, and the proper
management of the tidal incursions. He may please to remove the mountains of old
rubbish which surround and are scattered through the native town; eventually He may
clear away the crumbling hovels which received us at the head of the Custom House
"Bunder," and occupy the space with an erection somewhat more dignified. Possibly He
will be induced to see the pier properly finished, to macadamize the road that leads to
camp, to [5derive from the Indus a large canal which, equally adapted for navigation
and irrigation, would fertilize every mile of the barren and hopeless-looking waste to
the north-west; to] superintend the growth of a shady avenue or two, and to disperse
about the environs a few large trees, which may break the force of the fierce sea-wind,
attract a little rain, and create such a thing as shade. [Thus alone can Sind become what
the native rhapsodist termed her, not in bitter irony, Rashk o raghbat-i-haft Bihisht, the
envy and jealousy of the Seven Heavens.] We trust implicitly in Time. Withal we wish
that those who have the power of seizing Him by the forelock would show a little more
of the will to do so. The old gentleman wears a fashionable wig, curly enough in front,
but close-cut behind as a poodle's back; and we, "His playthings, are always making
darts at the wrong side." Confess, sir, that this is not a bad forecast.

But we are still distant from our destination, and kind Captain Morris offers us his gig.
Why the B. I. S. N. Co.'s steamers should lie in the lower harbour, three miles and a half
from the "native jetty," no one can say; the principal effect is to add four annas to the
carriage of a parcel. We row up the land-locked channel, passing on our left the
workmen's village in "Bábá Island," which, a quarter of a century ago, was a naked
sand-patch; and by the bright green mangroves we trace the yellow sandy mouths of
the network of creeks, known only to those who shoot "king-curlews." At the Kyámári,
or upper harbour, we find red buoys intended for her Majesty's cruisers, and a large
vessel disembarking what the perfume proclaims to be creosotized railway-sleepers.
Hard on the right, three wooden piers project from the east end of Kyámári Island: the
Commissariat, the Custom House, and the Railway or passenger jetties, all
communicating more or less directly with the iron road which sweeps behind them. A
coloured Karáchi-ite "Dubash," who speaks English, takes us in hand civilly but firmly;
we enter an article called by courtesy a carriage, drawn by two lean garrons and tooled
by a "Sídí," a Zanzibar negro, probably a descendant of emancipated slaves; and black
Jehu has as much feeling for his beasts as if he were fresh-driven from the forests of
Unyámwezi. And now let us be en route as soon as bag and baggage can be stowed
away.

5
T hesentencesinbracketsarelateradditions.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 19

You do not regret leaving Kyámárí; whilst the air at sea is brisk and cool, this place
swelters with eternal heat. We drive furiously— such is the general habit of the sable
Automedon— along the two miles of macadam, justly called the "Napier Mole Road;"
and we remark an inscribed memorial-obelisk posted where the last salute was fired,
when the Conqueror last touched his own conquest (Oct. 1, 1847). We cross, by a fine
screw-pile bridge with iron railing, the "notch," or tidal opening, opened in the Napier
embankment when the damming of the Chíni backwater was determined upon; and we
leave to the left the large "native jetty," crowded with "hackery" carts. Beyond it, where
the Liyári Fiumara debouches, is a grand perspective of swamped boats, mud, and logs.
The Custom House is a handsome building with five arches à cheval upon the road, and
the Pattewálá, who here represents the search-officer, condescends, after a few words of
explanation, to let us pass with unopened boxes. By way of contrast with it we have a
white-domed and latticed tomb, and a mosque which has survived the destruction of its
kind.

Here we enter the "McLeod Road," a graceful memorial to that ardent Karáchi-ite, my
old friend John, deputy collector of customs, who died of a trip to Hinglaj in December,
1853. The style of the well-tiled dwelling-houses built by Europeans pleases us as much
as their material does the reverse. All are faced, roughly speaking, north and south, the
latter direction being seawards, a benefit which Bombay cannot enjoy; in the upper
story they have deep and shady verandahs, and some of these retreats are adorned with
round arches and monolithic pillars. On the other hand, the material is a loose and half-
formed sandstone from the quarries near Ghisri, which a late traveller calls "Ghuznee"
Bandar. The warm, sunny colour disdains glaring whitewash, or the ugly bluewash and
other tints affected by the Goanese, but the surface seems to melt away in the damp sea-
breeze, and the crumbling façades become painfully shabby after a short course of
years. Perhaps storing it till the quarry-water has evaporated, might do some good.
Passing on the right a large and spacious building, the court-house, of old the Bombay
Bank, we turn into the office of the B. I. S. N. line. We inspect the winnowing machines,
and we are lucky enough to receive from Mr. W. Thorburn a hospitable invitation to
take up our quarters at his comfortable house in camp.

We carry, it is true, introductory letters for a pair of young employés, but they will not be
of much use— economy and "privilege leave" are both terribly adverse to the guest—
right. One gentleman will not even return your cards before your departure from the
province; the other will send you, after a delay of six hours, some such production as
this, marked outside, "On Her Majesty's Service":—

"DEAR MR. BULL,

"I have just received Brown's letter, and regret that my father expects the house
to be so full to-day, owing to the Joneses arriving from Hyderabad and the

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 20

 Robinson's (sic) from Manora, that he cannot have the pleasure of inviting you to
stay in Luckingham House during your stay in Kurrachee.

"Please let me know if I can be of any use to you, and where you are thinking of
residing in Kurrachee.

(Signed)
"Yours very truly,
"A. B. PINCHER."

There is, I may tell you, a neat little club, but it lacks chambers. Karáchi cannot yet boast
of an hotel; nor will she before she belongs to the Panjab. In fact, without Mr.
Thorburn's kindness, you would have lodged at the travellers' bungalow— a refuge for
the wholly destitute of friends. The establishment is neat and tolerably well kept by an
Italian, Signor N— ; but the charges are abnormally extortionate, even for the messmen
of travellers' bungalows in general, and the municipality would do well to abate this
nuisance.

Before making camp, let us at once visit the native town. Karáchi, you must know, has
been identified by some palæ ogeographers, since the days of Dalrymple's "Crotchey" or
"Caranjee" (1795), with Crocala or Kró kala, the island whence Nearchus sailed for
Mekrán and Persia, and some old maps inscribe it "Alexandri Portus." The principal
reason seems to be that it stands in a department still called Krakraleh or Karkalla.
There are two objections to this theory. Karáchi was built and walled round only about
a century and a half ago by Mái Murádi, the wife of a Jokiya chief; before that time the
fishermen lived on board their boats.6 Fort Manhó ra dates from only A.D. 1797.
Secondly, no ruins of any antiquity have been found in, near, or about it. On the other
hand, 2000 years or so give time and enough for a total change of site, or for burying
fathoms deep the old remnants.7

You observe the lines of oyster shells which define the shore, and the baskets of live
mollusks offered to us at every corner. Those, sir, are the produce of our once celebrated
pearl-fishery. They are considerably larger than your natives— do you remember them
in these hard times?— and their contents are not quite so well-flavoured. They also

6
T he Gazetteer(sub voce) givesalong account ofthe foundation ofKarachi,but allcom esfrom asuspected
source.
7
Iam not aw are that the country aboutthe low erEastern N árá and itsdebouchure,the KoriCreek,hasyet been
carefully exam ined by any antiquary. T he best m apsshow the one large and tw o sm allislands,w hich m ay
represent Crocalaand Bí bakta(Arrian),the lattercalled Bibragaby P liny and Biblusby P hilostratus.But itism ore
than probable thatthe w hole sea-fronthascom pletely changed w ithin thelastfew centuries.S till,itisw ithin this
shore thatw em ustlookforBarbarei,P átala(P attalaorP attali),S usicana,Bonis,Kolaka,theN austathm usN earchi
(nearL ow ry Bandar?),S toura,Káum ara(w hich hasafancifullikenessto Kyám ári),Koreatis,and otherclassical
posts.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 21

afforded a very barbaric Margarita,8 of dingy hue, somewhat larger than a pin's head.
This source of revenue, such as it was, has been long ago dried up, not by the
"ignorance and folly of the Amírs," but by the stolidity of certain local officials,
successors to that well-abused dynasty, and by the rapacity of certain black servants of
a white house which contracted for the fisheries, and which mercilessly fished up every
shell it could find. You bear in mind what a similar want of a "close season" has done
nearer home.

Karachi town, when I first became acquainted with it, was much like the Alexandria of
a century and a half ago: a few tenements of stone and lime emerging from a mass of
low hovels, mat and mud, and of tall mud houses with windowless mud walls, flat
mud roofs, and many Bád-gírs or mud ventilators, surrounded by a tumble-down
curtain-cum-bastions of mud, built upon a humble platform of mud-covered rock. The
mud (Káhgil), hereabouts used as adobe or sun-dried brick, and the plaster that binds it,
are river-clay (silt or warp) thrown into a pit, puddled with water, trodden till ready for
use, and mixed for the outer coating with finely chopped straw. This chaff acts as hair
in English mortar: without it, as the Children of Israel learnt, the bricks would crumble
to pieces in the shortest possible time; and throughout Sind, perhaps I may say Central
Asia, this morose-looking mud is the favourite material, because it keeps out heat and
cold. Such was the Fort or official town. Formerly it fined off into straggling suburbs of
"Jhomprís," booths of tamarisk branches and thorns, and it extended from both banks of
the Liyári Fiumara northwards, to the Creek-head at the south. On approaching it, three
organs were affected, far more powerfully, however, than pleasantly, viz., the Ear, the
Nose, and the Eye. The former was struck by the tomtoming and squeaking of native
music; by the roaring, bawling, criard voices of the people; by the barkings and brayings
of stranger-hating curs, and by the screams of hungry gulls fighting over scraps of
tainted fish. The drainage, if you could so call it, was managed by evaporation: every
one threw before his dwelling what was not wanted inside, whilst dogs, kites, and
crows were the only scavengers; and this odour of carrion was varied, as we
approached the bázárs, by a close, faint, dead smell of drugs and spices, such as might
be supposed to proceed from a newly made "Osiris."

The eye again noted a people different from their Indian neighbours. Their
characteristic is a peculiar blending of the pure Iranian form and tint with those of the
southern Aryans. Their features are regular; their hair, unlike the lank Turanian locks of
the great Peninsula, though coarse, is magnificent in colour and quantity; the beard is
thick, glossy, and curling; and the figure is manly and well-developed. You knew the
Moslems by their hirsute chins, by their slipperless feet, by their long calico shirts, and
by a pair of indigo-dyed drawers extending from waist to knee. They also wore the
Sindi hat, now waxing rare; it was an inverted "tile," with a brocaded cylinder and a red

8
Arrian expressly tellsusthatM apyapí
rnsisanEastern w ord,and w efind itin theArabicandP ers
ian "M urw árí
d,"
apearl.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 22

upper brim: the latter in the few survivors seems to grow wider and wider every year,
and now it threatens to cut out the Quaker's broad-brim;— that small boy's "Siráiki topi"
must measure nearly eleven inches across. Hindus were distinguished by fairness, or
rather yellowness, of complexion, a dab of vermilion or sandal-wood between the
eyebrows, and the thread of the twice-born hung over the left shoulder and knotted
against the right side. The descendants, male and female, of African slaves abounded:
we met them everywhere with huge water-skins on their brawny backs, or carrying
burdens fit only for buffaloes. The women of the Moháná(fishing caste) were habited in
sheets, which covered the head; in the "Gaj," or tight embroidered bodice; in red skirts,
and in long pantaloons of coloured cotten tightened round the ankle. This characteristic
race, whose language would make Billingsgate blush, seldom wore veils in the streets,
modesty not being one of their predilections; nor were they at all particular about
volunteering opinions concerning your personal appearance, which freedom in the
East, you must know, is strange.

And now Karáchi, after growing from 6000 to 45,000 souls, has become, externally at
least, mighty respectable and dull. The straggling suburbs have been removed, and the
general shape is a broad arrow-head pointing northwards, and striking the Fiumara, or
Sukhi Naddi (dry river), as the Hindis call it.9 The material is still the old, dull-grey
mud, on foundations of stone; but it is lighted up and picked out with more chunam
and whitewash. The dark, narrow alleys have been improved off, except in the bázárs;
the streets are wide, open, and glaring; each has its name and its pair of trottoirs, whilst
the quasi-civilized reverbère contrasts with the whitewashed and beflagged tombs of
various Pírs, or holy men, still encumbering the thoroughfares. There is a general
Bombay look about the place, the result of deep eaves supported by corbelled posts; of a
grand Hindu establishment or two; of the new market-place, and of large school and
native police stations. And it will improve still more, under the blessing of Agni Devta,
the Fire-god; only yesterday, as we may see by the smoking black heaps, a quarter of
the town, to the right of the Liyári, was happily improved off.

Striking from the river-bank by "Ali Akbar Street" towards the cantonment, we pass the
new Hindu Dewal, a whitewashed pyramid with its usual broken outlines; the Church
mission-house, school, and church with its lancet windows; the Government school,
with its tall clock-tower; and the new Dharmsálá, built by a native, with its couple of
onion domes, evident imitations of a Sindi tomb. To the right of the Bandar Road, which
connects the port with the "bush," runs "Ghárikatá Road," leading to the large iron-
foundry and engineering works of the energetic Mr. Dawvid Mackenzie, who built the
Napier barracks, and who is building the State Railway. Here, too, are the telegraph
establishment, denoted by a huge signal-staff, and the post-office, which might
profitably be on a much larger scale. We then pass attempts at gardens, and thin
plantations of cocoa-nuts, no longer surrounded by dwarf and broken walls of puddle.

9
"Hindu"isused forP agan,and"Hindi"forM oslem ;and "bázár"isdistinguishedfrom "Bazaar."

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That lofty clump to the right shelters some houses inhabited by holy characters; and a
riveted tank, full during the rains, distinguishes the Rám Bágh, or garden of Ráma
Chandra, who must not be confounded with Parashu Ráma, or Ráma of the battle-axe,
living in B.C. 1176(?).10 The mighty hero and demi-god named after the moon here
passed a night, some few million years ago, a term by us reduced to B.C. 961(?), when
he and his pretty wife Sita were, like ourselves, merrily gipsying about the Unhappy
Valley towards holy Hinglaj. There are three other tanks, which drain the adjacent lands
after heavy showers; and the sooner they are clothed with stone, and subjected to
European superintendence, the less we shall suffer from the excessive and pernicious
damp of Karachi.

On the left are the Ranchor lines, the dwelling-place of characters quite the reverse of
those tenanting holy Rám-Bágh and missionary Christ Church. We then strike the
oldest cemetery, which in the unhealthy days of yore numbered its holocaust of victims.
That prim building, not unlike a church, is the Small Cause Court, and the successful
rascality which goes on within its walls suggests a modification of a certain proverb
anent honesty. Then we come to the Travellers' Bungalow, advertizing itself in large
letters: there are two detached cottages to the south, and to the north a big block, with
an attached billiard-room. We have now nothing to do beyond following "Kacheri
(Cutchery) Road," and a mile of exceedingly dusty and disagreeable highway will
conclude our total of five, and land us at our destination-camp.

10
L ieutenant-ColonelS leem an("R am blesandR ecollections")proposesthefollow ingcrucialdates:-
P arashu R ám a bornB.C.1176.
R ám aChandra bornB.C. 961.
Yudhishthira bornB.C.575
Krishna born August7,A.D.600.
Im ay briefly state m y conviction that the antiquity ofHindu history advocated by S anskritistsisam ere delusion.
T he Greek travellersafter Alexander'sday,though m entioning lettersand w riting,do not allude to Indian
literature.T he earliest inscriptionsdate from King Asoka,the grandson ofChandragupta(S andracottus),B.C.275-
250. T he earliest cave-charactersare,according to the late Dr. John W ilson,of Bom bay,derived from a
com bination oftheP hoenician and Greekalphabets;and w ritingw asprobably longconfined to the"Brachm anes, "
aparticulartribe.T heYugasanderasw ereastronom ical;theheroes,liketheR ám as,w erelegendsofancientrace-
struggles;andtheclaim to fabulousantiquity issim ply thatofevery barbarousrace.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 24

 CHAPTER III.

THE CANTONMENT, KARÁCHI, AND ITS "HUMOURS"—THE ANGLO-INDIAN

ARMY "ROTTEN FROM HEAD TO FOOT"—SOCIETY AND POLITICS.

Your first night in Sind, Mr. Bullhow did you like it? This is early November, the
opening of the cold season: what can Murray's Handbook mean by saying, "He [the
traveller] will have to encounter, except from the 1st of December to the 1st of March,
intense heat"? I have wandered about every part of the Unhappy Valley, especially its
western frontier, the Baluch Hills,11 and I have everywhere found that the cool season
begins with October, and does not end till April is well on. But my able friend, the
author of "Dry Leaves from Young Egypt," is adverse to the old Conqueror; at least so I
read (p. 472): "Sir C. Napier, by a series of aggressive measures, forced the Amírs of
Haidarábád to open resistance; and, having defeated them at the battle of Miyání, on
the 17th of February, 1843, and again on the 24th of March, at Dappa or Dabba on the
Phulelí, annexed the whole country." Despite the "Peccavi" motto proposed by Mr.
Punch for the Devil's Brother, the aggressive measures in question were begun by the
late Sir James Outram, greatly to whose disgust they were carried out by Sir Charles
Napier.

The secret history of the whole transaction will, I hope, presently appear in the
autobiography of my old friend, Mirzá Ali Akbar Khán Bahádur, who has undertaken
his memoirs at my special request. He was on field service from the march into
Afghanistan (1838) to the reduction of Sind (1843), and for nine years he served his
employers with honour and honesty. No sooner, however, had Sir Charles left the
country than a cruel blow was struck at his favourite Munshí (secretary), apparently
with the object of pleasing the now defunct Court of Directors and of annoying the
veteran, who resented the manœuvre strongly. A charge was preferred against him
fictions, such as keeping racers, which were wholly imaginary, and a magnificent
house, which sold, to my certain knowledge, for £60, were pushed forward in official
documents; the accused, whom Sir Charles Napier called an "excellent public servant,"
and of whom he ever spoke in the very highest terms, was characterized as an
unscrupulous though clever and agreeable rogue.12 Briefly, the Mirzá was removed

11
"It doesnot appearthat he (Capt.Burton)had any opportunitiesofbeing acquainted w ith the Bilúchí softhe
Hills" (p.473,1859).M y old and valued chief,Gen.W alterS cott,B.E.,w ho died before receiving m y last letter,
couldhavetoldanothertale.
12
From hisExcellency S irC.J.N apier,K.C.B.,to theR ightHon.theGovernor-GeneralofIndiainCouncil.

"Kurrachee,14thS eptem ber,1847.

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from the service, and his pension was refused— an injury added to insult. The deed was
done in 1847, yet even now, methinks, it is not too late to make amends for it. The East
India Office cannot, of course, enter into a question which was decided thirty years ago,
but it could find some Government appointment to do away with the stigma so unjustly
cast upon, and to cheer the declining years of, a good and faithful employé, "an excellent
public servant." 13

In later April, Mr. John Bull, I should have your couch placed in the verandah; secured,
however, from the land and sea breezes, which are liable to cause "chills:" you never
could have endured the 90° F. heat of an inner room. Now I come to awake you at 4.30
a.m., and take you to constitutionalize a little before the sun appears. The great secret of
health in this arid part of the East lies, believe me, in the daily habit of a long walk, not a
lazy canter, during the morning-fresh. The sensible man is followed, at such times, by
his horse and its keeper; and, when tired, he mounts and gallops back to quarters.
Nothing more fatal, to soldiers at least, than the systematic avoidance of light which
prevailed, for instance, in the Bengal army. Officers and men whose pale and etiolated

"M Y L O R D,"Ihavethehonourto encloseto yourL ordship them em orialofm y M oonshee,AliAkbarKhan

Bahadoor,togetherw ith acopy ofaletterw ritten to L ieutenant-ColonelO utram ,m y predecessoras
P oliticalAgentinS ind.

"From them om entofm y arrivalIfound theM oonsheeallthatL ieutenant-ColonelO utram 'slettersaysof

him .Ihave no hesitation in saying that,forthe five yearsduring w hich Ihave com m anded in S ind,Ali
Akbarhasbeen ofthe greatest service,and Ifeelundervery great obligationsto thisexcellent public
servant,in w hom Ihave very greatconfidence,and repeatL ieutenant-ColonelO utram 'sw ords,'Itisw ith
truth,and in m ere justice,that Ideclare Ineverhave w itnessed services,by any native Indian,m ore
zealous,m oreable,orm orehonestthan such asAliAkbarhasrendered toGovernm entunderm eforfive
years." He hasbeen attacked by a party inim icalto m e,and m erely,I believe,because he ism y
M oonshee.Ihavenottaken hispart.Ilefthim to defend him self,and theirill-natured attackshavedied a
naturaldeath.Inow feelit to be m y duty to recom m end thisable and faithfulpublic servant to your
L ordship in Council,and Ihope thathispetition m ay be granted,to be allow ed to retire from the service
on tw ohundredrupeesam onth,thisbeinghalfhispresentpay.

"Ifhislength ofpublicservicesbeshort,itw illberecollected thatithasbeen,through thedifficultiesand

dangersofthe Afghan and S ind w ars,atim e ofincessant exertion,including the dangersoftw o general
actions,in w hich he conducted him selfbravely.Ifthe prayerofAliAkbar'sm em orialbe granted,Ican
assureyourL ordshipin Councilthatfew thingsw ouldbem oregratefultom e."Ihave,&c.,

(S igned)
"C.N AP IER ,
"L ieut.-General,GovernorofS ind."
13
ColonelA.B.R athborne,an old S indian,hasjust published the follow ing w eighty w ords: "T here isasaying
attributed,Ibelieve,to the great M ahom edan P rophet,that an hourofjustice isw orth alife ofprayer.'It isa
m axim w hich,Iam sorry to say,ourGovernm entin Indiatoo often violatesin the pursuitofw hatitdeem spolicy;
not rem em bering thatno object ought to be param ountin the states m an'seyesto that,not only ofdoing justice
to thebestofhisability,butalso ofremedying any act of past injustice,no m atteratw hatcostto hisow n feelings,
orto the feelingsofthose serving underhim ,ifitonly bem ade clearto him thatinjustice hasbeen done."-"T he
T rueL ineofDefenceforIndia."L ondon:EastIndiaAssociation,W estm inster.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 26

skins struck the eye at once, suddenly sent upon a campaign where severe exposure is
inevitable, sank under the baptism of fire— sunstroke and other horrors. The more you
know of the Greater Light the more, I grant, you will and should respect it; but this only
means that you should take due precautions. Mr. E. B. Eastwick tells us, "An English
jockey-cap, with a muslin turban twisted round it"— he might have added a flap to
defend the carotid arteries, and a Kamarband or shawl to guard the pit of the
stomach— "and wetted occasionally, will be the best defence against the frightful heat of
Sindh." Personally, I hold to the white umbrella, which the disciples of General John
Jacob (of whom more presently) consider "effeminate." It must be owned, however, that
on horse-back, especially when riding fast, it is inconvenient as well as unsightly. In the
evening you can repeat your ride, or play golf, badminton, the almost obsolete croquet
and tennis, or the still favourite rackets and polo.

We can now, if you please, perambulate the camp, and devote the evening and the
morrow to a few excursions in the immediate neighbourhood of Karachi.

Karáchi is still the capital village of the local government, and the head-quarters of the
European regiment. Under the Conquistador the camp usually numbered about 5000 to
8000 men, both colours and all arms included. This strong force has been greatly
reduced. The "boss" is now a brigadier-general, commanding the station (where he
resides) and the Sind district, no longer a division: it may, however, recover its honours
when annexed to the Panjab. He has no adjutant-general; only a brigade-major and a
quartermaster-general. The single white corps is the 56th, and the "Pompadours" detach
two companies to Haydarábád. Here we have no cavalry. Three corps of the Sind Horse
(about 1480 sabres) are stationed at Jacobábád, their head-quarters; they also man all the
adjoining outposts. The arms are carbine and sword; the uniform is almost that of the
Cossack, the old Crimean Bashi-Buzuks, and the irregular cavalry in general green
tunics and overalls; turban, riding boots, and black belts. The native infantry at Karáchi
is now the 2nd Beloch Regiment (29th Bombay Native Infantry). They wear light serge
blouses in working costume, and green tunics with red facings for full dress; loose blue
"Pagris;" madder-stained knickerbockers— "cherubim shorts" are excellent for wear—
and white, which should be brown, gaiters covering blucher boots. Their weapons are
those of the Sepoy line generally. At Jacobábád, on the north-western frontier, are also
Jacob's Rifles (30th Regiment Bombay Native Infantry), averaging some 700 men armed
with Sniders, and habited in Khákí, or drab-coloured drill. Haydarábád, besides its two
white companies, is garrisoned by the 1st Beloch Regiment (27th Bombay Native
Infantry), known by its looser turbans.

The artillery of the Sind district is now commanded by a lieutenant-colonel, residing at

head-quarters. Under him are two field batteries of white troops; one stationed here, the
other at Haydarábád. Finally, at Jacobábád there is a mountain train, about 150 men,
with two mortars and as many howitzers (all 4 inches), which are to be exchanged for
steel breechloaders weighing 200 pounds, and drawn by the sure-footed mule. A move

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has lately been made in the right direction as regards the "gunners," and presidential
jealousies have been abated by appointing a Director-General of Ordnance for all India.
Still, the mountain-train is left almost inefficient, the complaint of universal India;
fourteen mules are short, and the commanding officer, Captain Young, an officer of
twelve years' experience in Sind, "passed" also in the native languages, could hardly
take the field in full force without great delay.

Thus, you see, Mr. Bull, Sind has utterly eliminated the Sepoy, whilst India has reduced
her Sepoy army to a mere absurdity. The claims of ecomony, the delusive prospect of
peace, and last, not least, the loud persistent voice of Prophet and Acting-
Commissioner, General John Jacob, and his "silahdar system," prevailed against the old
organization and common sense. He was in many ways a remarkable man, endowed
with that calm and perfect confidence in himself which founds "schools," and which
propagates faiths. Accustomed to base the strongest views, the headstrongest opinions,
upon a limited experience of facts, he was an imposing figure as long as he remained in
obscurity. But, unfortunately, one of his disciples and most ardent admirers, Captain
(now Sir Lewis) Pelly, published, shortly after his death, an octavo containing the
"Views and Opinions of General John Jacob,"14 and enabled the world to take the
measure of the man.

General John Jacob's devotion to his own idea has left a fatal legacy, not only to Sind,
but to the whole of India. Sir Charles Napier, a soldier worth a hundred of him, had
steadily advocated increasing, with regiments on service, the number of "Sepoy
officers"— then six captains, twelve lieutenants, and four ensigns. The Conqueror of
Sind protested that the "Regulars" were not regular enough, the best men being picked
out for staff and detached appointments. The "butcher's bill" of every battle, I may tell
you, gives nearly double the number of casualties among the "black officers," as we
were called; and at Miyáni we were six deaths to one "white officer." The reason is
obvious; the "palefaces" must lead their companies, wings, and corps, otherwise the
natives, commissioned, non-commissioned, and privates, will not advance in the teeth
of too hot a fire. We are already made sufficiently conspicuous by the colour of our
skins and by the cut of our uniforms, while the enemy is always sharp enough to aim at
"picking" us "off."

General John Jacob proposed, in opposition to the Conqueror of Sind, to supplant the
Regular system by the Irregular, which means diminishing the number of Englishmen.
Having the pick and choice of the Indian army at his disposal, he succeeded in fairly
drilling and disciplining his Sind Horse; argal, as the grave-digger said, he resolved that
the Sind Horse should become a model and a pattern to the whole world. He honestly
puffed his progeny on all occasions, even when it least deserved praise. During our four
months' raid on Southern Persia, the Sind Horse was pronounced by all the cavalrymen

14
S m ith,T aylor,andCo.,Bom bay,1858.

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present to be the last in point of merit; the same was the case in Abyssinia; and during
the Mutiny many of his men were found among the "Pándís." Yet he puffed and
preached and wrote with such vigour that the military authorities, worn out by his
persistency, and finding that the fatal measure would save money, gave ear to the loud
harsh voice. In an inauspicious hour the whole Regular Sepoy force of India was not
only irregularized: it was, moreover, made a bastard mixture of the Regular and the
Irregular.

The result is the ruin of the Indian army. The system itself is simply a marvel. The corps
have either too many officers or too few. For drilling purposes you want only a
commandant, an adjutant (who should also be musketry-instructor), and a surgeon; or
at most the three combatants who led the old Irregular corps. For fighting you require,
besides the field-officers, at least two Englishmen or, better still, three per company. It
is, I own, possible to increase the normal complement by free borrowing from the staff
corps, and from the rest of the army, but every soldier will tell you that this is a mere
shift: the officers must know their men, and the men their officers.

Again, under the present system, which effectually combines the faults of both the
older, and the merits of neither, your infantry corps with its full cadre, of which half is
usually absent, theoretically numbers nine European officers. One, the surgeon, is a
non-combatant, and two, the adjutant and quarter-master, are usually represented by
the wing subalterns.

An English regiment, with its cadre of thirty, mounts only its field-officers and adjutant.
An Indian corps-would you believe it?— mounts the lieutenant-colonel commanding;
the major, second in command; the two wing officers, the two wing subalterns, the
adjutant, and the quarter-master. The result is to incur the moral certainty of their all
being swept away by the first few volleys. True, you have sixteen native commissioned
officers, forty havildars (sergeants), and the same number of náiks (corporals), a total of
ninety-six. But the belief that Sepoys will fight, without Englishmen to lead them, is a
snare, a sham, and a delusion.

A host of other evils besets the present state of things. Your cavalry corps are so weak in
officers, rank and file, that a six months' campaign would reduce them each to a single
troop. Your infantry regiments, eight companies of seventy-five bayonets each, or a
total of 640, have not been reduced to the form now recognized as the best tactical unit.
Again, officers are still transferred, after six and even seven years' service, from the
white to the black line, thus bringing them upon the Indian pension-list without having
served the full time. They also want esprit de corps; they dislike and despise "Jack
Sepoy," and their chief object in life is to regain something more congenial than the out-
station and the dull, half-deserted mess. Again, at the other end of the scale, field-
officers of twenty-five to thirty years' Indian service, are made to do subalterns' work.
Regimental zeal is being annihilated; and the evil of senility is yearly increasing. Let me

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relate a case which you shall presently see for yourself. Major A-, who has served in a
corps for nine years, who has seen three campaigns, and who for three years has acted
second in command, lately finds himself superseded by a lieutenant-colonel, when he
himself expects to become lieutenant-colonel within six months. What is the result? He
is utterly weary of the service; he has lost all heart for its monotonous duties. "An old
subaltern," says one of your favourites, "is a military vegetable, without zeal as without
hope."

Again, the new furlough regulations, after abundant "considerings," have turned out so
badly that all who can cleave to the old. Why grant leave, with full pay and allowances
for six months, to Kashmir and to the depths of the Himalayas, and yet refuse it to the
home-goer, under pain of English pay? Why should the Civil Service have, and the
military lack, "privilege leave"? Why thus adhere to old and obsolete tradition, so as to
make the soldier's life as unpleasant as possible? Why— But at this rate, sir, "Whys" will
never end.

Sir Henry Havelock's truthful statement in the House of Commons, that the Anglo-
Indian army is "rotten from head to foot," has surprised the public mass which puts
trust in Pickwickian and official declarations. We, who know the subject, declare that
the Indian is, perhaps, in a worse condition than the home force; and we assert that the
idea of opposing regiments, so officered and so manned, to the Russians, or even to the
Afghans, is simply insane.

Do not disbelieve me, Mr. John Bull, because my language is not rose-watered. The Old
Maids' Journal (Spectator)— ancient, but not very pretty, virginity has lately been
berating me for seeking "cheap credit" by "pointing out how much better duties might
be done by persons whose business it is to do them." But officials are ever in trammels,
whilst we critics, who look only to results, are not; moreover, a man is hardly
omniscient because his work is in this or that department, or even because he holds
high rank in this or that service. And did not Voltaire think and declare that, of all the
ways of Providence, nothing is so inscrutable as the littleness of the minds that control
the destinies of great nations?

Some have distinction, you know, forced upon them; others win it by means which
honest men despise. They never report the truth, unless pleasant to the ear: they
calculate that, possibly, the disagreeable will not occur; and that, if it does, their neglect
will be slurred over and forgotten. "Plausible and specious," they can preach and they
can lecture; they can talk "soft sawder," and they can quote platitudes ad infinitum.
These superficial specimens of humanity, who know which side their bread is buttered,
owe their rise, their stars and ribbons, their K.C.B.'s and pensions, not to the sterling
merits of courage and ability, of talents and manliness, but to the oily tongue that
knows so well to work the oracle, and to a readiness of "changing tactics as the

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 30

chameleon changes colour." In short, these gentlemen have mastered the "gospel of
getting-on;" the species "neglected Englishman" has not.

Thus you have no right to be surprised, as you often are, when some notorious
incapable, intrusted with an office of the highest responsibility, comes to grief. His
"Kismet," his "Nasib," his star, have been in the ascendant, and he has done nothing to
obscure them by personal merit, by originality, by candour, or by over-veracity. These
qualities are sure to make enemies, and the Millennium must dawn before your
friends— private, public, or political— will look after you with the vigour and the
tenacity of your foes.

But so rotten is the state, so glaring is the inefficiency, of the Indian army, that you will
not be astonished to hear reports of "organic changes" and fundamental reforms, or
even to see a return to the old system. Strange to say, Lord Northbrook, the civilian, saw
the necessity of reorganization. Lord Napier, the soldier, who, during the Abyssinian
campaign, sent for officers to every Presidency, ignored it. Perhaps the Napierian clique
took the opportunity to oppose, tooth and nail, the efforts of another service. The
Shi'ahs, who, you know, abhor the Sunnis bitterly as Roman Catholics hate Protestants,
when any mode of action left to private judgment is proposed, always choose the line
opposed to that taken by their heretic enemies— raghman li-'l-Tasannun;— "in adverse
bearing to Sunniship," as the religious formula runs.

Let us now return to camp.

Karáchi cantonment stands upon a slope which commands a view of sandy Kyámári,
the pinnacled Oyster Rocks, and the Manhó ra quoin. Eastwards it is limited by the head
of the Chíni, now a mangrove-grown swamp uncommonly fetid in the hot season, and
kept from spreading northwards by the raised road to that little chain of truncated
cones, whereon are built Honeymoon Lodge, Clifton, and Ghisri. In this direction, also,
is the Frere railway station for camp, distant six miles from the Kyámári head, whence
the line winds to the south of the cantonment: two tall smoke-stacks mark the place
from afar. Here also was founded the inevitable Frere Town, but unhappily it did not
progress beyond the fourth house. The surface is a hard, dry crust of sand, gravel, and
silt, thinly spread over beds of stone and pebbles. Water, salt as that of the sea,
underlies the surface at three to seven feet. This also is the average depth of the wells:
the best supply in camp is in the compound of Messrs. Treacher and Co. When its
horizon is shallow, the houses suffer; the lower part of the walls is damp-stained, and
the inmates have reason to fear fever.

The streets of camp are level roads of exemplary breadth, macadamized with the
crumbling sandstone, whose dust no possible amount of wetting and watering has
power to lay. The little stream-beds are bridged over, and the oil-lamps at night cry for
gas. The "compounds" which flank the thoroughfares are now girt with masonry; the

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 31

milk-bush hedges, which sheltered snakes and various abominations, and the wire-
fences, which broke many a leg as the owner was riding home in the dark, have clean
disappeared. Philologists, by the way, derive the word from the Portuguese Campanha;
the facetious explain it as a composition of the courtyard and the garden. The
vegetation is of that hardy sort which can thrive upon salt water: the scraggy
casuarina— as yet the eucalyptus has not had a fair trial— the tamarisk, the Babú l
(mimosa), the Salvadora persica, and an occasional date-palm; besides cactus, aloes, and
euphorbia, oleanders, and a variety of salsolaceous plants. Turf is a clear impossibility,
and those who attempt to grow European shrubs and flowers must seek a sheltered
spot, and nurse them carefully as though they were "Europe babies."

It is easy to detect the humble dwellings of the primitive colonists (1844), sheds of
wattle and dab, more or less whitewashed, in the shape of single-poled tents: they are
now degraded into stables or servants' offices. The first step was followed by double-
storied houses, with extensive ranges of rooms and thickly-stuccoed flat roofs, made to
be promenaded. These, however, arose only when men could calculate upon being
stationary for a time at the "station" of Karáchi. Except in a few instances, all were
bungalows, parallelograms of unlovely regularity, with walls of sun-dried brick,
double-whitewashed to promote cleanliness and glare; sometimes level above, more
often pent-shaped with red and blue tiles; while the pulled-out eaves, prevented from
falling by clumsy brick or rough wooden pillars, made the interiors pleasantly or
painfully dark. Each had its dependent lines of dirty, dingy "cook-houses," dens for the
blacks, and other conveniences, built far enough off to temper the pungency of the
screams and the steams that escaped through the doorless doorways. Finally appeared
a few pretentious erections, built in no earthly style of architecture, which puzzled you
as to their intentions: these were the "follies" of Anglo-Indian clerks and mulatto
writers, a race of men which ever hugely delights in converting rupees to unlovely
masses of brick and mortar.

Yet there was some character in camp, and each domicile spoke plainly enough for its
tenant. Here the huge stuccoed pile, with tall arches and bright "Chiks," or blinds,
between, towering above a thick screen of euphorbia, which took the labour of a dozen
men to water, denoted the commissariat or the staff officer. How well I remember this
one, where the devout owner, generally known as "Dismal Jemmy," forbade his
servants to feed his horses, but made them drive and drag him to church, on the
"Sawbath." There, the small neat building with jealously curtained windows, a carriage
under the adjoining shed, comparatively clean outhouses, and an apology for a garden,
kept up in the face of many difficulties, pointed out the captain or field-officer with the
white wife. A little beyond it another bungalow, trellised round with bamboo-work, a
gaudy palanquin lying near the dirty huts, and two or three jaunty, debauched-looking
"darkies," dressed in the height of black dandyism, showed manifest traces of the black

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 32

wife, the "Búbú."15 Further still, you remarked a long low range of stained and
dilapidated buildings, under whose broad verandah still slept three or four young
gentlemen, despite the glittering morn, the yelping of a dozen terriers, and the
squabbling of as many Mhár or Pariah servants, each exhorting his neighbour to do his
work that was a Castle of Indolence, in which several subalterns of a white regiment
chummed together, for the greater facility of murdering Time. Again, you observed a
mean-looking bungalow, with appended stables and kennels, which were by far the
best part of the establishment; the fine head of a castey Arab peeping from the loose box
being the only sign of life about the place: that was a "Duck16 Subaltern Hall." The two
latter tenements were in a state of admirable disorder: the fences were broken down by
being used as leaping-bars, the garden was destroyed by being made a ringing-ground,
and the walls were pitted with pistol-shot and pellet-bow. Near each, a goodly heap of
dusty "Marines," which had travelled from the generous vineyards of the South to do
their duty on the parched plains of Sind, lay piled, hard by shattered six-dozen chests,
old torn fly-tents, legless chairs, and other pieces of furniture that had suffered from the
wars within doors. The bottle difficulty, indeed, is not yet solved. When I entered the
Unhappy Valley, we used to exchange one for a fowl: now they are mere rubbish till
breweries shall be established; and he who patents some profitable way of converting
the waste glass into rupees will make his fortune. For princely incomes have arisen
from bottles; witness, to quote one of many, Sir Jamsetji Jijibhai, "Báttli-wálá" and
Baronet.

Time, which found Karáchi camp built of unbaked brick, has now turned it into stone.
The huge dirty Sadr, or high, bázár, "full of shopkeepers and servants, soldiers and
sepoys, ladies of no virtue to speak of, nude children, and yelping curs— a scene strictly
in the Eastern low-life style"— which disgraced the camp, has now been broadened,
cleansed, and converted into a general market. Some of the houses, for instance that of
Adam Ali, are remarkably good and, where the high-road runs, all the hovels have
made way for a dickey of "pakka17-built" stores in the newest Sindi style. We find the
modiste, Madame Schlepper, who occasionally suffers from a creditor slipping away;
Mr. Davidson, an old soldier, keeping a general store; the photographic rooms of Mr.
Michie; and, finally, Mr. Speechly, the apothecary, who, here as elsewhere, soon
becomes rich by selling pennyworths for sixpences. The "large, roomy bungalows,
oblong, single-storied buildings dressed with mathematical precision to the front," are
become five huge blocks, costing as many lakhs and more, extending over an immense

15
A W esternIndiancorruption of"Bíbí."
16
Ducks,Bom bayites-from thebum m alow orbobil,thedried fish stillcalled"Bom bay Duck;""Q uiHyes, "Bengalí
s
-from theeternal"Koihay?"(w ho'sthere?)thattooktheplaceofbells;and lastly,"M ulls, "orM adrassísfrom the
Benighted P residency,becausethey lived upon'w aterandm alligataw ny,orthey m adea"m ull"ofeverythingthey
attem pted.
17
"Pakká" (ripe),opposed to "kachá" (raw ),isan indispens
able w ord in the Anglo-Indian dialect.Your"pakká"
houseisofstoneandm ortar;and your"pakká"appointm entisthereverseofa"kachá, "oractingone.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 33

space east of the Staff Lines, with arched verandahs in the second floor to catch the sea-
breeze: nowhere is the British soldier better lodged and cared for than in the Napier
Barracks, built about 1868. During her childhood Karáchi had two race-courses and no
church. Then she broke out into a Protestant chapel with very little outward show, and
a Roman Catholic chapel built palpably for effect: in these days it appears a mean white
structure of the poorest Portuguese type, thoroughly, "sat upon" and dwarfed by St.
Patrick's to the north-north-east of the Napier Barracks. And the Church in general is
magnificently lodged. The Parsís have a latticed fire-temple in the bázár. The Catholics
have grown a large and splendid nunnery and girls' school near the old cemetery. The
Methodists have a chapel, parsonage, and school close to the bázár; and we shall
presently prospect the Kirk and the Established Church. The station "devil-dodger," as
his reverence was irreverently termed by the subalterns, who bestrode his old grey
Rosinante in the costume of his cloth, a black tail-coat and a tile covered with white
calico, has been multiplied by six, most of whom wear the petit collet. The "species of
barn intended for the accommodation of the drama" has developed into a tolerably neat
little theatre, where strollers sometimes appear during the season: this begins about the
end of March, when the Commissioner and the staff-officers return from district work.
The "iceless receptacle for Wenham Lake ice" is supplanted by a tall-chimney'd
manufactory, which produces, however, an unpleasant substitute. Aerated, unduly
called soda, water is made at the rate of half an anna per bottle; it smacks unpleasantly
of its native element, and the connoisseur pronounces it much inferior to that of Sakhar.
There is a club which wants only a new club-house, with a decent-sized dining-room,
and chambers for the passing stranger: here, if truth be spoken, early play is on a liberal
scale. There is even reform and repair in the uncanny-looking yellow and white
building, the old Freemasons' Lodge, accommodating some nine different items, for
which I must refer you to Handbooks: the natives will call it Jádú-ghar, or "Sorcery-
house." The vulgar estimate of the respectable order is that we represent a band of
sorcerers, who meet in the to worship the Shaytán, the "horned man in the
smoky house," and to concert diabolical projects against the Chosen People of Allah
themselves. The more learned Oriental believes the mystic craft to be a relic of
Monotheism, and especially of Guebrism, embedded in the modern structure of
Christianity. It is the fashion, I may observe, with Moslem free-thinkers to hold the
Emperor Aurelian's opinion, that, "among all the Gods, none is truly worthy of
adoration but the sun;" and, impressed with this idea, Mr. Bull, their minds naturally
detect lurking Guebrism in all beliefs.

The West End of Karáchi is where the old Staff Lines run from north-north-west to
south-south-east, where the grandees dwell, and where his Excellency the Governor or
the Commissioner, as the case may be— titles are frail things hereabouts— holds his little
court. Five straight and precise roads,18 mediæ vally called "streets," run parallel with

18
Beginning from the east are-1.N apierR oad;2.M ilitary L ines,aliasFrere S treet;3.S taffL ines,aliasElphinstone
S treet;4.CliftonR oad,aliasVictoriaS treet;and,5.Kacheri(Cutcherry)R oad.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 34

the shore and extend to the railway station, or converge towards "Clifton." Let us
choose Frere Street, No. 2, and begin at the southern end. Here, despite the vast growth
of building, my eye at once detects the whitewashed, single-storied, arcaded, and tiled
bungalow, which we once considered a palatial building, the work of Sir Charles
Napier's Military Secretary, Captain "Beer Brown," of the Bengal Engineers;— poor
fellow! he lived upon, and died of, a dozen of Bass per diem! The third going westward,
a rickety old badminton court which threatens to cave in, is the office of the Sind Canal
Survey Department;— ah! Mr. Bull, were I a woman, my first act would be to "sit down
and have a good cry!" Only one of the joyous crew still breathes the upper air of
Karáchi, Colonel W. R. Lambert, now its collector.

But the "cry" would soon be turned into a hearty laugh by that pretentious affair of
crumbling stone known as "Frere Hall." The downpour and deluge of gold which
flooded Bombay in A.D. 1860-64, and which converted even the "buggy-wálás," or
cabbies, into shareholders, afforded a drizzle or two even to far Karáchi; and hence we
may explain the abnormal growth. We cannot but regard this Gothic monster with a
kind of what-the-dickens-are-you-doing-here? feeling. It was intended for Dárbárs
(levees) and other such occasions where no Dárbárs are held; and, these failing, the big
hall has been converted into dancing and supper room, whilst the ground floor has
become a library and a municipal museum. This "noble building," as the Gazetteer19
calls it, opened in October, 1865, and was called after the Governor of Bombay, who had
been Commissioner in Sind between 1851-59. The designer, Capt. St. Clair Wilkins, R.E.,
was probably ordered to prefer the "Veneto-Gothic," so fit for Venice, so unfit for
Karáchi;— it is to be hoped that the new club will not adopt Veneto-Gothic. The
externals are all hideous— the heavy and tasteless eastern porch, the solitary octagonal
tower, and the crosses and circles of white Porbandar stone; while the stilted roof-
spirelet, covered with Muntz's metal, is right worthy of a gentleman's stables. The
grounds, partly railed and planted with milk-bush, cover some fifteen acres, and here
the evening band of the white regiment attracts carriages and horses. The main use of
Frere Hall is to serve the shipping as a landmark: from the offing, the tower and spirelet
of this portentous and pretentious erection in crumbling sandstone suggest an honest
Moslem Idgah. Mr. Commissioner, indeed, seems to have proposed for himself three
main objects in life: (1) building Frere towns; (2) building Frere halls; (3) building Frere
roads, which have a truly Imperial look— on paper.

Of the interior we may speak gratefully. The south-eastern room is furnished with
Pattiwálás (belt-men or peons) and a few newspapers: its sole fault is the extreme
dullness of the view. The central ground-floor, corresponding with the big hall, is a
library containing nearly 8000 volumes; and, curious to say, it makes annual reports

19
"A Gazetteerofthe P rovince ofS ind,
" by A.W .Hughes,F.S .S .898 pages8vo.W ith M apsand P hotographs .
L ondon:Bell,1874.Ineed hardly say anythingin praiseofthislaboriousw ork,am ineofinform ation,w hichisnow
appearinginasecondandcorrectededition.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 35

and owns a catalogue.20 The marked deficiency is in books of local interest, but that
seems to be the inherent fault of all these institutions. The north-western room is the
municipal museum, which, like the library, is under Mr. Murray; he is preparing to
follow in the footsteps of my old friend Stocks, and to publish on the botany of the
province. Here are specimens of the Indus boats, mostly misnamed; the Kási,21 or
glazed and encaustic Persian tiles, by some called enamelled tiles, whose facing forms,
or rather formed, the celebrated "Porcelain Tower of Nanking"— these are of the finest
quality, taken from old mosques and tombs; a few birds, beasts, and fishes; blocks of
wood and stone; and, lastly, the gem of the collection, the one hundred and thirteen
bricks which Mr. W. Cole, now Collector of Customs, dug up from the old Budhist
temple below Jarak. The most remarkable piece is a terra-cotta alto— relief of Budha,
with the usual pendulous ears, and hands crossed over the breast, sitting in tailor-
position, as he was supposed to meditate and contemplate under the Bo-tree. Here his
shrine is a small temple, formed by a dwarf column on each side; the beaded summit
expands into the upper three parts of a circle, a full-blown "glory." Below the figure,
two dogs face each other; and, on the proper left, a ram is shown by its horns. The
whole is artistic, and contrasts strongly with the barbarous mask which suggests only
the Moabite pottery, made at Jerusalem and sold to Berlin. The other important pieces
are lions' heads, with four bead-strings radiating from each mouth; two fragments of
elephants' heads and trunks; geese admirably executed, and a small altar of classical
shape. Many of the bricks bear leaves which suggest the acanthus, some have the seven-
ray'd star, and others the dice-pattern deeply sunk. This valuable collection, instead of
being heaped on the floor, should be grouped and framed.

Truly the distances of Camp Karáchi are far more magnificent than those of
Washington. Walking up the Staff Lines to the north-north-west of Frere Hall, we stand,
with absolute amazement, in presence of Trinity Church, which dates from 1852-55. The
body seems to have been added as an after-thought to the steeple; and the apsidal
chancel suggests only the section of a certain article admirably copied, as in the Albert
Music Hall, Kensington. Of what could my old friend, John Bull, have been dreaming
when he begat this "fright?" The tower, said to be taken from some Italian horror,
consists of six stages, 150 feet high, beginning with the clock and ending with the
battlements; the windows increase upwards from one to four, giving the idea of a
pyramid standing upon its apex; and, they say, the upper story, which, like No. 5,
contains also four lights, was added for the benefit of the shipping. Altogether the thing

20
T he "T w enty-Second AnnualR eport"(Kurrachee,1874)show s7011 volum es,ofw hich 943 are novels,and 588
"voyagesand travels"-afair proportion. T he "Catalogue of the Kurrachee M unicipalM useum " isaseparate
publicationofeighty pages.
21
Ipresum e the w ord isacorruption ofKasháni,i.e.m ade at Káshán in T urkistan,the CascianiofBenedict Goës
("Cathay and the W ay T hither, " p. 573): the S yrianscallsit "Kaysháni." T he first porcelain furnace w asin the
province ofKeangsy,early in the seventh century (Davis'sChinese,ii.255).S ince the thirteenth century the Kási
hasbeenm uchusedby theM oslem w orld:Ishallhavem oretosay uponthesubject.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 36

suggests a hammer with the handle turned heavenwards: a steeple was proposed for it,
but even the Karáchi-ite could not stand that.

We now leave on the left the old Residency, noted by its huge flag-staff. Built for the
humble days of Sir Charles Napier, it has been gradually extended, like an English
country house, and now it is a chaotic agglomerate of white walls and tiled roofs. It is at
present occupied by General Sir William L. Merewether, K.C.S.I., C.B., etc., etc., etc., an
officer who, by entire devotion to the interests of this province, the scene of his
distinguished career during the last thirty-three years, has "made epoch" and history.
Beyond it, also to the left, are the three blocks of artillery-barracks, arched below, as
those for the infantry are arched above. And we will end this dusty walk with a glance
at St. Andrew's, the Kirk designed by Mr. T. G. Newnham, Deputy Agent, Indus
Flotilla. The steeple, fourteenth-century Gothic, is by no means so absurd as that of
Trinity; but the roof ridge is too high, and the long walls are unjustifiably broken into
ten, instead of three or five, gables on each side— here, again, half would be better than
the whole. Apparently it is unfinished the rose window is a ventilator which wants
glass, and there is a hole where the clock should be. As it squares up to its tall brother of
the Establishment, the Kirk suggests a small pugilist offering to fight a big drayman for
a pot of porter.

The intensely military aspect and sound of Karáchi have vanished with the days when
she contained, besides artillery and cavalry, three white and as many black regiments.
You may take your morning walk without that "Dutch Concert" and "Devil's Tattoo" of
martial music. You no longer see the squares dotted with Johnny Raws, under the
adjutant's watchful eye, in every grade of recruitism, from the rigid miseries of the
"goose-step," to the finishing touch of the sword and the bayonet exercises. Our old
friend Brigadier Dundas, generally called Dunderhead, is no longer here to insist upon
uniform as often as possible; and white stuffs with regimental buttons are considered
sufficient for show. I know no spectacle more ridiculous than one familiar to our old
days, an officer of horse-artillery, all plastered with ginger-bread gold, being stared at
by an admiring circle of a dozen half-naked blacks.

Karachi, you see, has changed in many other points during the last quarter-century. The
steamer and the railway, the telegraph and the counting-house, the church and the
college, have gained the day against artillery, cavalry, and infantry. The "mercantile"
element has become a power; and even the stockbroker, though limited, is not
unknown. The Church, I have told you, now numbers half-dozens where she had
formerly single "pastors," and the sheep are folded with a regularity which suggests
reasons for such devotion. When you meet the Sunday promenader bound for "Dr.
Greenfield," he probably does not intend to promenade alone. Finally, the school has

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become as prominent an institution as at home, and it threatens, in Sind as in Syria, to
build a room and to keep a master for every head of boy and girl.22

I will not precisely assert that hospitality has been relegated from the centres to the
extremities, the out-stations, but the general impression left by a flying visit is
something like it. Men can no longer afford to keep open-house; the frequency of
furloughs supplies other ways of spending money. The depreciation of the rupee, not to
mention the utter want of small change, is a sound and sore grievance to those who
must remit home. While prices have prodigiously advanced, salaries have not. Add to
this the dreary dullness of a small station, confined in numbers but not in space, with a
mixed society which does not mix well. The natural effect is to make the exiles dislike
one another heartily, or to love one another only too well. And Anglo-Indian society is
somewhat like that of the United States— English with the pressure taken off it. Despite
the general church-going, scandals occur with curious persistency, and Mrs. A. rides
out as regularly with Captain B., as that officer drives with Mrs. C. Finally, there is a
dawdling, feckless, ne'er-do-well way about Karáchi, far more Asiatic than European. If
you want tea at 5 a.m. instead of 6 a.m., the lazy servants listen and say, "Achhá, sá'b"
(Yess'r), and never obey. If you order a carriage, it will come at its own convenience. So
you are not surprised to hear of the fate of an officer who, having a fad for "doing things
in time," found life so very hard upon the nerves that he preferred to it the death of
Seneca.

Politics are at this moment absorbing public attention. Sind, in the days of Sir Charles
Napier, could stand alone; now she cannot. Her manifest destiny is to become the line
of transit and traffic, the harbour of export from the Panjáb, which will then cease to
ship goods via Bombay and Calcutta. When Lord Northbrook visited Karáchi, he was
petitioned by the merchants to amalgamate; unfortunately that Grand Moghal,
although, as a rule, by no means averse to improvement, replied Napoleonically, "Je
n'en vois pas la nécessité." His successor will probably recognize a fitness of things
palpable to the vague but useful personage "any schoolboy." The Governor of the
Panjab will then resort to Young Alexandria for sea-bathing; and an economical
Ministry will no longer see the propriety of keeping a Commissioner at the rate of four
thousand rupees per mensem.

And a little war upon the frontier is again threatened. Sir W. L. Merewether first
proposed to support the Khan of Kelát against his unruly Sardárs (chiefs); and then,
"turning north by south," he talked of deposing the Amír, Khudádád. Whereupon the
Supreme Government took away the political charge of the frontier, reducing the
Commissionership to a mere affair of revenue and internal and external administration;
while, more unpleasant still, the marches were placed under the command of Colonel
22
T he Gazetteer(p. 370) givesalist often "educationalestablishm ents," receiving grantsand aidsfrom the
m unicipality.Add at least five m ore and you have afairproportion foracity w hich can hardly num ber50,
000
souls.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 38

Munro and Major Sandeman, the latter a persona ingrata to the Commissioner. A force
has lately (March, 1876) been marched upon the Bolan Pass and Kelát23 with abundant
mystery. It is reported that it will summer there; and hope is freely expressed that this
step means annexation. Kelát, provided with a good carriage-road, would make a
charming sanitarium for Sind: it is a land where the apple flourishes, and where frosts
are hard: the Unhappy Valley wants this snug and cool retreat, and presently she will
have it.

I cannot think well of such interference between native princes and subjects. The rights
of the question are often unknown at head-quarters. If you assist the rulers, you always
make one ingrate and enemies by the thousand; if you support the Sardárs, you sow
rebellion, present and future, and you must expect to reap the results. Let me hope that
the Baroda imbroglio will not be repeated, and that, if the chief is unfitted to command
and his chieftains to obey, we shall simply garrison the city and hold the country.

"What! More annexation?"

Yes, sir. In and about India you must move on: to stand still is to fall back. Please
remember Prince Bismarck, "A nation which voluntarily surrenders territory is a nation
in decay;" and carry out his dictum to its just conclusion. This anti-annexation mania,
which was a mere reaction after the general "conveying" of 1835-45, is happily passing
away; but it did look at one time very much like putting up the shutters and closing the
shop. England is a country of compromises; India is not. Here you must choose your
line of conduct and never deviate from it. Had a late Viceroy said to the Gáikwár, "You
do not suit me: leave that seat: I will appoint a better man!" all India would have
understood him. But he almost provoked a "row" in the Maráthácountry by putting in
orders a committee of native princes, as the English fashion is, and then, as the English
fashion is not, by overruling their decision.

23
T heforceproceedingto theBolanP ass,solateintheyearand undercom m and ofCaptain Hum fry,insteadof
ColonelHogg,escortsakafilehof2000 cam els,andnum bers-
55 m en,half-battery,m ountain-train.
100 sabres,P anjab Cavalry.
227 sabres,3rdS indHorse.
276 m en4thP anjabR ifles.
217 m enJacob'sR ifles(30thBom bay R egim ent).
T otal875m en.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 39

 CHAPTER IV.

CLIFTON—GHISRI BANDAR—THE ALLIGATOR-TANK.

THE sun is sinking slowly towards his couch of purple and gold in the western main;
we have still time to drive over the couple of miles that separate from us "Clifton."

Clifton! How many recollections are conjured up by the word. Again you see the
Vallambrosa of Old England with its turfy downs, its wood-grown chasm, and its
classic stream, the Fiume Sebeto of which the poet sang:

"Tanto ricco d'onor quanto povero d'onde."

Clifton! you exclaim, in doggerel-poetical you may not become—

"Powers of heaven! and can it be

That this is all I came to see?"

Yes, sir, such is Sind; but note the peculiarities of the drive. Yon huge pile beyond the
New Barracks is the Napier Hospital; nearer us is the ground where the Scotchmen play
golf over the roughest of Nálás (nullahs); this bit of metal awning is Frere Station; those
vast yellow buildings, with the tall smoke-stacks, are the railway workshops. As we
pass through the iron-road gate we find the usual knot of male nurses and female
nurses, of babies and "Europe" dogs: the four seem everywhere to herd together.
Further to the east of the embanked road lies the new race-course, marked out by white
posts and broken-down sheds called Grand Stand. To the east-north-east is a brilliantly
lime-washed truncated cylinder of masonry, the Dakhmeh, or charnel-house, of the
Parsis, to which some poetically inclined ninny has given the popular name, "Tower of
Silence." Further on, north of the railway, you see the quarries which built new Karáchi.
Some way to the right rises the "Observatory," where no observations are, have been, or
ever will be made it is a stout little bit of building without entrance, the door being
blocked, and snakes are said to have taken the lease. The lump supporting it is old "Bath
Island;" and the salty ground, of dull chocolate with snowy efflorescence, together with
the pestilent smell, show the mangrove-haunted mouth of the Chíni backwater: it
formerly overflowed the plain subtending the eastern part of the harbour. The Persians
say of Sind—

"The smell of death is in our noses;"

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 40

and let the man who would understand the full force of the expression, take up a
handful of earth immediately after a shower, and submit it to the action of his
olfactories. The fact is that even the soil of the desert is strongly impregnated with
decayed matter, animal and vegetable; and, when the Saraháis swamped, all the South
of Europe will become uninhabitable. After three miles or so, the road ascends a quoin-
shaped buttress of dust and rugged rock, incipient sandstone, capped with a hard
conglomerate of water-rolled pebbles, embedded in silicious paste. It tails off inland:
seawards the face is more or less abrupt; and here, at the "Points," very different from
Máthárán's and Mahabaleshwar's, are a few masonry benches, and half a dozen Sind
"villas," which have not increased in number during the last quarter-century. They still
represent the three normal types; the single-poled tent, the double-poled tent, and the
cow-house, of which the Commissioner's quarters in camp supply the most
characteristic specimen. And already there is a grim modern ruin which speaks of
progress the wrong way. Such are the uncomely features of the "Civil Marine
Sanitarium," Clifton in the Far East, which took its name from the birth-place of the old
Conqueror.

However, the breath of the Arabian Sea is deliciously fresh and pure; whilst all the
surroundings

"Of sea and cliff and silver strand;"

the blue plain bordering Father Indus, the brown hills of Pír Mango, the azure crags of
the Pabb Mountains, and the long chord of the Bay made continuous by the Chíni dam,
contrast well with bare and dismal Karáchi camp. The bathing, too, is good; the piles,
once planted by way of barriers against ravenous sharks, have been removed, despite
the tradition of a soldier eaten in the hoar depths of a remote antiquity; and a wooden
gangway has been laid to defend the feet. Turtle (T. Indica) is sometimes turned;
unfortunately, the Bábarchís (Anglicè, "cook-boys") ignore the art of cooking them. We
hear of basking sharks24 sixty feet long but these monsters, whose splendid fins have
been exported to China, and whose oil is used in Arabia for defending boat-bottoms
from the teredo, are apparently non-anthropophagous, The Hindus lately opened a fane
to Mahadeva in a chevron-shaped hole, apparently worked and turned by the ceaseless
action of wind-blown sands, and the attendant "Jogi" rears pigeons for devotion, not for
pies. The third person of the Hindu Triad, you will remember, became incarnate at
Meccah in the form of a pigeon and under the title of Kapoteshwar "Pigeon-god." The
pious have also dug a well, but the supply is like brine. The great inconvenience of this
favourite watering-place, this Sindian "Ramleh," is that it affords absolutely nothing, not
even drinkable water. You must send to the Sadr— , or high, bázár, of camp for all you

24
T hesharksareCarcharias vulgaris (w hiteshark);Zygona laticeps (ham m er-head);Squalus fasciatus andS. pristis
(saw -fish);andSqualus Raja.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 41

want, and on such occasions your servants have a pleasant trick of taking six hours to
do what should occupy two.

Here, sir, we used to assemble to bathe, to "tiff," not in the English sense of the word,
and to "már," or slaughter innocent crabs. At times some such scene as this took place,
to be duly recalled and revered by memory.

A dozen young gentlemen smoking like chimneys at Christmas, talking and laughing at
the same time, mount their Arabs, and show how Arabs can get down a puzzling hill
and over loose hillocks of sand. They all form line upon the bit of clear hard beach
which separates the sea from the cliff. There is a bet upon the tapis there.

A prick of the spur and a lash with the whip: on dash the Arabs, like mad, towards and
into the Arabian Sea.

A long hollow breaker curls as it nears the land, and bursts into a shower of snowy
foam. Of the twelve cavaliers only one has weathered the storm, kept his seat, and won
the day. Eleven may be seen in various positions, some struggling in the swell, others
flat upon the sand, and others scudding about the hillocks, vainly endeavouring to
catch or to curb their runaway nags.

This boisterous jollity is now numbered with the things that were. A few dull-looking
whites promenade the strand, probably talking shop or bemoaning an eighteen-penny
rupee; and, considering how loudly Karáchi and Clifton boast of their climate, the
denizens do it injustice; they look subject to liver as well as to the ennui plague. I never
saw in India more pallid women or apstier children; Karachi seems to carry most of her
green upon the cheeks of her "pale faces." Only some half-dozen weary, service-worn
men remember with amazement the high spirits of Clifton's youth. The crabs are safe,
and so is game generally— no one can now afford the heart, even if he has the coin, for
Shikár. Yet here Lieutenant (now Colonel) Marston excelled every native sportsman in
stripping the highlands of Ibex and the Gad (wild sheep), and Lieutenant Rice began a
career which ended with his becoming the Champion Tiger-shot of the world. The
political economist, the Liberal statesman, and the Manchester School generally, will
opine that the change has been for the better. I hope you do not.

It is now time to return homewards. We will drive a few yards to the east-south-east
and visit Ghisri a counterpart of Clifton in all points, except that here, instead of the
bungalows, is a Government or "Military Marine Sanitarium." The matériel is
represented by three prim stone-boxes like detached villas, with green chiks or screens
for officers; long, mud-roofed ranges of quarters for men; and a rond point, whence
visitors can prospect the sea and the crater-like heaps of loose sand. Suggesting the
moving mounds thrown up by the Nile about Syrian Bayrút, they have rendered Ghisri

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 42

"Bandar" (port), distant four miles from Karáchi, and once the nearest embarkation
place on the Indus, or rather the GháráCreek, a name and nothing more.

But how lovely are these Oriental nights! how especially lovely, contrasted with the
most unlovely Oriental day! This south-western fag-end of the Unhappy Valley is a
desert plain of sand and dust, of silt and mud, with pins and dots of barren rocky hill,
cut by rare torrents after rain, broken into rises and falls by the furious winds, and
scarcely affording enough of thorns, salsolæ , and fire-plants, as they call the varieties of
euphorbia, to feed a dozen goats and camels. Yet the hour, somehow or other, invests
even this grisly prospect with a portion of its own peculiar charms. The heavy dew
floats up from the sun-parched soil in semi-transparent mists, at once mellowing,
graduating, and diversifying a landscape which the painful transparency of the diurnal
atmosphere lays out all in one plane like a Chinese picture. The upper heights of the
firmament-vault are of the deepest, most transparent, and most pellucid purple-blue,
melting away around its walls into the lightest silvery azure; the moonbeams lie like
snow upon the nether world; there is harmony in the night-gale, and an absence of
every harsher sound that could dispel the spell which the majestic repose of Nature
casts upon our spirits.

And now for the alligators. In former days we should have sent off our tents, and
mounted our nags to canter joyously over the seven miles of bad ground separating
Karáchi from Pír Mango. But the horse, here and elsewhere in British India, has made
way for the carriage, a step in civilization from which the Argentine Republic expects
great results. The local Hansoms and "Huglies" are open barouches, drawn by two
skeleton nags: we have a unicorn of these phantom steeds, and you will presently see
why. The trap and three is hired from the old Parsí, Merwánji Burjoji: we especially
name 5 a.m., and we are kept waiting till 6, so as to get more sun than we want. Here
time is not money, but an enemy to be disposed of; and the dawdling, inconsequent
way of life is very heavy upon the nervous systems of new-comers. At last the low-caste
Hindu driver, grinning wide at our objurgations, begins to flog his lean nags into a
rough canter up the No. 1, or Napier Road; through the Sadr-bázár; past the huge pile
of Government School, over the "Irish bridges" or ill-paved dip-watercourses of
masonry, and along the face of the tattered, half-ruined, melancholy bungalows which,
in the days of "Old Charley," were looked upon as palatial abodes. On the right are the
blue sheds of the 2nd Beloch Regiment, and in front lies a crumbling camp-bázár which
once supplied the "Soldiers' Lines." It preserves its trees, for here a booth with shade is
like a corner shop in London. We must walk through the Government Gardens to
understand the way in which everything but mere "duty" is neglected throughout Sind.
Like the cemeteries of the United States, these are the prettiest places in the land; yet,
with the sole exception of Shikárpúr, they are left to Nature and the "nigger." The
Karachi establishment gardens, of about forty acres, lie on the northern outskirts of
camp, hugging the left bank of the Liyári river, the only site where a sufficiency of
sweet water is procurable. Their few acres of poor mean land, grandiloquently named,

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 43

contain a multitude of wells and Persian wheels; a circle where the band plays to pallid
ladies in the evening, especially Saturday; an archery ground, with one mud butt in
ruins; a field of staring holly-hocks, a large swimming bath in the worst condition, and
a cricket-ground well cracked by torrid suns. The grass is being uprooted by a native,
and to the question "Why?" he replies curtly, "Bayl ke wáste" for the bullock. The shady
and avenued promenades divide a considerable expanse of vegetable-beds, especially
lettuces, cabbages, and onions. Formerly residents, on paying a subscription, got their
green meat gratis; now, they go to the bázár for their "garden-sass."

We thread the dusty roads through the Government Gardens, and presently dash
across the wide Liyári, beyond reach of civilization, which is here represented by brick
bridges and evil smells. We cross this "Nai" (Wady or Fiumara) at full gallop. We might
be going to Donnybrook Fair; and you feel almost inclined to whoop, and to flourish
your umbrella by way of shillelagh. After heavy showers in the hills, the broad deep
bed can hardly contain within its wooded and garden'd banks the dashing, crashing
torrent of frothing yellow mud. In autumn and winter the bed is bone-dry, save here
and there a pool near Karáchi town, where the little brown-blacks disport themselves in
their quasi-native element. Water-pits have also been sunk, and round the margins
crowd dames and damsels, fair and dark, young and old, of high and low degree, each
with earthen pot on head, and mostly carrying an infant riding across-hip, and clinging
to the parental side like a baby baboon. There is an immensity of confabulation, a vast
volume of sound, and, if the loud frequent laugh denote something more than what the
peevish satirist assigned to it, there is much enjoyment during the water-drawing. The
goodwives here prepare themselves for the labours and "duties" of the day, such as
cooking their husbands' and children's meals, mending clothes, gossiping, scan-
mag'ging, and other avocations multifarious.

Beyond the influence of the Fiumara stretches a level surface, bald and shiny as an old
man's pate, with an occasional Bismarck— bristle in the shape of cactus, asclepias, wild
caper, and low scrub. The vegetation is bowed landwards by the eternal sea-breeze and,
for "serious" growth, walls would be required. One of the normal "Frere roads" has been
laid out by the simple process of cutting a ditch on either side, but the cart-ruts are so
deep that we prefer driving "promiscuously" across country. We edge gradually
towards the low ridge of yellow-brown limestone, the Pír Mango Hills, which bound
the northern extremity of the Karáchi desert. After dashing through a couple of smaller
Fiumaras, we strike a notch in the range, and turn to the left up a bit of rudely-made
road, which dams the Nálá (nullah) draining our destination. The general look of the
thermal basin, or rather basins, for it is a double feature divided by a rock-rib into
eastern and western halves, is that of an oasis. The two thick groves of dates, cocoas,
and tamarinds are surrounded, except on the north, where the drainage enters, and
south, where it flows off, by a broken rim of limestones and sandstones with a strike to
the north-west, and tilted-up at an angle of 20°, forming cliffs some five hundred feet
high, and fronting towards the inner floor. In earlier days we should probably have

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 44

found our tent pitched upon the borders of the marsh, under a thick and spreading
tamarind, which has now gone the way of all wood. The natives have a saying that
sleeping beneath this "Date of Hind" gives you fever, which you cure by sleeping under
a Ním-tree (Melia azedirachta), the lilac of Persia. Once, and but once, to shame them out
of this notable superstition, I tried the experiment on my proper person; but, sir, like the
prejudice-hating commercial gentleman and his ship Friday, I caught a "chill" in the
cool, damp shade, which made me even more credulous upon that point than my
informers were.

As the crocodile was in Old Egypt, so the alligator is still a quasi-holy animal in Young
Egypt and in Pokar or Poshkar of Rajputáná. They come, it is said, from the "Habb," a
word meaning the "stream where many streams meet," about ten miles to the west; or
they work their way overland from the Indus— a feat well within the power of these
saurians. I believe that many are brought when young by Fakirs and religious
mendicants. They are of the man-eating species, with shorter snouts than those owned
by the harmless gavial (Gavialis longirostris), with white gapes, and a double keel of
caudal serrations ending in a single line. The people still assure you that the buffalo is
the only beast they will not touch. On the Indus there is also an ichthyophagous
alligator called Sísár, whose round muzzle bears a knob. It is eaten by the Mohána or
fishermen, and you can imitate the meat by cooking steaks of what soldiers call "bull-
beef" between alternate layers of stock fish.

"Pír Mango,"25 as the natives term him, or "Muggur Peer," the Alligator Saint, as we
corrupt the name, was a holy Moslem hermit who, about the middle of the thirteenth
century, settled in this barren spot and, to save himself the trouble of having to fetch
water from afar, caused, Moses like, a stream let to trickle out of the rock. On the
northern hill-crest a whitewashed stone shows where he prayed for thirteen years
before he "found grace." Presently he was visited by four pilgrim brothersaints, who,
"without rhyme or reason," as Mrs. John is apt to say, began to perpetrate a variety of
miracles. His Holiness Shaykh Lal Shahbáz, now of Séhwan, created a hot mineral
spring, whose thick, slaty-blue, graveolent proceeds settled in the nearest hollow; the
Right Reverend Faríd el-Dín metamorphosed a flower into a monstrous saurian; the
holy Jimál el-Dín converted his "Miswák," or tooth-brushing stick, into a palm-shoot
which, at once becoming a date-tree, afforded the friends sweet fruit and pleasant
shade; while the Very Venerable Jelál Jaymagámade honey and melted-butter rain from
the trees. After four years of contubernation, the friends urged Háji Mango to
accompany them upon the supererogatory pilgrimage; but he refused to leave his
beloved alligators and, opportunely taking the route for Firdaus (Paradise), he left his
remains to be interred by the fraternity close to the scene of their preternatural feats.
This place was an old Hindu pilgrimage, for the Pagans still visit it to worship Lálá

25
Pír(orHáji)"M ángho, "the supposed Arabicform ,isfound in the Gazetteer:"M ango"iscorrect S indi.M r.E.B.
Eastw ickprefersP í
r"M angah,
"theP ersianform :othersgiveP í
r"M angyár"and"M anghyár."

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 45

Jasráj, and in reverence of the hot water. They are not, by-the-by, the only geologists
who have mistaken for true vulcanism what is probably the result of sulphur pyrites
veining the subsoil. There are many similar "Jwálá-mukhís," or fiery mouths, along the
Mekrán coast; and even the Moslems derive this thermal spring from the holy Ráví
river of the Idol-worshippers.

We dash through the last sand-track, some six inches deep and, after an hour and a half
of hard gallop, we draw reins below the new Travellers' Bungalow. Facing the ruins of
its predecessor, it is a dismal-looking article, of the cowshed type, bare and shadeless.
No messman is needed, for the Anglo-Indian community is too idle and apathetic to
ride or drive so far. The "Dálán," or central feeding-room, has been monopolized by a
cheeky Parsí; and the two northern dens, devoted to "Sahib Log," suggest cats and
condemned cells. Here we are waited upon by the Mujáwir, "Miyan 'Mutka," a son of
the grim old Fakír, who died about twelve years ago: he is a civilized man, speaking a
little English and Persian, and, what is far better, an excellent Shikári; who knows
exactly where game is to be found on the Pabb Hills, the blue line that forms our
western and northern horizon. He takes us in hand, and leads us, past a brand-new
Dharmsálá, and through long graveyards with sandstone tombs and carved head-
pieces representing the male turban, to the Alligator-tank proper. A couple of kids
precede us, but this time they will escape with uncut throats. As the holy lizards used to
"Stravague," occasionally biting off a leg and picking up a nice plump child or two, they
have been ignominiously prisoned within a mud-wall, in places crested with broken
glass: here we must stand upon stones to look upon the forty head of big saurians, some
bathing in the waters, others basking upon the bank. The dark recess, formed by a small
bridge thrown over the narrow brick-canal which drains the enclosure, is broken down;
and thus we miss a characteristic scene when Mor Sahib (Mister Peacock), the grisly
monarch of the place, a genus loci some eighteen feet long, emerged in "alligatoric state"
from his recess in the warm, bluish, sulphurous stream, and protruded through the
gurgling and bubbling waters his huge snout and slimy white swallow, fringed with
portentous fangs, to receive his offering of kid-flesh. I believe his title to be a mere
euphuism, even as the Yezídís, called by their enemies "Devil-worshippers," converted
Satan into Malik Táús (Peacock Angel). Mr. E. B. Eastwick, however, opines that "the
appellation is probably derived from a demon with five heads, destroyed by Krishnah,
and from which that god is called Murári," or Mur's enemy. But why, may we ask,
should the name of a man-eating Rákhshasa, or fiend, be applied to this venerated goat-
eater? Nor can I see any reason for believing, with the same author, that these creatures
derive their sanctity from the place, being regarded as ikétal (mediums of supplication),
like the sparrows of the "Branchian Oracle" (Herod. i. 159).

The scene has been sadly civilized and vulgarized by Cockney modern improvements:
evidently the British bourgeois has passed this way. Formerly this Khírkand, or milky
water, gushed free out of the rock which supports the whitewashed dome and tomb of
the holy Háji; now it is received into a double tank of masonry, where bathing invalids

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 46

enjoy a temperature of 98° F.,26 and into a lower subdivision out of which cattle drink.
From the source it passed off into the old "Magár Táláo," or Alligator-tank proper, still
denoted by a bald patch and a border of trees. The little bog was a network of warm
shallow channels, and of cooler pools foul and stagnant with the thick dark-blue
sediment, broken here and there by lumps of verdant islet and tussocks of rushy
vegetation. Though not more than 400 feet down the centre, by half that breadth, it
contained hundreds of alligators some said a thousand varying in size from two to
twenty feet. The tout ensemble of the scene struck the eye strangely: the glaring steel-blue
vault above, vividly contrasting with the green date-trees and the greener cocoas of the
oasis, stretching about a mile in length, and set, like an emerald, in the tawny gold of
the surrounding desert; the uncanny hue and form of the Stygian swamp, intersected by
lines of mineral water; the quaintly-habited groups of visitors, and the uncouth forms of
the sluggish monsters, armed with mail-coats composed of clay whitened and hard-
baked by the solar ray. All was hors de tenue, like a fair woman clad in the "Devil's
livery," black and yellow, or a dark girl drest in red, which, the Persians say, would
make a donkey laugh. Most of the pilgrims, too, were Kanyaris, or dancing-girls from
Karachi, and even modest women here allowed themselves a latitude of demeanour,
usual enough in sacred places, but still quite the reverse of the strictly "proper." During
the exciting moment which decided whether Mister Peacock would, or would not,
deign to snap at and to swallow the hind-quarter of kid, temptingly held within an inch
of his nose, Curiosity kicked out Etiquette; faces were unveiled, and backs. of heads
were bared in most unseemly guise. "Wah! wah!!" (hurrah! hurrah!) shouted the crowd
as things ended well; and as the old Fakír, at the same time confiscating by way of
perquisite the remnant of the slaughtered animal, solemnly addressed the donor,
"Verily thy prayers are acceptable, and great will be thy fortunes in both worlds!" When
one of the minor monsters sallied forth in huge wrath, the groups that thronged the
margin of the swamp, throwing stones and clods at its tenants, were too much terrified
to think of anything but precipitate escape. And at the fountain-head a bevy of African
dames and damsels was wont to lave their buffalo-like limbs, with about as much attire
as would decently hide a hand.

There was "skylarking," too, in those days; and the poor devils of alligators, once jolly as
monks or rectors, with nothing in the world to do but to devour, drink, and doze;
wallow, waddle, and be worshipped; came to be shot at, pelted, fished for, bullied, and
besieged by the Passamonts, Alabasters, and Morgantes of Karachi. The latter were the
denizens of the tents; subalterns from camp; strangers in stranger hats and strangest
coats, who, after wandering listlessly about the grove, "making eyes" at "the fair,"
conventionally so called, offering the usual goat and playfully endeavouring to ram the
bamboo-pole down Mister Peacock's throat, informed the grave Fakír, in a corrupt and
infirm dialect of "the Moors," that he was an "old muff." They were generally
accompanied by a scratch-pack of rakish bull-terriers, yelping and dancing their joy at

26
L ieutenantCarless,oftheBom bay N avy,in 1837m adeit133°F.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 47

escaping the thraldom of the Kuttewálá, the dog-boy; and when Trim, Snap, or Pincher
came to grief,27 they would salute the murderer's eyes and mouth with two ounces of
shot, making it plunge into its native bog with a strange attempt at agility, grunting as if
it had a grievance. The Fakír, propitiated with a rupee and a bottle of cognac, retired in
high glee, warning his generous friends that the beasts were very ferocious and
addicted to biting. The truth of this statement was canvassed and generally doubted.
On one occasion the chief of the sceptics, Lieut. Beresford, of the 86th Queen's, who
made one of the best girl-actors in India, proposed to demonstrate by actual experiment
"what confounded nonsense the old cuss was talking."

The small pyrrhonist looks to his shoe-ties, turns round to take a run at the bog, and
charges the place right gallantly, now planting his foot upon one of the little tufts of
rank grass which protrude from the muddy water, then sticking for the moment in the
blue-black mire, then hopping dexterously off a scaly serrated back or a sesquipedalian
snout. He reaches the other side with a whole skin, although his overalls have suffered
from a vicious snap: narrow escapes, as one may imagine, he has had, but pale ale and
plentiful pluck are powerful preservers.

Not unfrequently an alligator ride was proposed; and the Coryphæ us of the party, who
had provided himself with a shark-hook, strong and sharp, fixed the quivering body of
a fowl on one end, and, after lashing the shank by a strong cord to the nearest palm,
began to flog the water for a "Mugur." The crowd pressed forward breathless with
excitement.

A brute nearly twenty feet long, a real saurian every inch of it, takes the bait and finds
itself in a predicament: it must either disgorge a savoury morsel, or remain a prisoner;
and, for a moment or two, it makes the ignoble choice. It pulls, however, like a
thorough-bred bull-dog, shakes its head as if it wished to shed that member, and lashes
its tail with the energy of a shark which is being battered with capstan-bars.

In a moment the "wild rider" is seated, like a Maháut or elephant driver, upon the thick
neck of the reptile steed, which, not being accustomed to carry weight, at once sacrifices
the tit-bit and runs off for the morass. On the way it slackens at times its zigzag,
wriggling course to attempt a bite; but the stiff neck will hardly bend, and the prongs of
a steel carving-fork, well rammed into the softer skin, muzzles it effectually enough.
Lastly, just as the horse is plunging into its own element, the jockey springs actively on
his feet; leaps off to one side, avoids the serrated tail, and escapes better than he
deserves.

27
In m y first account Im ade the alligatorkilladog w ith asw eep ofthe tail; thisisthe universalbeliefofthe
natives,buttherearegravedoubtsofitseverbeingdoneby alligatororcrocodile.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 48

The same trick, you may remember, was played by the late Mr. Waterton (de Waterton)
upon a certain Cayman, which I have seen in the old hall near Wakefield. The Public,
skilled at swallowing the camel of an impossible cram, strained at the gnat of an
improbable adventure, flatly refused belief, and said so. Whereupon the great traveller
grimly revenged himself by publishing, as a frontispiece to his next volume, the portrait
of what he called a "nondescript": a red monkey, to which his cunning scalpel had given
all the semblance of a man. His critics, accepting the "missing link," canvassed it in
lengthy and learned articles galore: Mr. Waterton had the laugh on his side; the
credulity of the incredulous was much enjoyed, but the Public never again gave
confidence to the author of the "sell." Never again: so he who laughed did not win.

"Skylarking" at Magar Táláo is now no more. Miyan Mutka, the Mujáwir, enters the
enceinte, and, like a menagerie-servant, stirs up the inmates with a long pole. They open
their pale gapes and roar the usual hoarse bark; when the succession of pokes and
pushes becomes too vigorous, they bite angrily at the wood and, finally, without
attempting to use the tail, they plunge into the ·puddle. Apparently they are hungry;
many of them lie with open jaws, and all seem to scan us wistfully with their cold and
cruel eyes.

We then pass the shrine of Pír or Háji Mango, together with the newly washed
"Ziyáratgah," or visitation-place. It is a domelet, with a long flight of stone-steps and an
adjacent mosque, the latter, a mere open shed, crowning the sandstone rock that rises
above the lush and straggling grove. It preserves its sanctity, as we see by the
handsome modern tomb of yellow-glazed tiles, lately built for himself by one Jíwan
Misri. More grave-yards and a small Dharmsálá lead, after half a mile, to the second
water: the dwarf valley below actually shows, amongst the tall dates, a few yards of
short clean turf, pearled with the morning dew. Ascending a slope studded with tombs
that cluster about a white building, the Nisháni or Thikáná(dwelling-place) of the great
Kalandar, Lál Sháhbáz, we find the subsidiary water welling from the hill-side. The
spring, a small bowl paved with green slime, bursts into little bubbles, and shows a
temperature of 129° F. as warm as the hand can easily bear it. The light-hearted
subaltern of bygone days explained the phenomenon by the fact that the holy inmates
of the burial-ground were "getting it piping-hot below." From the cactus-grown rock-
knob above, we have a good view to the west of the "Pabb Hills:" the Mujáwir explains
the name to be a generic term for a long ridge. He places them at a distance of forty
instead of twenty miles, and discourses eloquently concerning the visitation-places of
Hasan, Hosayn, and Sháh Beláwal. Here, through the northern drainage-gap, runs the
road to "The Estate," a fine orchard and kitchen-garden, belonging to a general
favourite, the late Murád Khán. This native gentleman kept on damming the Habb
River with curious perseverance, despite repeated breakages, and, when his property
became valuable, he died. As Government has a lien upon the farm, a tramway is now
proposed. We are joined by a tall old Darwaysh, who calls himself a Mari Beloch, and
assures us that this water, like No. 3, comes from the Chenáb. As he cannot even answer

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 49

my question concerning the reverence due to his Kashkúl or begging-bowl, he will go
away fee-less and discontented. Thence we walk a few yards to the south, and come
upon a double-headed spring, whose driblets, says the Fakír, are hot in one and cold in
the other direction. Unhappily the thermometer showed 118° F. for the south-eastern,
and 90° for the north-eastern pool. Here are a couple of tanks, one of them containing
two large and a single small alligator. This rival establishment owns an excellent
Dharmsálá, built at an expenditure of Rs. 1500 by one Tuhár Mohammed, a Mehman;
and a Hindu booth or two under the shady trees supplies pilgrims with the necessaries
of native life.

We are in luck. There is a Melo or Pilgrims' Fair at the Saint's tomb, and Sindi picnics
here become more popular as Europeans' visits diminish. I regret to observe, Mr. John
Bull, that we are not in the most respectable society. Our characters will not be worth a
fig if we wander about amongst the Kanyaris and Koblis, Anonymas and Hetæ ras; but
we may safely indulge in a "Sídi dance. Síd-í," you will understand, is the Arabic for
"my lord;" a term vulgarly applied to the Zanzibar negroids, who at home call
themselves Wásawáhíli. To be polite you say "Habshi," or Abyssinian: so the Sídi (don't
write Seedy) of Jazíreh, the ex-pirate's den off the Northern Konkan, is known as the
"Habshi." One day Sir C. Napier took it into his head to manumit all the Sind blacks,
who were at once turned out of house and home. There was general wailing and
gnashing of teeth; few, however, starved, because life is easy in these latitudes; and
now, a generation after their manumission, the number seems to have increased. But
you must not run away with the idea that this would be the case in the United States, or
even in the Brazil. Query, would not the philanthropist rather see them die free than
live and multiply in bondage?

The preparations are easily made. Fantastic flags are planted in the ground; and the
musical instruments, a huge Dhol or tree-drum, and sundry horns, are deposited in the
shade. As dancing is an "act of prayer," is a prayer upon the legs, the performance opens
with a burnt-offering of bad frankincense in a broken potsherd. The musicians then
strike up, while the chorus roar a recitativo, tomtoming, trumpeting, and drum-
drubbing, with all the weight of their mighty muscular arms and with the whole
volume of their loud and leathery lungs.

The corps de ballet is composed of several Táifehs or sets, each represented by any
number of dancers, male and female. They have tasted of English liberty, and now they
are impudent as London cads or an ancient noble-woman's pet courier. At first the
sexes mingle, each individual describing, round the central flag, a circle of pirouettes,
without any such limitations as time or step, and chanting rude ditties with hoarse and
willing throats. Then the ballerine, separating themselves from the male artistes, group
together the fascinators!— whilst one advances coquettishly, wriggling her sides with all
the grace of a Panjáb bear, and uttering a shrill cry, the Kil and Zaghrítah of Persia and
Egypt, which strikes you as the death-shriek of a wild cat. After half an hour of these

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 50

pas seuls, the host of male vis-à-vis, excited beyond all bounds, and thrilling in every
nerve, can stand inactivity no longer. They plunge forward prancing; they stop short,
squatting suddenly on the ground; they spring up and wave their arms, shouting and
howling all the time more like maniacs than common mortals. The perspiration pours
down their naked forms, they pant and puff like high-pressure engines; still they keep
the ball going. At times it is necessary to revive one of the performers, who has fainted
with over-excitement, fatigue, and strong waters. His ankles are seized by the nearest
pair of friends, who drag him testily out of the ring, dash a potful of water over his
prostrate form, and leave him to "come round" when he can. The moment he opens his
eyes, be sure that, treu und fest, he will return to the charge, game as a bull-dog, and
dance himself with all possible expedition into another fit.

Mr. Bull, and ye admirers of the olden time, ye classical lauders of hoar antiquity, will
you excuse me if I venture upon one query? When those heavenly maids, Music and the
Ballet, first came down from Indian Meru or Ethiopian Meroe, loved of the gods, to one
of the many Olympuses, and condescended to take an engagement with Young Greece,
did they, think ye, appear in the primitive, natural, and unaffected forms which they
still display to ecstasize the Sídi sons of Young Egypt? I humbly opine they did.

As we return homewards we pass by a Káriz, one of the subterranean aqueducts used

for irrigation throughout Central Asia. It is formed by sinking a line of shafts, used for
repairs as well as excavation, at intervals of about twenty yards, and connecting them
by a narrow tunnel dug, at the requisite depth, below the surface. Thus the irregularities
of level are overcome, and water is brought down from the hills without evaporation or
the danger of being drawn off by strangers. The long lines of earth-mounds, indicating
the several apertures, is a familiar feature in a Sind, as in a Persian, landscape. It is
wonderful how accurately the mountain-folk can determine by the eye rising and
falling ground, and how skilfully they excavate with their rude tools; in some cases,
however, as here, the work ends in a failure.

Sind Revisited - Richard F. Burton (1877); Copyright © www.sanipanhwar.com 51

 GRANTA
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ISSUE 112

EDITOR John Freeman

DEPUTY EDITOR Ellah Allfrey
ARTISTIC DIRECTOR Michael Salu
ONLINE EDITOR Ollie Brock
EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS Emily Greenhouse, Patrick Ryan
PUBLICITY Saskia Vogel
DESIGN INTERN Daniela Silva
FINANCE Geoffrey Gordon, Morgan Graver, Craig Nicholson
MARKETING AND SUBSCRIPTIONS Anne Gowan, David Robinson
SALES DIRECTOR Brigid Macleod
SALES MANAGER Sharon Murphy
TO ADVERTISE IN THE UK CONTACT Kate Rochester, katerochester@granta.com
TO ADVERTISE IN THE USA CONTACT Emily Cook, ecook@granta.com
IT MANAGER Mark Williams
PRODUCTION ASSOCIATE Sarah Wasley
PROOFS Sarah Barlow, Lizzie Dipple, Katherine Fry, Lesley Levene, Jessica
Rawlinson, Vimbai Shire, Mirza Waheed
ASSOCIATE PUBLISHER Eric Abraham
PUBLISHER Sigrid Rausing
 CONTENTS

Leila in the Wilderness

Nadeem Aslam

Poem
Yasmeen Hameed

Portrait of Jinnah
Jane Perlez

Kashmir’s Forever War

Basharat Peer

Poem
Daniyal Mueenuddin

Ice, Mating
Uzma Aslam Khan

The House by the Gallows

Intizar Hussain

Butt and Bhatti

Mohammed Hanif
High Noon
Green Cardamom with a foreword by Hari Kunzru

Arithmetic on the Frontier

Declan Walsh

Poem
Hasina Gul

A Beheading
Mohsin Hamid

Pop Idols
Kamila Shamsie

Restless
Aamer Hussein

Mangho Pir
Fatima Bhutto

White Girls
Sarfraz Manzoor

The Trials of Faisal Shahzad

Lorraine Adams with Ayesha Nasir
The Sins of the Mother
Jamil Ahmad

Notes on contributors
Copyright
POP IDOLS

Kamila Shamsie
 Before Youth Culture

In 1987 I had a lot in common with many other fourteen-year-olds. I

watched the Brat Pack/John Hughes films, repeatedly; I knew the Top 10 of
the UK chart by heart; I cut out pictures of Rob Lowe, Madonna, a-ha from
teen magazines and stuck them on my bedroom walls; I regarded the perfect
‘mixed tape’ as a pinnacle of teenaged achievement and gave thanks for not
living in the dark days of LPs. But in doing all these things I merely
affirmed what every adolescent growing up, like me, in Karachi could tell
you – youth culture was Foreign. The privileged among us could visit it, but
none of us could live there.
Instead, we lived in the Kalashnikov culture. Through most of the
eighties, Karachi’s port served as a conduit for the arms sent by the US and
its allies to the Afghan mujahideen, and a great many of those weapons
were siphoned off before the trucks with their gun cargo even started the
journey from the port to the mountainous north. By the mid-eighties,
Karachi, my city, a once-peaceful seaside metropolis, had turned into a
battleground for criminal gangs, drug dealers, ethnic groups, religious sects,
political parties – all armed. Street kids sold paper masks of Sylvester
Stallone as Rambo; East met West in its adulation of the gun and its hatred
of the godless Soviets.
In those days, schools were often closed because of ‘trouble in the city’;
my school instituted drills to contend with bombs and riots, rather than fire.
Even cricket grounds – those rare arenas where exuberance still survived –
weren’t unaffected; all through 1986 and for most of 1987, there was hardly
any international cricket played at Karachi’s National Stadium because of
security concerns. The exception in 1986 was a Pakistan v. West Indies Test
match. Still, my parents refused to allow me to attend. They were worried
there might be ‘trouble’. This was the refrain of my adolescence. My
parents and their friends constantly had to make decisions about how to
balance concern for their children’s safety against the desire to allow life to
appear as normal for us as possible. Like all teenagers, though, we wanted
to go somewhere – and public spaces, other than the beach, held little
appeal.
 As a result, ‘going for a drive’ became an end unto itself. A group of us
would pile into a car and we’d just drive, listening to mixed tapes with
music from the UK and the US, singing along to every song. Sometimes
these were tapes one of us had recorded straight off the radio while on a
summer holiday in London, and we’d soon memorize all the truncated clips
of jingles and radio patter as well as the songs. ‘Capital Radio! Playing all
over London!’ we’d chant while navigating our way through Karachi’s
streets. ‘There are tailbacks on the M25 …’ We always travelled in groups.
You heard stories about the police stopping cars that had only a boy and girl
in them and demanding proof that the pair were married, turning
threatening and offering an option of arrest or payment of a bribe when the
necessary paperwork wasn’t forthcoming. There weren’t any laws against
driving in a car with someone of the opposite gender, but there were laws
against adultery – and the police treated ‘sex’ as synonymous with ‘driving’
for the purposes of lining their pockets.
That was life as we knew and accepted it. Then one day in 1987 I turned
on the lone, state-run TV channel to find four attractive young Pakistani
men, wearing jeans and black leather jackets, strumming guitars, driving
through the hills on motorbikes and in an open-top jeep, singing a pop song.
And just like that, Youth Culture landed in living rooms all over Pakistan.
 Islamization

It didn’t really happen ‘just like that’, of course. Nothing ever does. There
are various contenders for Pakistan’s first pop song, but everyone seems to
agree what the first pop video was. It came to our screens in 1981. I was
eight when a brother-and-sister duo, Nazia and Zoheb Hassan, released the
single ‘Disco Deewane’ (‘Disco Crazy’). I was too young then to know that
something altogether new had arrived in the form of the ‘Disco Deewane’
video with its dream sequences, dancers in short, white space-age dresses
and Nazia’s sensual pout. I do remember being mildly embarrassed that a
pair of Pakistanis were trying to ‘do an Abba’. Somewhere I had acquired
the notion that pop music belonged to another part of the world; if the term
‘wannabe’ had existed then I would have agreed that it applied to Nazia and
Zoheb – and everyone who loved their music; never mind that the song
played in my head as incessantly as anything Abba ever produced.
I’m fairly sure that I wouldn’t have been so dismissive of the idea of
Pakistani pop videos if I had been born just a few years earlier, and could
recall the Karachi of the early seventies, which had no shortage of glamour
and East–West trendiness: nightclubs; locally made films with beautiful
stars and catchy songs; shalwar kameez fashions inspired by Pierre Cardin
(who designed the flight attendants’ uniform for Pakistan International
Airlines); popular bands who played covers of UK and US hits at
fashionable spots in town. It’s true, a good part of this world was known
only to a tiny section of Karachi society, but I grew up in that tiny section
and yet, even so, by the start of the eighties, stories of that glamorous milieu
seemed a million miles away from the reality around me.
The reason for this dissonance was the dramatic shift that took place in
Pakistan’s cultural life between the early seventies and early eighties. The
shift had a name – ‘Islamization’ – and a face – heavy-lidded, oily-haired,
pencil-moustached. That face belonged to Pakistan’s military dictator, Zia
ul-Haq, ally of the Saudis and the Americans. As the alliance with the
Americans brought guns into Karachi, so the alliance with the Saudis
brought a vast increase in the number of Wahhabi mosques and madrasas:
these preached a puritanical version of religion at odds with the Sufism that
had traditionally been the dominant expression of Islam in much of the
subcontinent. Fear of the growing influence of political, Wahhabi-inspired
Islam formed a steady thrum through my childhood, and early on I learned
that one of the most derogatory and dismissive terms that could be used
against another person was ‘fundo’ (as in ‘fundamentalist’).
By the time I was watching Nazia and Zoheb on TV, I already knew Zia
ul-Haq stood for almost all that was awful in the world; he had placed my
uncle, a pro-democracy politician, under house arrest. What I didn’t know
then was that the video of ‘Disco Deewane’, at which I was turning up my
nose, was coming under attack by Zia’s allies on the religious right; they
had decided it was un-Islamic for a man and woman to dance together, as
Nazia and Zoheb did in the video, even if they were siblings.
These were the early days of Islamization, when the censors were
confused about what was permissible. A few years later, the process of
Islamization was sufficiently advanced that a video such as ‘Disco
Deewane’ would have no chance of airing. Although Nazia and Zoheb
continued to release albums, the censorship laws and official attitudes
towards pop meant they never gave concerts, received limited airtime on
PTV, never released another video with the energy and sensuality of ‘Disco
Deewane’, and were seen as a leftover from the days before Zia’s soulless
rule sucked the life out of Pakistan’s youth culture. Or, from the point of
view of my historically amnesiac adolescent world, by the mid-eighties,
when pop music really started to matter to me, they were already dinosaurs
from another era.
 BB (Benazir Bhutto; Battle of the Bands)

But I was soon to learn that some dinosaurs can roar their way out of
seeming extinction in a single moment. The person who taught me this was
thirty-three-year-old Benazir Bhutto. As long as I could remember she had
been the pro-democracy politician under arrest, house arrest or exile.
Pakistan was Zia ul-Haq to me, after all; how could someone who spoke of
replacing not just the man but the entire system ever be of relevance?
Imagine then how my world must have turned on its head in April 1986
when Benazir returned to Pakistan a free woman, for the first time in eight
years, and a million people took to the streets of Lahore to welcome her
home.
Benazir’s triumphant return was one of several watershed political
moments that marked my young life. My earliest ever recollection is of my
father showing me his thumb, with a black mark on it, and explaining that
he’d just been to the polling booth, and that the black mark, indelible ink,
was to guard against anyone attempting to cast more than one vote. I was
three and a half then, and the start of Zia ul-Haq’s dictatorship was just
months away. I remember the day Benazir’s father was hanged, the day
women’s rights activists marched on Islamabad to protest against
misogynistic laws and were set upon by baton-wielding police, the day Zia
held a referendum to extend his rule. So, the return of Benazir, after a
decade of soul-wearying, dictatorial, oppressive political news was
electrifying. For me, this is how it happened: at one moment she was far
away, then she was in our midst and nothing was quite the same as before.
It seemed just that way with pop music, too. In the mid-eighties, in
Lahore and Karachi (and in other pockets of urban Pakistan), groups of
students came together in each other’s homes for jam sessions; the names of
some of those students are instantly recognizable to anyone following the
rise of Pakistani pop in the eighties and nineties: Aamir Zaki in Karachi,
Salman Ahmad in Lahore, Junaid Jamshed in Rawalpindi. In 1986, Lahore’s
Al-Hamra auditorium hosted its first ‘Battle of the Bands’, and the
underground music scene cast off its subterranean nature. Some of the
loudest cheers were reserved for a Rawalpindi-based group called the Vital
Signs. But down south, in my home town, we paid little attention to ‘the
provinces’ and so the Vital Signs remained completely unknown to me until
that day in 1987 when I turned on the TV and saw the four young men
singing in an open-top jeep.
 The Vital Signs

Watching the video of ‘Dil Dil Pakistan’ (‘Heart, Heart, Pakistan’ or ‘My
Heart Beats for Pakistan’) today, I’m struck by the void that must have
existed to make pretty boys singing patriotic pop appear subversive. In a bid
to circumvent growing restrictions, TV producer Shoaib Mansoor had the
idea of getting a pop song past the censors by wrapping it up in nationalism.
Vital Signs and ‘Dil Dil Pakistan’ was the result. The video, with its guitar-
strumming, denim-clad twenty-something males, premiered on
Independence Day – 14 August – 1987 and millions of Pakistanis, including
my fourteen-year-old self, fell over in rapture.
Our reaction clearly wasn’t to do with their dance moves. The Vital Signs
boys of 1987 seem ill at ease, their gyrations arrhythmic, their posture self-
conscious. This is particularly true of the lead singer, Junaid Jamshed, but
still, I was in love. They were clean-cut, good-looking and, most
shockingly, they were nearby. They were Pakistani after all; one day you
might turn a corner and run into one of them. This scenario started to seem
even more thrillingly possible the day gossip raced through the schoolyard,
telling us that one of the boys at school – a boy I knew! – was Junaid
Jamshed’s cousin.
The first concert I ever attended was Vital Signs playing at a swanky
Karachi hotel. It’s a safe guess that some of the girls present hadn’t told
their parents where they were really going that evening. Mine was a co-ed
school, and while all the boys and girls were entirely at ease in each other’s
company, many of the girls had restrictions placed on them by their parents
about co-ed socializing outside school hours. Almost no one’s parents were
classified as fundo, but many were ‘conservative’ – the latter having more
to do with ideas of social acceptability and ‘reputation’ than religious
strictures.
The concert took place in a function room, one used for conferences,
small receptions or evenings of classical music. I had doubtless been in that
room many times for tedious weddings, but I don’t suppose I’d ever entered
it in jeans before – and that alone must have made the room feel different,
unexpected. There was a makeshift stage placed at one end and neat rows of
chairs set out for the audience by organizers who obviously had no idea
what a pop concert was all about. But we did, we Karachi adolescents.
We’d watched pirated recordings of Hollywood teen movies, and Top of the
Pops, and we knew that when a pop group started singing no one sat down
and politely swayed in time to the music. So, as soon as the band came on,
all of us climbed atop our chairs and started dancing. ‘You guys are great,’
Jamshed said in surprised delight, before breaking into Def Leppard’s ‘Pour
Some Sugar on Me’. I recall telling myself: Remember this. I had never
before come so close to touching the Hollywood version of Teenaged Life.
By 1988, a slightly reconfigured Vital Signs, having replaced one of its
original band members with the guitarist Salman Ahmad, was in the process
of recording a debut album when a plane exploded in the sky, killing Zia ul-
Haq and allowing Pakistanis to take to the ballot box to declare what we
wanted for our nation after eleven years of military rule and so-called
Islamization. The answer was clear: no to the religious parties; yes to the
thirty-five-year-old woman.
 Democracy and Status Quo

Given the state of Pakistan today, it is impossible to remember the heady

days at the end of 1988 without tasting ashes. Elation was in the air, and it
had a soundtrack. At parties my friends and I continued to dance to the
UK’s Top 40, but the songs that ensured everyone crowded on to the dance
floor were ‘Dil Dil Pakistan’ and the election songs of both Benazir’s
Pakistan People’s Party (PPP) and the Karachi-based Muhajir Qaumi
Movement (MQM). There was little concern for political affiliation. At one
such party I recall a young Englishman looking perplexed as Karachi’s
teens gyrated to a song with the chorus Jeay jeay jeay Bhutto Benazir
(‘Long live Benazir’). ‘I can’t imagine a group of schoolkids in London
dancing to a “Long Live Maggie” number,’ he said, and I pitied him and all
the English teenagers for not knowing what it was like to see the dawn of
democracy.
A few months into the tenure of the Bhutto government, with the new
head of state’s approval, Pakistan TV organized and recorded a concert
called Music ’89. Nazia and Zoheb Hassan hosted, fittingly; but the event
also passed the baton to a new generation, including Vital Signs and the hot
new talent, the Jupiters, fronted by Ali Azmat. Tens of millions of people
tuned in and religio-fascists fulminated from every pulpit. Benazir, as she
would go on to do time and again, gave in to the demands of the religious
right and, despite its huge success, the tapes of Music ’89 were removed
from the PTV library.
One of the most distinguishing features of the Bhutto government was
the prevalence of the status quo precisely where there was the most urgent
need for change. Islamization was no longer the government’s spoken
objective, but all the madrasas, jihadi groups and reactionary preachers
continued as if nothing had changed, with the support of the army and
intelligence services. Benazir’s supporters argued that she had no room to
manoeuvre given all the forces ranged against her; her detractors said her
only real interest was in clinging on to power. Either way, the great social
transformation we had expected to see, that Return to Before, never
happened.
 Even worse, many of the changes begun by Zia ul-Haq gained
momentum. Almost all of rural Pakistan continued to hold fast to Sufi
Islam, but the cities, where there was no deep affiliation to a particular
religious tradition, became, perversely, more susceptible to the
reactionaries. There were signs that a reactionary Islam, which entwined
itself with world events, had made its mark on several of my schoolfellows
– the male athlete who didn’t want to run in shorts on the school’s sports
day because Islam demanded modesty in dress; the close friend of mine
who held up a picture of Salman Rushdie in the months just after the fatwa
and said, ‘He even looks like the Devil!’; and, most notably, the other friend
who told me, in 1991, that Saddam would win the war against the
Americans. When I pressed him for his reasons, given the disparity in the
two nations’ armies, he shrugged and made some cryptic comment about
Saddam having a ‘greater’ weapon. Chemical? I asked, and it was only
when he continued to look straight at me, without expression, that I realized
what he was thinking. ‘Allah?’ I said, and he raised both shoulders and
dropped them – a gesture that told me I may not believe it, but it was so.
Everyone I knew at school had been closely following the Gulf War,
though much of that had to do with the excitement of CNN broadcasting
into our homes for the first time – after a lifetime of state-controlled TV, we
were all hungry for images from around the world. At seventeen I knew
certain basic political truths, even if they were never directly articulated on
CNN: America had turned its back on Afghanistan after the Soviet
withdrawal; the Gulf War was about oil; the same America that had
embraced the religio-military dictatorship of General Zia was now turning
frosty towards the new democratic government and imposing sanctions on
the nation. None of this got in the way of the draw of America as a
destination for my friends and myself – most of us, including the boy who
predicted Saddam’s righteous victory, were headed there for university. We
knew that America was a wonderful place, if you were in it. There was no
struggle to reconcile my conflicting views. I’d always known it was a
country that produced both Rambo and Laura Ingalls Wilder.
By the summer of 1991, even though political disillusionment with
Pakistan’s democracy was rife, I viewed the world around me as a source of
delight. University beckoned – almost all my friends would be on the East
Coast by the autumn. We made plans for meeting in Boston on weekends
and over Thanksgiving break. It didn’t occur to me that I might be
homesick, or that anything would seem remotely unfamiliar. It also didn’t
occur to me that henceforth Pakistan would be no more than a part-time
home, and that I would eventually join the ranks of Those Who Left. I was
going away for university, that was all; in four years, I’d return, and both
Karachi and I would be much the same as before. And as for those pop stars
of my youth – I assumed that some would fade away before others but that
in the end they’d all be remembered as ‘pioneers of pop’. I certainly never
would have imagined that their lives over the next two decades would
reflect Pakistan’s shifting religio-political landscape.
 The Sufi Rocker

Weeks before I left for university, I had one concert-going experience that
was to prove more potent in retrospect than at the time. The group with
whom I spent that summer included a boy called Sherry, whose brother
Salman Ahmad had just left Vital Signs to start his own band, Junoon.
Junoon’s first album, released that year, was greeted with total indifference
by critics and the public, but Sherry rounded up all the gang to go to a
Junoon concert that summer. We went, but without much enthusiasm. Vital
Signs was still the premier band in the country, and Ahmad, the guitarist,
who was either jettisoned or parachuted out (accounts varied), had a whiff
of second best about him. But onstage, Junoon was electrifying – thanks to
both Ahmad and the singer, Ali Azmat, formerly of the Jupiters. Later, when
Junoon became the biggest name in Pakistani pop, I would talk about that
concert with an ‘I heard them before they were famous’ tone of superiority.
But the truth was, soon after that I went to university and started to see the
overwhelming maleness of Pakistani pop as alienating – my musical world
now revolved around Natalie Merchant, Ani DiFranco and the Indigo Girls.
I started to pay attention to Junoon again in 1996, when they became
megastars with ‘Jazba-e-Junoon’, the Coca-Cola-sponsored recording of the
official Pakistan team song for the Cricket World Cup, and more or less
simultaneously Ahmad started looking to Sufi Islam in an attempt to find a
sound for Junoon that wasn’t merely derivative of Western rock. My own
interest in the mystical side of Islam had started at university when I took a
course on Sufism and learned how absurd I had been to think subversion via
music came in the form of boys in denim singing pop songs in which they
pledged their heart to Pakistan.
In the Sufi paradigm, God is the beloved and the mortal is the
supplicant/lover – the relationship between the individual and God is
intensely personal and does not admit the intercession of ‘religious
scholars’ or ‘leaders of the congregation’. Small wonder that the Sufis have
almost always stood in opposition to those who claim to be the guardians of
religion. But the deep-rootedness of Sufi Islam in Pakistan has often meant
that the orthodoxy don’t dare take it on – through the Zia years, the great
singers in the Sufi tradition, such as Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and Abida
Parveen, continued to perform, both in public gatherings where the crowds
could exceed half a million and on state-run TV. Every note leaping from
their throats was a rebuke to the orthodoxy. It wasn’t until university that I
saw the brilliance of those singers – particularly of Nusrat, who was a
worldwide phenomenon by the nineties. You didn’t need to understand a
word he sang, or feel any religious stirrings, to be struck to the marrow by
one of the greatest voices of the century.
Nusrat and other qawwals were such a potent force in Pakistan that it’s
not surprising that Junoon’s attempt to encroach on Sufi musical ground
deeply divided listeners at first. But within a few years, the term ‘Sufi rock’
was no longer something spoken with inverted commas hanging around it.
Much as I loved the music, though, I was sceptical about the relentless
Coke-sponsored marketing that went alongside it. It didn’t sit too well with
the Sufi idea of stripping away the ego.
Of course, there was no reason why musicians singing Sufi lyrics should
live by Sufi rules. But Ahmad, who now affected the fashionable garb of a
long-haired, bead-wearing, goateed mystic, spoke extensively about his
immersion in Sufism. The critical acclaim for Ahmad’s music began to fade
at the start of the new millennium, and yet halfway through the decade he
was more visible than ever before – performing at the UN, talking up Indo-
Pak friendship, promoting HIV/Aids awareness, appearing on TV, playing
at the Nobel Peace Prize ceremony. It is hard to separate sense of mission
from marketing in all this. Whatever he has done in the last few years, and
whatever he does in the future, Ahmad’s legacy is Sufi rock, that
electrifying blend of the deep-rooted mystical side of subcontinental Islam
and contemporary, cutting-edge, rocking youth culture.
 The Fundo

In Salman Ahmad’s autobiography, Rock & Roll Jihad, it is unsettling how

often he writes of receiving messages and signs from God, and of his
certainty that he is doing God’s work through his music. His old friend and
former Vital Signs bandmate Junaid Jamshed would doubtless disagree. I
still vividly recall the moment in the late nineties when I returned to
Karachi after an absence of several months and one of my friends said,
‘Have you heard about Junaid Jamshed?’ I hadn’t given him much thought
for some years; other groups, not only Junoon, had come along since and
eclipsed those pioneers of pop. ‘He’s become a fundo.’
Junaid Jamshed? The man who wanted Karachi’s teens to pour some
sugar on him? Surely not. But yes, my friend said when I questioned them –
he had joined the Tablighi Jamaat, a proselytizing movement, which
believed in following the example of the Prophet in the most literal ways –
the length of your beard; the clothes in your wardrobe; the Arab inflection
of your pronunciation; the exact words you used to say goodbye. The
Tablighi Jamaat had been among the groups to benefit from the state
sponsorship of Wahhabi Islam in the Zia years, though they always insisted
they were completely apolitical.
Rumour had it that some personal crisis had propelled Jamshed into the
arms of Tablighi Jamaat, who promised a clear path to salvation. There was
no way of knowing if that was truth or conjecture. All I knew was that one
day I turned on the TV and there was a man I didn’t instantly recognize,
with a long beard and white skullcap, quoting from the Quran. Nothing he
said was objectionable; he spoke of peace, and the importance of education,
and other perfectly right-minded things. But it filled me with despair.
Jamshed himself couldn’t seem to decide how easily this mantle of
righteousness sat on him. For six years, we all watched as he vacillated
between pop star and proselytizing man of faith. He declared he was
quitting the music business. Then he refashioned his beard into a neat
goatee and appeared with Vital Signs at a tribute concert for Nazia Hassan,
who had died tragically young from cancer almost twenty years after
burning up screens in the ‘Disco Deewane’ video. When questioned,
Jamshed claimed that there was nothing incompatible in Islam and pop
music. Later still, he would insist that the U-turn at that concert was a sign
that he had not yet been strong enough to do the right thing. At the time, he
rationalized, he’d had four international concerts lined up, as well as a new
album he’d already recorded, not to mention a one-year contract with Pepsi
… it just hadn’t been the right time to sever his ties with pop music, the
pressures were too great. Once free of contractual obligations, Jamshed
again declared pop music haram (forbidden) and soon after took to
recording religious songs of praise.
Today, Jamshed’s life is divided between proselytizing for Tablighi
Jamaat, recording religious albums and running a very successful designer
label – J. (Jay Dot) – with stores in the glitziest malls of Pakistan, and
branches soon opening in the UK. According to his MySpace page, it is no
problem to reconcile his religious devotion with his designer stores. As he
reminds us, ‘Our Prophet Muhammad, peace be with him, was also a
merchant who sold cloth.’
There are other ways in which religion can pay. Last year, Jamshed
appeared on TV speaking with a tone and urgency that suggested he was
about to reveal some deeply important spiritual truth. His message: contrary
to rumours, Lay’s potato chips are made using only halal products. For this
TV spot, which ends with Jamshed munching on a potato chip, he was
reportedly paid 2 million rupees (£26,000 – though the comparatively low
cost of living in Pakistan makes it a much larger amount in real terms).
That Jamshed was outspoken about his religious faith wasn’t in itself
worthy of comment. In the Pakistan I had grown up in almost everyone
identified as Muslim; to do otherwise meant you were either of the 3 per
cent of the population belonging to other religious groups, or had adopted a
contrarian attitude. But one of my friends aptly put her finger on why the
particular form of Islam espoused by the former pop star was so
disquieting: ‘In our grandmother’s generation, when people became more
religious, they turned devout. Now they turn fundamentalist.’
 The Rock Star Fantasist

From his early days in the Jupiters, to his huge success as the voice of
Junoon and, recently, his critically acclaimed solo career, Ali Azmat has
always been the man who most lived up to the idea of the rock star. He
remains the most charismatic performer on the pop scene, with a sartorial
flair that sets trends, a turbulent relationship with a beautiful model, a
reputation for brashness and a personality that is an appealing mix of
contagious good humour and artistic suffering. When the journalist Fifi
Haroon asked Azmat how many girlfriends he’d had, he replied, ‘I’m a
lover, not a mathematician.’ While Junaid Jamshed was declaring pop music
haram and Salman Ahmad delved into the Quran and Sufism, Azmat just
focused on the music. He might have been singing Sufi rock, but he made it
quite clear that it was the rock that mattered.
Then, in 2009, the rock star shifted his primary vocation from singer to
that of cheerleader.
The man Azmat has been championing – introducing him at public
events, singing his praises on TV, featuring him as the resident ‘expert’ on
his talk show – is Zaid Hamid, a self-professed ‘security consultant and
strategic defence analyst’. An example of Hamid’s strategic thinking was in
evidence early in 2010 when he set out a vision for Pakistan’s future.
‘Pakistan will lead a bloc of Muslim nations known as the United States of
Islam,’ he declared to an approving, self-selected audience. ‘Any nation that
wants to lift a foot will first ask Pakistan’s permission … We have good
news for India: we will break you and make you the size of Sri Lanka.’ And
on and on it went, describing how Pakistani Muslims from ‘the United
States of Islam’ would ensure the security of Muslims the world over.
A few weeks after this televised address, Azmat appeared on a talk show
hosted by the model and actress Juggan Kazim; the other guest was the
feisty actress Nadia Jamil, who savaged Azmat for his association with
Hamid, whom she described as a hate-monger.
Azmat hotly denied this. ‘We’re not against any people,’ he said. ‘We’re
against a political ideology called Zionism … there are all sorts of Zionists.
There are Hindu Zionists, Muslim Zionists, Christian and Jewish Zionists.’
 ‘What is Zionism?’ asked Kazim.
‘We don’t even know ourselves what it is,’ Azmat replied, without a
flicker of embarrassment. ‘It’s a political ideology where obviously these
guys have taken over the world, through whatever means, through
businesses …’
Hamid’s star has imploded in the last few months, for various reasons,
including a murder case against him and attacks from members of the
orthodoxy who saw his popularity as a challenge. But the spectacular speed
with which he rose to prominence, and the support he gathered, are very
telling about the state of Pakistan. A country demoralized and humiliated by
its myriad problems could either turn reflective, or it could simply blame
everyone else. Large sections of Pakistan have chosen the latter option.
Hamid’s appeal to the young – who made up much of his following – was
that while his talk of Pakistan’s glorious future was entirely wrapped in
religious-tinged rhetoric, he stayed away from social proscriptions. If the
question is ‘What kind of Muslim am I?’ – and in Pakistan that is often the
question – the Hamid answer is ‘The kind who fights Zionism everywhere!’
Whether you do so in jeans and T-shirt, and with or without a guitar, is
largely beside the point. You can become a Better Muslim without
disrupting your social life. What more could a Pakistani rock star ask for?

It’s a strange business, growing up. Your teen idols grow up too, and you
realize that the vast gulf of years which separated you from them is actually
just a narrow ravine, and that you are all roughly part of the same
generation. In the particular case of the Pakistani pop pioneers, you also
realize that your nation is growing up with you too – the Islamic Republic
of Pakistan came into being in 1971, when the former East Pakistan became
Bangladesh. Given the youthfulness of the nation, perhaps it isn’t surprising
that we of the ‘Islamic Republic of Pakistan generation’ look at each other
and seek answers to the question: ‘What do our lives say about the state of
the nation?’
Largely, our lives say that polarity and discordance are rife. However,
although they are few and sometimes difficult to identify, there are still
spaces in Pakistan where difference presents opportunities to harmonize.
Aptly enough, one of those spaces is the music studio. Coke Studio, to be
specific. Corporate sponsorship has been an integral part of Pakistani pop
music since Pepsi signed Vital Signs to sing their most famous tune with the
slightly rejigged lyrics ‘Pepsi Pepsi Pakistan’. Notably, despite the different
paths Azmat, Jamshed and Ahmad followed, they all remained linked to
corporate sponsors, a fact that didn’t seem to get in the way of any of their
religious or political beliefs.
Now in its third season, Coke Studio is a wildly popular TV show
featuring live performances from Pakistan’s biggest musical acts, as well as
introducing some lesser-known singers. The most glorious thing about the
show is the disparate traditions it brings together – pop, qawwali, rock, folk,
classical. Qawwals and rock stars duet, the tabla and violin complement
each other’s sounds. And the man who makes it all happen? The somewhat
reclusive and much sought-after producer Rohail Hyatt, who, twenty-three
years ago was one of the four boys in jeans singing ‘Dil Dil Pakistan’ in my
living room. More than any of his Vital Signs bandmates or Junoon rivals,
he seems aware of one simple and persisting truth: in Pakistan, as all around
the world, what we most crave from our musicians is music.
Theme 2: Displacement/Land Rights
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Making Karachi

By Shahana Rajani & Shayan Rajani May 2016

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A citizen’s design for Jinnah’s Mausoleum | From: Shundana Yusuf

Partition irrevocably transformed Karachi. Of this there is no question. The first and better known transformation was
through a violent “exchange” of populations, which turned it from a city of Sindhi Hindus and Sikhs to a city of Muslim
refugees. The second change came more slowly as the new country decided on a future for its premier city. A vision of a
modern Karachi coalesced around plans for spectacular monuments, ordered space, and industry. Development became
essential to the state’s ambitions to modernize Karachi and bring it at par with other Western cities.

This dream of modernity remained ever elusive, but displacement became the key strategy for its realization. Slum clearance
and dispossession of agricultural land were deemed necessary for the construction of national monuments and industrial
zones. It was a swift and violent process, which tolerated little dissent or resistance. Working-class refugees and rural
communities disproportionately bore the costs of these projects. They were evicted from their homes and excluded from the
new city. The fantasy of development and the reality of displacement became the twin forces of change in Karachi.

This article investigates the story of development and displacement. It follows their institutionalization in the 1950s under the
military dictatorship of Ayub Khan through a sequence of three interconnected stories: the building of Quaid’s Mausoleum,
the displacement of working-class refugees from the city center to Korangi, and the dispossession of rural communities in
Korangi to make way for industrialization. These little known historic events expose the dark side of development and make
visible the lives of the politically marginal and economically vulnerable peoples that it continues to render expendable.

Shaping the nation

At its birth, on 14 August 1947, issues of what the state of Pakistan and the Pakistani citizen would look like were far from
settled. The country was created as a homeland for Indian Muslims, but without a common language, a homogenous culture,
or a singular history to unite them, its citizens were hardly a coherent nation. The popular desire for an end to British
influence and for authentic self-government was foundering against the realities of a close to bankrupt country with no
governmental infrastructure or party organization. These questions became all the more vexed when the founder of Pakistan,
Muhammad Ali Jinnah, died on September 11, 1948, just months after independence.

The struggle for the exact form of the Pakistani state played out most notably in the Constituent Assembly. However, Karachi,
the new capital of the country, quickly became a battleground for the future of Pakistan, too. One of the most revealing sites
for this struggle was the mausoleum of Jinnah, the father of the country.

On his death, Jinnah was buried in the heart of a refugee colony on the northeastern edges of Karachi. The colony was called
Quaidabad, after Jinnah’s reverential title, Quaid-i Azam or Great Leader. A Quaid-e-Azam Memorial Fund (QMF) was
established almost immediately to raise money for and oversee the construction of monuments to commemorate Jinnah.

In 1952, the QMF announced that it would build four monuments, including a mausoleum, a mosque, an Islamic center, and a
university, across the country. However, the tomb remained makeshift: a small one-room structure with Jinnah’s grave in the
center and some of his personal effects arranged in a display cabinet against a wall. There was an air of neglect that rankled
many.

In 1952, Shehzad Akhtar, a second grader in the St. Joseph Convent High School wrote a letter to Jinnah’s sister, Fatima
Jinnah. In an uncertain cursive, the seven-year old opined, “We are very much pained rather ashamed to see the Quaid-i-
Azam Jinnah Gate at the I.T.E.C. site, which will be occupied by the Quaid-i-Azam’s memorials. The Gate should either be
demolished or maintained in a manner befitting our beloved leader. What would the foreigners, who pass this way, think.”1

Many people sent similar letters to Fatima

Jinnah. These people felt a deep emotional
investment in the memory of Jinnah. They
also showed a strong understanding of the
symbolic value of any construction on the
site. Abdul Qayyum, a resident of
Quaidabad, who lived across from
Jinnah’s tomb, wrote to her in 1949 about
his wish to see a madrassa or mosque
constructed on the site. In 1951, Pir Syed
Asmat Ali Shah wrote to Fatima Jinnah of
a dream he had had some three years ago
of Jinnah asking his father and
grandfather to instruct him to build a
fateh khwani darbar “for the peace of my
soul and for Pakistan and for the glory of
Islam.” Many others sent in sketches and
plans based on visions and dreams of the
founder of the country. Muhammad
A citizen’s design for Jinnah’s Mausoleum. From: Shundana Yusuf
Gulzar Khan from Bahawalpur advocated
for a building along the lines of great Mughal architecture like the Taj Mahal. To drive the point home, he named his own
design the Pak Mahal.

Shundana Yusaf, a scholar who has

studied these letters, calls these proposals
idealism from below. The radical
utopianism that swept through Indian
Muslims in the final years of the Pakistan
movement, reasserted itself in these
letters, which imagined a clean break with
the colonial past and a future that
centered the aspirations of the people.
The unbuilt monument became a site
where the future of the country could be
forged. As the letters so powerfully reveal,
these futures were multiple. Rather than
harmonize these visions, the QMF’s work
stalled precisely because of a lack of
consensus on the shape of the monument.

Finally, in 1957, it was decided to appoint

an international jury, which would select
a winning design from an international Muhammad Gulzar Khan’s Pak Mahal design. From Shundana Yusuf
competition. Six of the eight jurists were
European modernist architects. It was no surprise then that the jury unanimously chose the modernist design of Raglan
Squire & Partners, a British architectural firm. Mounted on an elevated platform, their monument reached out from six
corners in an exuberant motion towards the sky. Its hard, pointed edges were set in sharp contrast to the gently rolling
parabola. It was a style reminiscent of avant-garde neo-futurism, which was offset by a traditional Mughal garden.

Squire’s design was approved at a watershed moment in Pakistan’s history. In October 1958, Pakistan experienced its first
military coup. Its two-year old constitution was abrogated and Ayub Khan, the commander in chief of the Pakistan Army,
became the country’s second president. The state propaganda machine heralded the coup as a revolution, meant to sweep
away a decade of deadlock and corruption. In exchange for cumbersome democracy, the people of Pakistan were promised a
decisive dictatorship. Its image, at least at first, was that of an unbendingly modernist regime, whose task it was to bring a
supposedly backward and ignorant people into the comity of nations. A traditionalist vision of Islam had no room in this
regime.

Raglan Squire’s design for Jinnah’s Mausoleum

Squire’s design became a favorite with the soldiers who now ruled Pakistan. It converged with the regime’s image as
modernizers and was just the kind of internationally acclaimed style that would garner plaudits from the West, whose favor
they were desperate to gain.

Public reception, however, was far from enthusiastic. The Squire model was displayed in Karachi in the very first months of
martial rule. It provoked a flurry of angry letters to the editor. One letter in Dawn objected to the shape of a six-point star that
emerged from a bird’s-eye view of the design. More importantly, the writer insisted that whatever the design’s technical
accomplishments, “a monument which is to belong to and inspire a whole nation should be able to command the appreciation
and admiration, not of just a few high-mosts of academic architects, but of the majority of the people of all classes.”2

He proposed that a committee of “national-spirited architects and laymen” jointly prepare several designs. These would
receive comments from the public and then be finalized by multiple architects “motivated by a desire, not of wining in an
architectural competition, but of giving proper shape to their nation’s dream of a great national monument to the memory of
the leader who brought that nation into being.”

However, a collaborative, consensus-based approach such as this was precisely what the military regime was loath to adopt.
Ayub’s revolution was to be swift and unfettered by the need to consult the public.

Opposition that the men in khakis had to heed came ultimately from an unexpected quarter. In 1958, Fatima Jinnah came out
vigorously against the Raglan Squire design. She objected to the English architect, the international jury, and the western
design, which, she argued, betrayed everything Jinnah stood for. Long a focal point for the public’s desire of a radically de-
colonial future, Fatima Jinnah now stepped forward to challenge the Ayub regime. Her public stature and control of QMF
money ensured victory.

Unsuspecting of this tussle in Pakistan, Raglan Squire flew to Karachi to meet with the country’s leaders. To his utter shock, he
was asked to make his design “a little bit more Islamic” to satisfy Fatima Jinnah. When he demurred, they insisted, “But, Mr.
Squire, surely you could put a little dome on top, or something like that.”3 In his autobiography, Squire describes the sleepless
night he spent in Metropole Hotel in Karachi agonizing over the unexpected turn of events. He was asked to extend his stay to
meet with Fatima Jinnah. But he flew out of Karachi without ever meeting her.

He recounts that when he met Iskander Mirza at a cocktail party in at the Pakistan High Commission in London some years
later, Mirza took him aside and assured him how much he liked Squire’s design. “We would have built that thing of yours, Mr.
Squire,” he recalls Mirza saying, “if that old bitch hadn’t been so difficult.”

With Squire out of the way, Fatima Jinnah took the reins of the design selection process. She commissioned the Bombay-
based architect Yahya Merchant to design the mausoleum. Merchant’s design was a towering white marble cuboid structure
completed by a dome. The mausoleum was perched on an elevated platform in turn positioned on a 61-acre gardened hill
looking out onto the city. The official publicity material written by Professor Dani sums up the spirit of the monument in the
following words: “[It] derives from old but is not a slavish imitation of the old tradition. Actually it partakes of the Muslim
spirit of the past but it is created to meet the new demand of the present in the technique of the present day.”4

Ayub Khan laid the foundation stone on July 31, 1960. It took over a decade for the mausoleum to finally be completed.
Pakistan’s second military dictator, General Yahya Khan, inaugurated it on January 18, 1971. The other three monuments
planned in memory of Jinnah never materialized. Landscaping of the gardens surrounding the mausoleum had to wait
another three decades for Pakistan’s fourth military dictator, General Pervez Musharraf, who inaugurated the gardens on
December 24, 2000.

The iconic Quaid-i Azam Mazar is now closely associated with the military. This is partly because of military dictators’
penchant for monumental projects but also because every year on national holidays the mausoleum is closed to the public for
the army to conduct parades. The mausoleum is also guarded around the year by highly-visible armed paramilitary personnel.

However, these later martial accretions gloss over the mausoleum’s early history as a populist victory against the vision of
Pakistan’s first military dictator. In its stead, Fatima Jinnah and the public managed to install a monument that felt authentic
to a newly independent people and reflected their aspirations for a de-colonized future, which centered the desires of the
people.

Yet, this is not the end of the story of Jinnah’s mausoleum. The public may have won the contest for the symbolic
representation of the country but the broader struggle for control of the city, also fought through the making of the
mausoleum, was won by the military regime. The mausoleum may have been rescued from the influence of western
modernism but the relationship between the state and people would continue to be modeled on colonial patterns, where the
state controlled the people and not the other way around.

Footnotes

1. Shundana Yusaf, “Monument without qualities” (master’s thesis, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 2001),
Appendix 5. [
 ]
2. Aftab Ahmad Khan, “Quaid’s Mausoleum,” Dawn (Karachi, Pakistan), Dec. 25, 1958. [
 ]
3. Raglan Squire, Portrait of an Architect (Gerrards Cross: C. Smythe, 1984), 194. [

]
4. Ahmad Hasan Dani, introduction to The Quaid-i-Azam Mausoleum in Pictures, ed. Afsar Akhtar Husain and Dani
 (Islamabad: National Book Foundation, 1976). [

Pages: 1 2 3

One Response to Making Karachi

Hasan on Jun 2016 at 3:25 AM

Really great article. Looking forward to more from your team. Thank you

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Making Karachi

By Shahana Rajani & Shayan Rajani May 2016

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Displacing refugees

Hamida Bano was twelve years old when her village, Narnaul in Patiala, was attacked. It was the day before Eid and just five
days after Partition. Her mother, her brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles were all killed. She managed to escape with her
sister by running to the railway tracks and jumping on to the first train she saw. Hamida Bano arrived in Pakistan orphaned,
destitute, and traumatized. She was one of hundreds of thousands who had become homeless refugees because of the creation
of a Muslim homeland in Pakistan. Instead of finding a home in the new country, she, like many other poor refugees, found
only further displacement.

Hamida Bano spent two weeks in subhuman conditions in a refugee camp in Lahore. State officials then decided that there
was no room for her in Lahore and boarded her on another train, this time going to Hyderabad. Hamida Bano and her sister
were reunited with their father in Hyderabad, but unable to earn a living, they soon moved to Karachi. They settled in the
informal colony of Quaidabad, which surrounded the grave of Jinnah.

According to a past resident of Quaidabad, Chiraghuddin, Quaidabad was already a thriving settlement in 1948, when his
family came to Karachi from Fatehpur Sikri. There was ample open land where refugees could build their own jhuggis or huts.
In the initial years, the government tried its best to deter poor refugees from entering Karachi. Those who managed to enter
received minimal state support and no proper accommodation. As an alternative to permanent housing, the government
actively encouraged poor refugees to squat on open land, distributing free hutting material and old army tents. Poor refugees
were given no legal title and intentionally kept in an uncertain, vulnerable state.1

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It was refugee families like that of Hamida Bano and Chiraghuddin that built Quaidabad from scratch. These residents of
Quaidabad invested great physical and emotional labor in making their homes, communities and neighborhoods. It took
Chiraghuddin’s family an entire year to raise money to build their own home in Quaidabad. For them, Quaidabad was not a
temporary arrangement, but became a place where they rebuilt a sense of community, of belonging after the trauma and loss
of Partition.

Even as refugees were building the city home by home, Ayub Khan’s new authoritarian vision of the “modern city” threatened
another series of violent displacements. Jhuggis and informal living, which until then had been a matter of convenience for the
government, were now deemed unacceptable to modern living. Frequently described in official speeches as ‘eyesores’ that
‘litter’ the city, jhuggis were reframed in public discourse as ugly, filthy and a danger to public health. The Rehabilitation
Minister, General Azam Khan described the existence of jhuggis as “the greatest problem facing the country” and ordered a
detailed survey of shelterless displaced persons. The survey revealed 160,000 shelterless families living in 214 refugee clusters
in Karachi.2
Quaidabad, the biggest refugee cluster with a population of atleast 90,000 people, was the first to be dismantled. Residents
were given eviction notices just a week in advance, and forcibly removed. “Before Ayub, no politician would have dared to
remove us,” Hamida Bano exclaims. “But Ayub had a new [kind of] power. He sent his military goons to force us to leave. In
four days they evicted us. Loaded us on trucks and sent us to Korangi, miles away from the city, and gave us this single-room
quarter.” Hamida Bano sees little benevolence in the government’s move. She warns, “Don’t be mistaken, this was not given to
us for free. Nothing is ever free. We had to buy this quarter from the government. We paid 1,900 rupees for it back then.”

Mohammad, whose family had also settled in Quaidabad, explains that once plans for Quaid’s Mazar were made, the
government decided to clear all the homes around it. “It was a strange situation,” he says. “Because of our beloved Quaid, we
were all thrown to various outskirts of the city: some to Korangi, some to Malir, some to Shah Faisal Colony… After repeated
clearances, the government arrived at the state of Quaid’s Mazar as you see it today.” A colony that had once received special
status from its proximity to the grave of the father of the nation was now destroyed because of it.

Hamida Bano, Chiraghuddin and many other families settled in Quaidabad were relocated to the new township of Korangi. A
Greek consultancy firm, Doxiadis Associates, was hired to plan out the satellite township of Korangi over 3,000 acres of land,
ten miles outside the city. Funded by American aid, the project was touted as the largest mass housing initiative in Asia.
However, it was also the largest slum clearance scheme of its time.

The showpiece of the new regime’s commitment to modernization, Korangi was built on the model of post-War European
urban reconstruction efforts. Presidents of the United States, European royalty and foreign delegates were taken on tours of
Korangi in the hopes of justifying its authoritarian bent to its western patrons by burnishing its modernizing credentials. As
with the Raglan Squire design, Doxiadis’ Korangi betrayed the Ayub regime’s penchant for costly monumental projects aimed
at securing international praise.

To the home audience, the Aruba regime proclaimed that this “self-contained satellite township” solved two biggest problems
of Karachi.3 It provided decent living quarters to refugee families who are “huddled up in filthy slums” and cleared congestion
from the center of the city. What remained unstated was the fact that this clearance made available economically valuable land
that could be used more profitably by the regime. The military-state also saw the potential for political trouble in such
settlements, especially as the working class began to organize against state ineptitude and violence.4 It was decided to isolate
them in ‘self-contained’ satellite townships away from the city center. Jhuggi clearance became integral to the aesthetics and
political stability of the modern city.

By August 1959, the first phase of the Korangi town

project was completed with 15,000 quarters ready.
However, behind the row upon row of neat and tidy
concrete houses, there was a complete absence of all
basic necessities of life. The schools, parks, hospitals,
sanitation, and roads promised by the regime were
nowhere to be found. Korangi was a place that no one
wanted to go voluntarily; compliance had to be enforced
by the military.

In August 1959, trucks were shifting 200 families from

Quaidabad to Korangi every day. Upon arrival, housing
units were allocated at random, breaking up family
units and networks of kinship that had existed in
Image from Mirza Ali Azhar, “Three stages in the life of DPs”, Dawn Revolution Day Supplement, Oct. Quaidabad. There was limited water supply in
27, 1959.
communal taps, and electricity was not provided for
years to come. A resident of Korangi, Jameel remembers that when officials had arrived to evict them, they made his father
wear a placard around his neck like a prisoner. The placard included his father’s photograph and the randomly assigned plot
number. Although unwilling to move, they were given no choice.

When they arrived in Korangi, they found it a jungle with wild bushes and animals everywhere. No basic amenities were
provided. Work for many continued to be in the city, which was not connected to Korangi by any robust public transport
system. When people realized the implications of long and expensive commutes to work, many abandoned their plots and
went back to jhuggi living in the city center. Jameel’s father chose to stay in Korangi. He left for work early in the morning and
came home extremely late. It became a running joke in Korangi that children could no longer remember their absentee
fathers.
Shamsuddin, whose family was also relocated from Quaidabad to Korangi, explains that his father, who had been running a
thriving business distributing kerosene oil, lost his livelihood after shifting to Korangi. Quaidabad’s central location had been
key to his success and Korangi’s isolation his undoing. He remembers that some people were so desperate to leave Korangi
that they sold their quarters to anyone interested for the price of a bus ride back to the city.

It was under these harsh realities that Quaidabad was forcibly dismantled and Korangi populated. Poor refugees who had lost
their homes in Partition were displaced yet again. Pakistan was built on the backs of multiple displacements of Hindus and
Sikhs but also of poor Muslim refugees. This process of evictions, which forced the people of Karachi into distant class-based
neighbourhoods, produced what urban planner, Arif Hasan, calls “a fragmented city.” The Quaid’s Mazar, which was to be a
symbol of a decolonized democratic future, ended up institutionalizing an authoritarian relationship between the state and the
people. The government could destroy people’s homes and lives in the name of the country, modernization, and progress.

To many such victims, Pakistan as a homeland for Muslims was a dead letter. Hamida Bano says, “We kept having to change
houses. My whole life, I have been shifting from one place to another. What is this question about ‘home’? Home means
nothing to me over here. Home is just temporary four walls that I sooner or later have to move out of. My actual home is what
I left behind in India.”

Footnotes

1. Anam Soomro and Shahana Rajani, “Karachi: A Geography of Exclusion,” in Exhausted Geographies, ed. Zahra
Malkani and Shahana Rajani (Karachi: 2015). [

]
2. Mirza Ali Azhar, “Three stages in the life of DPs”, Dawn (Karachi, Pakistan), Oct. 27, 1959. [

]
3. Azhar, ” Three stages in the life of DPs.” [
 ]
4. Soomro and Rajani, “Karachi: A Geography of Exclusion.” [
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Displacing natives

Ayub’s efforts to ‘beautify’ the city center through slum clearance were complemented by plans to lay down industrial areas on
the peripheries of the city. Through these twin moves, Ayub planned to realize his vision of modernization and
industrialization. The working class refugees displaced from the city center were to provide captive labor to new industries
that would propel the country into modernity. What Ayub needed for his new scheme was land.

It is thought that Karachi expanded into open uninhabited land, but in fact the sprawling industrial megacity that we know
today cannibalized rural land around it, forcibly destroying the way of life of numerous indigenous communities, which had
ancestral ties to the land. Not far from the Korangi residential quarters where Quaidabad refugees were shunted to, lived rural
and pastoral communities with deep historical attachments to the land, which, too, faced the threat of dispossession.

Initially, when the government had planned the Korangi township, only 300 acres were reserved for industry. By 1966, that
area had increased fivefold to 1,500 acres. Much of this land was forcibly acquired by the Karachi Development Authority from
indigenous agricultural communities under the Land Acquisition Act of 1894. This colonial act entitles the government to
acquire any private land for “public purposes”. The definition of “public purpose” is so broad as to place no real limits on
government acquisition. The indigenous communities of Korangi were not given any choice in the matter, but were offered
monetary compensation.

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Today, the Korangi Industrial Area is spread over 8,500 acres, carved out by steady encroachment of agricultural lands.
Driving down the Korangi Industrial Road, the main artery bisecting the area, it is hard to imagine life before
industrialization. The broad six-lane road is crammed with trucks heaving under the weight of goods. The sky is streaked with
smoke that billows out of tall grey factories looming on either side of the road. Organized on a grid, divided into sectors,
Korangi wears a look of drab monotony. The only memorable landmarks are garish roundabouts on Korangi Industrial Road,
sponsored by and named after large factories.

Rural Korangi, out of which the industrial area has grown, is divided into five dehs, Sharafi, Phihai, Dih, Drigh Road, and
Rehri. Each deh is further divided into goths or villages. While none of these areas have escaped the effects of industrial
development, Deh Dih, Phihai, and Sharafi have been most affected.

Karim, whose family has been living in Haji Gul Mohammad Goth in Deh Sharafi for over three generations, remembers a
time when Deh Sharafi was all agricultural land. “Korangi was not banjar (barren) as people like to believe,” Karim
emphasizes, “It was abad (populated).” There were hundreds of acres of rolling orchards. Trees laden with mulberries,
mangoes, guavas, dates, melons, papayas, and grapes dotted the landscape. Streams branching out of the Malir River braided
between fields of crops. “Korangi used to be like heaven,” Karim recalls.

These rivers and trees were Korangi’s landmarks. Karim remembers a stream called Natha Wangi that ran by his village. It
was the lifeblood of their village, providing water for agriculture and amusement for children. Today, there is no trace left of
Natha Wangi. Even Karim and his cousins could no longer remember where it flowed, unable to discern its meandering route
under the tarmac and concrete of contemporary Korangi.

It was not only the physical landscape of Korangi, but also its economy that was drastically transformed. Rural Korangi used
to enjoy a symbiotic relationship with Karachi. Along with the adjoining area of Malir, it was the vegetable patch of the city.
Camel carts loaded with fruit and vegetable would be sent off to Lea Market. Fodder for camels and horses was also grown.
“Our whole life and culture revolved around agriculture,” Karim explains. “We worked hard to provide the city all its essentials
—fruit, vegetables, milk and meat.”

That rural Korangi is now irrevocably lost, but that loss was neither natural nor gradual. It was founded on the unjust
expropriation of indigenous land. Karachi Development Authority (KDA) began to snatch land immediately after the
industrial zone was founded in 1960. Karim’s grandfather was dispossessed of all 1,200 acres of his farmland. Many others
suffered similar fates. All the government left to indigenous communities was the land on which their houses were built.

Today, 35 of such clusters of houses, which are called goths still exist. However, without land to till, their old economy and way
of life have ended. Rich landowners were able to buy new agricultural land in Thatta and other parts of Sindh. Poorer folks,
including non-proprietary farmers and peasants, had no choice but to labor in the factories that sprouted on their lands. The
new generation in these communities has had to face the added problem of overcrowding. Unable to build new houses on
agricultural land, they are forced to live within the demarcated limits of the goths, even as their families increase.

While they could not legally stop the usurpation, some indigenous families have instead attempted to seek remedy to this
historic injustice in the courts. Karim’s family was compensated a mere 3,000 rupees per acre, while KDA resold their land at
a manifold higher price to factory owners. His family filed a joint appeal in 1960. After pursuing the case for over forty years,
in 2002, the court finally ruled that KDA owed Karim’s family 88 million rupees. Yet, Karim sees little reason to celebrate.
“Who will give us this money?” he asks. “KDA has only given 2 crores [20 million rupees] and refused to give the rest.” The
other problem is that as the case has stretched across generations, the number of claimants today stands at over 200. This
leaves a mere 440,000 rupees on average to each claimant, if KDA were ever to pay the full amount. No one has even
attempted to calculate the cost in terms of quality of life and lost opportunities from being deprived of a fair compensation for
over fifty years.

Goth Shahli in Deh Phihai, which neighbors Deh Sharafi, is in some ways the exception to the grim rule of property
expropriation. The people of Goth Shahli managed to retain part of their agricultural land. Yet, even Goth Shahli has not been
able to escape the impact of industrial development.

Goth Shahli and the adjacent rural areas are tucked away from the bustle of Korangi Industrial Area. Walls keep it entirely
hidden from commuters on Shah Faisal Road, which runs along it. It is only on turning off the main road, just before the Shah
Faisal Flyover, that one realizes there is a rural world hidden away in the middle of Korangi. The first thing that one notices is
the green fields with a narrow brook making its way through. Its quiet solitude stands in sharp contrast to the cacophony of
vehicles and people on the main road beyond. Past the fields is the goth itself: a cluster of houses and shops, a school, and a
football ground. Beyond Goth Shahli, the road leads to a handful of other goths of Deh Phihai, whose agricultural lands are
still partially intact.

Haji Malik’s family has lived in Goth

Shahli since 1935. His father moved from
Malir, where his family had been living for
generations, to work as a peasant on the
land of the powerful Gabol family. When
KDA acquired agricultural land for the
industrial zone, the Gabols saved their
own 300-acre property by convincing the
government of the need for a “greenbelt.”
The land, however, was taken by the bank
to cover a debt in 1968. Bhutto’s
government nationalized the bank and
redistributed the land to the peasants in
the 1970s. Malik’s family received 55
acres. Today, he and his brothers live with
their families in an expansive bungalow in
Goth Shahli, Deh Phihai
Goth Shahli, which gives an indication of
the kind of future that other indigenous families have been robbed off.

Yet Malik is far from sanguine about his family’s future. Where once his fields yielded vegetables and fruits in copious
amounts, now it can only support fodder, which brings poor returns on the market. He lays the blame on urban and industrial
development.

Development has destroyed our river,” Malik says. “The river banks used to have
sand and gravel before. But this was all removed and used to build the city of
Karachi. Sand and gravel used to absorb water. When it would rain, the river
would flow and the sand and gravel would store the water. Now the land is
unable to do that.

Arif Hasan explains that 60 billion cubic feet of sand and gravel has been illegally lifted for construction purposes from
seasonal riverbeds in Karachi’s rural areas. This illegal practice of sand and gravel mining dates back to the construction boom
caused by the building of Gulshan-i Iqbal and DHA in the 1970s and has led to irreparable top soil erosion. Where the Karachi
Development Plan of 1975-85, envisioned 85 percent of Karachi’s agricultural needs would come from its immediate
hinterland, today those lands can barely sustain fodder. Urban development in Karachi was built not only on expropriated
rural land but also out of it. The river and the land became the very raw materials needed to construct the city. Rural
communities and land were cannibalized by urban and industrial expansion.

The Malir River today is no more than an open sewage line. It not only bears waste from residential areas, but is also the
dumping site for toxic industrial effluents from Korangi and Landhi Industrial Areas. The water flowing in the Malir River
past Goth Shahli is a seething putrid black, whose stench assaults the senses from a considerable distance. Agriculture in Goth
Shahli no longer depends on the river. Instead, water is pumped out of the water table, which recedes further with each
season. Goth Shahli is a living example of the multiple threats that urban development poses to indigenous agricultural
communities.

However, the declining quality of the soil

is not Malik’s only concern. Expropriation
of land continues at a slow but steady
pace. In 2006, when the government built
the Shah Faisal Flyover, it took an acre of
his land. Once again, Malik was powerless
to stop the government.

New development projects continue to

threaten the precarious existence of Goth
Shahli. Defence Housing Authority has
recently surveyed their land and intends to
build a park with a walking track here. Its
residents suspect the real reason for
DHA’s interest in their land is to build a
road to connect DHA Phase 9 outside
Malir river flowing past Goth Shahli Karachi to the city. “Development,” Malik
says, “did not happen for us. It was always
in the name of the nation but it was never for us.”

On displacement

Displacement, the original trauma of Partition, has become institutionalized in Pakistan. It is the ignored cost of the desire for
industry, modernity, and development. It is a cost that poor refugees and disempowered indigenous communities
disproportionately bear. The refugee and the indigenous are not viewed as rights-bearing citizens by the state but rather as
dispensable lives. Over time, both refugee and indigenous communities have been strategically excluded from the modern city,
caught between forces of constant unsettlement and precarious resettlement. Their eviction by the state is not only an
indication of the (non)value placed by the state on their lives, but also proof that there was no place for them in the ideal city
of Pakistan. If displacement is a strategy targeting de facto non-citizens, then upper-middle class urban Muslims emerge as
the true citizens of Pakistan. They not only remain safe from the threat of displacement, but also reap the lion’s share of the
benefits of its better know twin, development.

Ayub’s era is remembered both for rapid economic growth and entrenched economic inequality between classes. However, it
was also the time when industrialization and modernization were valorized as unquestionable aspirations for the nation. As
the dispute over the design on Quaid’s Mazar shows, in urban Pakistan vociferous debate can be had on the form of this
modernity, but never on its costs. Displacement, the dark underbelly of development, continues unabated and unexamined
today.

* * *

Shahana Rajani is an artist and curator based in Karachi. She is a co-founder of the Karachi Art Anti-University.
Shayan Rajani is a PhD candidate in history. His research is on the social and spatial history of Sindh.

Pages: 1 2 3

One Response to Making Karachi

Hasan on Jun 2016 at 3:25 AM

Really great article. Looking forward to more from your team. Thank you

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 Bahria Town Karachi:
Greed unlimited
How land authorities and Bahria Town (Pvt) Ltd
colluded in violating multiple laws to facilitate a
massive land grab.

Fahim Zaman | Naziha Syed Ali | Published April 18, 2016

KARACHI: There’s Bollywood music blaring from

somewhere. The tables at an outdoor tea stall are packed
and waiters rush back and forth with steaming cups in
hand. A corncob seller does brisk business at his pushcart.
The street is full of cars and people. Every evening, this
section of Tauheed Commercial in Defence Housing
Authority Phase V throbs with activity, with the
anticipation of making an overnight profit. It is a casino of
sorts – except that instead of roulette and blackjack, it is a
game of real estate that is creating the buzz. The name of
that real estate: Bahria Town Karachi (BTK), a sprawling,
upmarket gated community being constructed off the
Super Highway in the outer reaches of Pakistan’s largest
city.

Scores of real estate agencies line two or three streets in

Tauheed Commercial, almost all of them emblazoned
with the Bahria Town Ltd logo. Many among them are
authorised dealers for Bahria Town real estate.

“A 125-square yard space in Midway Commercial has

gone up by Rs.9 million in the two years since it came on
the market,” said an agent about investment prospects in
BTK. “In two years, I guarantee you, it’ll be Rs.80m.”

Another gleefully says that “there is almost no plot left

unsold, even in the recently announced Sports City [a
neighbourhood within BTK]”. Incidentally, one of these
real estate agencies, run by two brothers, is also known
for its very large hawala transactions for specific clients.

Even the registration forms for new projects in BTK are

big business. According to a land official, “Each form can
sell for over Rs.100,000, generating billions in sale and
trade of the registration forms alone.”

The multibillion-rupee enterprise known as Bahria Town

Karachi depends for its success on the brazen
manipulation of the law by the political elite and land
officials who, hand-in-glove with influential figures in the
establishment, are using the state’s coercive powers to
deprive rightful owners of their land.

To add insult to injury, all this skullduggery is being

packaged as ‘development’.
 Land authorities and
Bahria Town (Pvt) Ltd
have colluded in
violating multiple laws
to facilitate a massive
land grab in Pakistan’s
largest city.

On March 19, around midday, several police mobiles led

by Inspector Khan Nawaz surrounded Juma Morio goth, a
small village of about 250 houses in deh Langheji, district
Malir, about 13 kilometres north of the Super Highway.
They were accompanied by bulldozers, wheel loaders and
dump trucks.

Their objective: to demolish a number of huts and make

way for a Bahria Town road through the village. “The job
was quickly completed and the rubble hauled away while
hapless villagers looked on in a daze, knowing full well
there will be no justice for them,” said Ameer Ali, one of
the residents.
 Bahria Town Karachi’s imposing main gateway. ─
Faysal Mujeeb/White Star

Just two days earlier, the villagers had expressed their

fears to Dawn that they would soon be forced from their
land.

“The police have been arresting our people, threatening

them that they’ll show their arrest as being from places
such as Wana, Mastung or Kalat,” said Kanda Khan Gabol.
“They took me into custody for several hours and only let
me go when a crowd gathered and it seemed as if the
highway would be closed down.”

The problems for the villagers began on Feb 9, when they

had resisted the first attempt by personnel from Bahria
Town and the Malir Development Authority (MDA) –
accompanied by a large contingent of police and
bulldozers – to have the way cleared for a road through
Juma Morio.

In response, MDA officials lodged an FIR in which they

accused Kanda Khan Gabol, Ameer Ali and a dozen other
villagers of firing at them.
Even though the challan did not furnish, amongst other
things, any proof of MDA’s ownership of the land in
question, Judge Sher Muhammad Kolachi ordered the
inclusion of Section 6(2)C(L)(M) of the Anti-Terrorism Act
1997 in the criminally defective FIR.

Many of the accused remain on the run and that was the
reason, villagers claim, they were unable to resist the
March 19 demolition.

A view of Jinnah Avenue, one of BTK’s main MDA-

financed thoroughfares. ─ Faysal Mujeeb/White Star

Juma Morio is only the latest village to have fallen victim

to such tactics to grab communal land that has been home
to families since generations.

Villages in the surrounding area of district Malir are rife

with similar accounts of residents being harassed and
intimidated into selling or abandoning their land.

Despite the fact that many have land documents to prove

their claims of possession, as well as agricultural leases to
till the land, resistance is ruthlessly countered. Homes
have been levelled, graveyards obliterated, fruit trees
uprooted, and tube wells smashed.
Late one night in November last year, a number of police
mobiles and APCs descended on Ali Mohammed Gabol
goth. Breaking into the homes of sleeping residents,
policemen hauled off five villagers – Din Mohammed,
Abbas, Iqbal, Punno and Dadullah – in their vehicles. “Not
only that, along with money, jewelry and other
belongings, they also took away three goats,” said
Mohammed Musa. “That was a kind of warning that next
time they would cart away our women as well.”

The raid was the sequel to

events of a few days earlier
when a police contingent,
also led by Inspector Khan
Nawaz, had surrounded the
Police personnel oversee
village to force them to the beginning of
vacate the land for a road to construction work to
be constructed through it, counter resistance by
villagers.
which the villagers had
refused to do.

Instead, they filed a petition in the Sindh High Court

(SHC), pleading that MDA, Bahria, and police be
restrained from “interfering, encroaching upon, harassing
or blackmailing the petitioners, their families and
dispossessing them from their lawful possession of their
land”.

According to their families,

Malir police would not give
them any information about
the detained men’s
whereabouts when they
went to the police station in Faiz Mohammed Gabol
the morning. In desperation (third from left) watches
they turned to the local PPP as work proceeds on land
where his orchards used
representatives, who told
to be.
them that the price for the
missing men’s freedom was to give up their land. “What
choice did we have except to surrender?” asked one of the
villagers.

Gul Hasan Kalmati, a local historian and chronicler asked

in anguish: “According to what law is this opulent complex
being constructed for well-to-do-people at the cost of
local residents’ ruin and displacement? Is this how the
PPP rewards its loyal voters?”

Crushed under BTK’s massive

footprint
Juma Morio and Ali Mohammed Gabol are among at least
45 goths (villages) that fall within the areas of four dehs of
former Gadap Town that are now part of district Malir,
and are being affected one way or another by the
construction of BTK.

These hamlets are home to people who in many cases

have lived on these collectively owned spaces since well
over a century: their graveyards and shrines are
testament to their ancient, customary right to the land.

Malir, which measures 2,557 square kilometres or

631,848 acres, is Karachi’s largest district. Much of it
comprises agricultural land, nullahs, hills and wildlife
sanctuaries, including parts of Kirthar National Park.
Agriculture, poultry farming and livestock rearing bring in
meager earnings that are shared amongst goth residents.

Needless to say, their voices have no currency with the

elite, and there are few government facilities provided to
them.

Many of the goths have not been regularised – that is,

they are as yet not sanctioned under the Goth Abad
Scheme – a status that can confer distinct advantages.

“Regularisation gives goth residents land title, which

means they can’t be evicted as before,” said Anwar Rashid,
director of the Orangi Pilot Project (OPP). “Even if
developers use strong-arm tactics, regularisation means
that the cost of the land increases ten-fold, sometimes
even more.”

Since 2006, until her murder

in 2013, Perween Rahman,
the then OPP director and
ardent defender of Karachi’s
resources and its
A wheel loader tears
marginalised millions’ right down rows of date palms.
to basic services, had started
to painstakingly document the many goths in Karachi,
including those in Gadap, with the help of OPP staff
(Documentation is invaluable, for it is the first step in the
process of getting goths regularised.)

“Development doesn’t come from concrete!” she would

often say. “It comes from human development.”
Until Ms Rahman’s death, the OPP team had managed to
document 1,131 goths in Karachi, out of which 817 were
in Gadap alone, where BTK continues to expand. Of the
Gadap villages, 518 have so far been regularised. Since Ms
Rahman’s death however, that process has come to a
standstill.

And that suits the preferred modus operandi of

‘developers’ very well. When unregularised goths come in
their way, they have the residents evicted wholesale from
the land, at the most with a pittance as ‘compensation’.

Never before, however, has there been a residential

complex quite like the mammoth BTK being constructed
by the company that is owned by the redoubtable Malik
Riaz.

Physical GPS surveys by Dawn, using Bahria’s on-site

markers as a guide – as well as interviews with locals –
reveal that at present, BTK sprawls across more than 93
sq kms or 23,300 acres (see map).
 Map showing villages directly or indirectly
affected by development.

However, the company has purchased only 7,631 acres in

Karachi from private parties – as per statements given to
Dawn last year by a senior official from Bahria, Colonel
(retired) Khalilur Rehman, as well as a legal aide to Mr
Riaz.

Even this claim, as this story will demonstrate, is patently

false as this area is only held through a special power of
attorney.

There was no response

by Bahria to questions
put to it by Dawn
 about BTK or to the
subsequent reminder.

Located just off the Super Highway, 9kms beyond Toll

Plaza, the complex’s wide thoroughfares, generously
proportioned residential schemes, commercial belts, 36-
hole international standard golf course and the world’s
seventh largest mosque promise a utopian existence
away from the urban jungle of Karachi proper.

Flagrant violations of the law

Unethical and inhumane as it is, driving residents out of
goths is only one aspect of the story behind BTK’s
massive footprint on the outskirts of the city.

The following is an exposé of

how the powers that be, as
well as corrupt officials from
the Board of Revenue (BoR)
Sindh, MDA, the district
administration and police
have all colluded with Bahria
in various ways to make a
Police officials provide
colossal fortune off muscle power for the
government land. forcible takeover of land
belonging to the villagers.
BoR Sindh is the original
custodian of all land in the province. Besides collecting
revenue and maintaining land records, it is the conduit for
allotment of land to individuals, societies and various
institutions and development agencies, such as the
Karachi Development Authority, Defence Housing
Authority Karachi, MDA, etc to develop schemes for
specific purposes.

MDA – whose chairman during 2014 and 2015 was

Sharjeel Inam Memon by virtue of being minister for local
government and rural development – was set up for the
purpose of developing land allotted to it by BoR Sindh in
district Malir.

Legally, MDA – as per the Malir Development Authority

Act 1993 under which it functions – cannot hand over to
private developers any land that has been entrusted to it
for specific purposes.

The aforementioned law repeatedly reiterates that

MDA’s schemes are meant for the “socio-economic
upliftment” of the “people of that area”.

On Nov 28, 2012, during the

proceedings of the ongoing
Karachi unrest case
16/2011, the Supreme
Court, with good reason,
issued an order banning the
Sindh government from Police officials provide
issuing any lease, or muscle power for the
forcible takeover of land
effecting any allotment,
belonging to the villagers.
transfer or mutation etc of
government land.

Subsequently however, the PPP government in Sindh

took a number of steps that appear to clearly indicate
attempts to hoodwink the court.
Firstly, the MDA Act 1993 was amended on Dec 19, 2013,
apparently so that MDA could achieve behind the scenes
what BoR, Sindh as a provincial government department,
could not with the court restrictions on its powers vis-à-
vis allotment of land.

A few days later, on Dec 26, 2013, vide a notification, BoR

Sindh declared 43 dehs within district Malir as being
“controlled” by MDA “for the purpose of physical survey
& preparation of road network/land used (sic) plan…for
adjustment of affected private/acquired state land for
development purpose…”

Ali Nawaz Gondar goth, that is now completely

encircled by BTK. ─ White Star

According to records available with Dawn, then Senior

Member BoR (SMBR) Sindh Ahmad Bukhsh Narejo wrote
at least three letters warning MDA that it could not deal
with private land owners “until and unless [MDA] gets the
land allotted/ transferred from the government of Sindh
and the same entered in the record of rights”.

In March 2015, BoR “reserved” 14,617 acres of land for

MDA. [‘Reservation’ is an initial step towards allotment:
the latter entails payment of cost to BoR amongst other
obligations.]

This was also stated by the current SMBR Rizwan

Memon on March 9, 2016 to a three-member SC bench
hearing the Karachi unrest case.

What Mr Memon neglected to mention was that the

reservation of the said area, scattered over nine different
dehs, was only for the purpose of developing “incremental
housing schemes” (ie low-cost housing schemes with
plots not exceeding 120 square yards). This fact was
included in a subsequent summary to the Sindh chief
minister.

As per the Sindh government land grant policy

notification number 09-294-03/SO/-1/719 dated Nov 10,
2010, all government land must be allotted at no less than
market price, with the exception of land for incremental
housing schemes for which concessional rates of at least
25pc of market value are to be applied.

During the hearings on the Karachi unrest case, MDA has

claimed it paid BoR nearly Rs2 billion as 25pc of the
market price as fixed by the latter for incremental
housing, in payment for the above reserved land.

The Disposal of Plots Rules 2006 framed under the MDA

Act 1993 also specify that plots reserved for incremental
housing shall be disposed of at a price not less than 25pc
of the market price, and only through balloting.

Meanwhile, according to Hakim Baloch – PML-N MNA

from Malir – sometime back in 2013, three men had set up
an office in Jokhio Goth, inside Model Colony, Malir.

“They included Sohail Memon, Sajid Jokhio [PPP MPA]

and Mohammed Ali Shah [recently posted as deputy
commissioner Malir] who had been tasked by [the powers
that be] to acquire both privately owned and government
survey land from all over Malir.”

The land was to be ultimately used by individuals closely

connected to Bahria for developing BTK.

Bahria Town markers like these are found even as far as

the Karachi-Jamshoro border. ─ White Star

That set in motion perhaps the most egregious violation

of the law committed by MDA officials to specifically
favour Bahria, which was their application of the principle
of ‘consolidation’.

Consolidation is otherwise a legitimate course for BoR to

facilitate a tiller by exchanging his scattered pieces of
agricultural land with a consolidated piece of land, which,
according to the Colonisation of Government Lands Act
1912, should not exceed 16 acres in a nearby area.
Moreover, as per Section 17 of the Colonisation Act, “the
land so taken in exchange shall … be deemed to be held on
the same conditions and subject to the same obligations
as the surrendered land was held”.

The Dec 19, 2013 amendment to the Act empowers MDA

to consolidate land – a power earlier only vested in BoR
Sindh – specifically through addition of clause ff in
Section 2 of the Act, which defines consolidation of land
as “adjustment of plots in a scheme by way of exchange or
otherwise for the purpose of the scheme”.

The landscape is dotted far and wide with markers like

these proclaiming Bahria’s claim to thousands of acres.
─ White Star

Disposal of Plots Rules 2006 framed under the MDA Act

further defines “plot” as specifically a “residential plot
(not exceeding 600 square yards), residential commercial
plot (not exceeding one acre), commercial plot (not
exceeding one acre), industrial plot (not exceeding 1,000
square yards), flat-site (not exceeding one acre) in any
scheme”.
The same rules define “scheme” specifically as a scheme
prepared, undertaken or executed under the MDA Act
that must be approved and sanctioned by the
government.

However, instead of consolidating the plots in square

yards, MDA has clubbed thousands of acres of privately
held lands and consolidated them for an all-for-profit,
commercial development.

Concept of land consolidation

reimagined
To achieve the above, the demigods of Sindh and MDA
have attempted to twist the concept of ‘consolidation of
land’ by framing regulations that – instead of furthering
the objectives of the original legislation – are, on the
contrary, in direct contravention of Section 2, clause ff of
the MDA Act 1993 as amended on Dec 19, 2013 and MDA
rules 2006.

They have done this by giving to the director general

MDA the power to consolidate private lands over
government lands.
 Many ancient tombs found in the area have been
destroyed by the construction. ─ White Star

To add insult to injury, the agricultural lands have been

consolidated for residential or commercial and not
agricultural purposes – a violation of the basic intention
underlying the principle as mentioned in Section 17 of the
Colonisation Act 1912.

In fact, the entire modus operandi reeks of mala fide

intentions. The MDA Act 1993 even as amended in 2013
allows ‘consolidation’ of its lands for MDA schemes only.

During 2014, MDA followed up this sleight of hand by

placing notices in several newspapers announcing
requests for consolidation of ostensibly bona fide pieces
of private land in far-flung dehs of district Malir.

There are also MDA notices announcing “confirmation of

ownership title” and thereby approval of such
consolidation to the prime area off the Super Highway
where BTK is located.

Either some or all four of the following names are

invariably mentioned in these notices as the owners of
the consolidated land: Shahid Mehmood; Mohammed
Owais; Waqas Riffat and Waseem Riffat.

The notices also mention that Zain Malik “executive

director of Bahria Town Pvt Ltd” has “special power of
attorney of the owners”.
 Ancient heritage has been swept aside like garbage by
the juggernaut of ‘development’. ─ White Star

However, several retired and serving government officials

even doubt the authenticity of the original title
documents used for the above consolidation.

“Fake form 7s have been drawn up in the office of [a senior

local government official] for the purpose of
consolidation and devouring of state lands,” disclosed a
Sindh government land official.

In many instances, the various pieces of land being

consolidated/exchanged are located in some of the
northernmost dehs of district Malir, such as in Kund,
Moidan and Mehar Jabal where land is worth no more
than Rs20,000 per acre.

But they have been shifted and consolidated in four dehs

off the Super Highway – namely, Kathore, Langheji, Bolari
and Konkar – where land values can be up to even 100
times more. According to Dawn investigations, there is no
differential being charged from those seeking the
consolidation.
Moreover, these various pieces of consolidated land
adding up to 7,631 acres have been cunningly placed over
land in the four dehs in a scattered manner that enables
Bahria to encroach upon the surrounding areas, which so
far total 23,300 acres of land. (In comparison, the total
area of Karachi’s district central is merely 69 sq kms or
17,050 acres.)

And that’s not all. The major roads, boulevards, culverts

and bridges in the gated BTK are being constructed at the
cost of MDA, as confirmed by senior officials from the
local government department as well as MDA.

From this outrageous trampling of the law and fraudulent

land transactions arise the following questions, among
many others: how did MDA consolidate land in Malir in
2014 when, as admitted in court by the Senior Member
Board of Revenue, Sindh and as per documents available
with Dawn, the land in nine dehs was only reserved for it
in March 2015 – in other words, how could MDA
consolidate private land against government land that did
not even belong to the Authority?

And why has BoR continued to allow the theft of

government land to take place under its very nose,
announced through advertisements in several media
outlets?

Also, where is the title of these huge chunks of land in

Bahria Town Ltd’s name that the company is going about
selling plots, and constructing villas and farmhouses on
it?
And how has MDA approved the layout plan for a private
commercial township that does not even own the very
land it is selling?

Bahria did not respond to any of the questions sent by

Dawn about BTK or to the reminder sent subsequently.

The queries sought information about title to and acreage

of the land being sold as Bahria Town Karachi,
development of BTK infrastructure being financed by
MDA and allegations of inexpensive land from distant
dehs being consolidated on prime areas off Super
Highway for Bahria.

Stealing from Karachi’s scarce

resources
Acquiescent government officials have not only
smoothed the way in land acquisition for the project: they
have also colluded with Bahria to provide facilities, such
as water, to the vast township, so that its road dividers,
parks and golf course continue looking lush and verdant.

“Four three-inch diameter connections have been already

given for the benefit of BTK from the Dumlottee
intersection,” revealed a deputy managing director at the
Karachi Water and Sewage Board.

This is Karachi’s water, and its diversion to BTK will cut

into the already inadequate supplies to the 20-million
strong city, where residents are either dependent on
exorbitantly priced tankers to get water – yet another
mafia – or stand at communal taps to obtain and store
water for their daily use.
According to Mohammad Saleem, president of the Voice
of Indigenous Community Empowerment, a group of
citizens affected by the swallowing up of land belonging
to indigenous people in and around Karachi, Bahria has
sunk deep wells that are fast depleting the underground
water, the only source of water in the area, for villages
situated even miles away.

Twelve years ago, in Suit No. 567/2004 filed at the SHC by

the Sindh Institute of Urology & Transplantation and
Others through Qazi Faez Isa (now a Supreme Court
judge), the court restrained Nestle Pakistan from setting
up a water bottling plant in NaClass No. 106, deh Chuhar,
Malir.

The judgement, issued on Nov 30, 2004, stated that “once

the process of extracting the water in such a huge
quantity is allowed to operate, each day, each hour, and
each minute water deposits in the aquifer would diminish
rapidly and shall adversely affect the rights of plaintiffs to
use the underground water according to their genuine
needs which shall amount to an irreparable loss to them”.

If allowed to be set up, the Nestle plant would have been

situated only three kms from BTK as the crow flies.

It is already too late for Faiz Mohammed Gabol at Noor

Mohammed goth. “These people are the progeny of the
pharaohs,” he said, his wizened face creased with fury and
despair.

“The first time they approached me for my land, it was

Tappi [former president Asif Ali Zardari’s adopted
brother] who came here. When I refused to sell, he abused
me roundly.”

One of many fully grown date palms is hauled away

from Noor Mohammed goth’s agricultural land.

On Faiz Mohammed’s 56 acres of land, tilled by his father

and grandfather before him, there were once hundreds of
fruit trees and date palms.

On 13 March 2014, he looked on helplessly as bulldozers

leveled the orchards, carted away his tall date palms and
destroyed his tube well.

Also in attendance were MDA officials and retired

military personnel in the employ of Bahria Town Ltd.
Now, he has been left with little but to gaze with
bitterness at the apartment blocks coming up where his
orchards used to be.

Destroying heritage sites and the

environment
The 23,000-plus acres so far ‘acquired’ by BTK are also
home to scores of historical sites, including tombs similar
to the Chawkandi necropolis near Thatta, as well as
Buddhist stupas, rock carvings etc.

Every tomb in the path of construction has been

ruthlessly scooped up by bulldozers and cast aside like
trash.

Their centuries-old symbolic markers and motifs have not

stayed the juggernaut of ‘development’ and bottomless
greed.

According to historian Gul Hasan Kalmati, Shah Abdul

Latif Bhittai – the revered Sufi mystic widely regarded as
the greatest poet of the Sindhi language – had stayed in
this area. “His takia (shrine), which was located here, was
also a resting place for jogis on their way to Hinglaj Mata
[the Hindu temple in Makran],” he recalled.

Today, on the spot where the Shah’s takia was located, say
locals, stand the toilets of BTK’s Grand Mosque.

In this real-life game of Monopoly, the topography of the

area is also being reshaped. This is an undulating
landscape with many perennial streams and nullahs that
fall into the Malir river. Many of the hills are being ground
down in keeping with BTK’s commercialisation
requirements.

Future plans reportedly include altering the course of at

least some of the streams and nullahs, which could pose
catastrophic risks to the environment besides adversely
impacting the area’s wildlife.

Mohammad Sharif Burfat, security supervisor for Bahria

phase 4, who lives in a nearby village just across the
Karachi-Jamshoro border, told Dawn that development
in his phase may still be several months away.

On March 9, 2016 a NAB representative informed the SC

bench hearing the Karachi unrest case that at least
104,000 plots have already been sold by Bahria. Most of
the investors in BTK belong to the middle and lower
middle-classes of Sindh, especially Karachi.

For those in the know, the reality is that the red-hot

speculation in BTK is being deliberately driven by a
strategy similar to that which major players in the stock
market employ when they manipulate share prices.

Raheel, a real estate agent, explained how the prices of

BTK plots are manipulated. “Small investors are
periodically offered ever higher prices, knowing full well
that those who have put in their limited savings would
hope to make a considerable profit in the long term and
will not want to sell,” he said.

"Instead, they would be happy to know that their

property has already appreciated reasonably. This also
induces genuine investor demand.”

He added that prices are crashed at opportune times by

flooding the market or by merely generating adverse
rumours. “This is part of ‘satta’, a tactic used to set new
price benchmarks and generate quick premiums. It’s also
an extremely effective marketing strategy.”

“The price of a plot in BT Rawalpindi which a friend of

mine bought for Rs5m is currently down by half, but there
are no takers,” comments Brigadier Iftikhar, an old hand at
the game.

Notwithstanding the sordid reality behind Bahria, it

seems that those who can, and should, take urgent action
against such scandalous land grabs are choosing to look
the other way.

Several residents of the area, however, say that is not

surprising. “When Malik Riaz can boast with impunity
about the bribes he has paid to some of the most powerful
in the country, what hope of redressal is there for the
dispossessed and the toiling masses of this land?” asked
one of them dejectedly.

Published in Dawn, April 18th, 2016

 INSIDE THE
UNDERBELLY OF
KARACHI
The megapolis is seeing mushrooming of gated
housing estates on land on the outskirts that was
once used to house low-income communities.

Arif Hasan | Dhuha Alvi | Anum Mufti | Published November 27, 2022

A lot has been written about Karachi’s housing reality and

problems and in very great detail. However, there are a
few issues which need to be elaborated. One is the
development of large gated housing estates, mostly on
the periphery of the city and the impact they will have on
the social and physical environment of Karachi.
The other is the way through which land is reclaimed from
mangroves and mudflats for low-income housing. These
mangroves and mudflats are the nurseries of flora and
fauna of the coastal areas. The third is the continuing
expansion of pavement hotels and dwellings catering to
the low-income groups who do not have a roof over their
heads and most of whom, it appears, are migrants.

It is necessary to understand the scale of these real estate

projects. Bahria Town (186.15 square kilometres) is more
than three times the size of Manhattan (59 square
kilometres), and DHA City is 47 square kilometres. Other
gated communities are also large in size when compared
to similar real estate in other cities of the world. They
vary between 60 acres (for ARY Laguna DHA City) and
3,000 acres (ASF City). Many others, such as Commander
City, Gulmohar City, Seven Wonders City, Karim Palm
City, are between 100 and 300 acres.

In addition, there are over 550,000 housing units that are

new or under construction in over 150 gated
communities. Further, there are more than 120 buildings
of between 20 and 50 floors being constructed in the city
centre.

On the one hand, the

megapolis is seeing the
mushrooming of gated
housing estates on land on the
outskirts that was once used
to house low-income
 communities. On the other, it
is also seeing increasing
numbers of the homeless on
the pavements of the city.
How do these two
phenomena tie in together?
And how does garbage
provide the vital link?

Most of the larger housing estates are located on the M-9

Motorway to Hyderabad and on the link roads of the city.
Most of the people currently living in villages along the
Motorway have been evicted through police-backed
coercion by the developers or their ‘barras’ [elders] have
been bought out, to sell the land of their communities.

The people still living in villages along the Motorway are

of the opinion that they, too, will be forced out. They are
of the opinion that, if they manage to stay, the K-4 scheme
will provide water to these gated communities and not to
them or the lower income settlements in the area.

As far as the disposal of sewage is concerned, the area

contains a large number of hill torrent tracks which will
be used as disposal points, creating immense
environmental degradation — not only for the city of
Karachi, but also for its larger ecological region. Judging
from the past, these fears are justified.
With ingenuity, investment and will (all three missing in
the real estate sector in Karachi), the water and sanitation
problem can be overcome locally. However, an increase of
vehicular traffic from these settlements to work areas or
for other social and economic purposes will result in
further congestion of already congested entrance and exit
points to the city and will cause serious air pollution in an
age of climate change.

An estimated 100,000 vehicles will enter and exit these

housing estates per day, provided they get fully occupied
— which seems unlikely for at least 15 years.

WHO WILL LIVE WHERE?

The other question is about who is going to live in these

homes? Estate agents believe that, eventually, most of the
residents will come from the middle class areas of
Karachi, which were previously double-storeyed and can
now have high density multi-storey construction on
them. A trend that has been observed is that such
properties are now being sold at a very high price and
their returns are being invested in the purchase of a
number of housing units (one for each child) in the new
housing estates.

In addition, it is also being said that a large number of

purchases are being made by residents of other Sindh
towns and also from the province’s rural areas. However,
many of the existing schemes are undeveloped or empty
and their land and housing units — approximately
400,000 of them — are being held for speculation. It is
surprising that, in spite of the availability of land, one
finds almost no tree plantation in the completed or under-
construction schemes.

Previously, land on the city periphery has been utilised for

the development of katchi abadis. However, today, it is
increasingly being used for the development of elite and
middle class housing, and its price is beyond the
affordability of low-income communities. Also, it is too
far from work areas, increasing travel time and making
the cost of commuting unaffordable.

But Karachi’s informal housing market has found

solutions for low-income housing which are nearer to the
city and somewhat more affordable.

GARBAGE FOUNDATIONS

At many locations along the coast, land is being reclaimed

for low-income housing. Early in the morning,
government and other trucks carrying garbage, debris and
other forms of solid waste move into the coastal
mangrove marshes and mudflats, and start depositing
their contents on them.

Informally, hired government tractors level out the

garbage and, in some cases, government-owned
bulldozers compact it. The “developers” say that this
work is a joint venture between them and government
officials, without whose support their “project” would not
be possible.

Large areas of the city, such as Sultanabad, parts of

Keamari, Shireen Jinnah Colony and coastal villages have
been colonised in this manner. The land is sold even
before it has been reclaimed. A piece of paper is given to
the prospective owner with a telephone number of the
developer, the size of the plot, and the payment that has
been made for it.

Once the plot is “ready”, the owner moves in and starts

construction. He spends a lot of money on filling his plot
with garbage, earth or debris, and compacting it to
whatever extent he can, so that he can build a home. In
most cases, because of insufficient compaction, the plot
sinks and is filled with water during the rains. So, very
often, it has to be refilled and re-compacted.

This is one of the cheapest ways of acquiring a residential

piece of land in Karachi. It is interesting to note that,
despite the rains and the intrusion of the sea into the
nullahs and creeks of the city, no action has been taken by
the government to prevent the reclamation of land from
the mangroves and mudflats.

Instead, over 6,000 households have been made homeless

due to the bulldozing of homes along the Gujjar, Orangi
and Mahmoodabad nullahs, with the assumption that
such bulldozing will prevent flooding of the city —
something that the last rains proved was not a valid
assumption.

Apart from the serious physical damage this process does

to the city, its environmental repercussions, as mentioned
before, are even more serious. The shift from developing
katchi abadis on lands belonging to goths on the city’s
northern and western periphery to coastal areas has a
number of reasons behind it.
After the expansion of the city, the goth lands have
become far away from places of work, recreation and
social facilities. Access to them is time-consuming and
transportation is expensive. In addition, the land along
the coast is also not much more expensive but it involves
considerable expense at raising its level through earth-
filling and compaction. However, due to its proximity to
the city and an immediate informal piece of paper
establishing ownership, the “owner” is willing to bear the
extra cost.

THE JOURNEY OF WASTE

Garbage dumping in Karachi’s landfill sites is a source of

pollution and health ailments for residents of the area |
Tahir Jamal

The solid waste being used for the reclamation of land

from the sea also has a story behind it.

Its management has been handed over to a Chinese

company, which is supposed to pick it up from all homes,
parks and markets. As a result, the cost of managing solid
waste has gone up considerably but still, the old manner
of lifting and disposal has not radically changed. What
happens is that the company sublets the collection and
disposal of garbage to a subcontractor, often a political
person of importance in the district, and signs an
agreement with them. The company pays this person for
this job on the basis of that agreement.

In theory, the garbage is to be picked up and taken to a

designated garbage transfer station (GTS), where the
recyclable material is removed and sent to the recycling
units in the city. The residue is sent to the landfill site or
informally sold for reclaiming land and filling under-
construction plots.

Formally, only one landfill site is operative and is located

in District West, but garbage is also disposed off along
informal dumping sites along the Korangi Creek.
However, it has to be stated that all garbage does not
reach the GTS, but is collected by Afghan boys from
people’s homes, kachra kundis [streetside garbage
dumps], city markets and even the collection points of the
Chinese company.

It is carried to the informal sorting areas by bicycles,

three-wheelers and suzukis. These informal sorting areas
are spread all over the city in Gulshan, Korangi and along
the Lyari riverbed at the nodes of the Lyari Expressway.
They also exist in abandoned parks and in large plots,
which have often been forcibly occupied by the solid
waste operators.

The recycling units to which the recyclable garbage is

taken are mostly in Sher Shah and Korangi. Here,
discarded pieces of paper are recycled into new paper and
cardboard. Glass, metal and plastic are also recycled along
with bones, and rags are pulled by rag-pulling machines
and turned into fluff for upholstery.

Garbage is also sold to the communities living on the

landfill sites by both the subcontractors of the Chinese
company and the informal collectors. The communities
set it on fire and then, through magnets, reclaim any
pieces of metal the ashes contain. The reclaimed metal is
sent to small foundries for recycling.

Fifteen to 20 years ago,

Karachi’s social scientists and
planners were very proud of
the fact that, unlike Bombay,
very few Karachiites lived on
the streets. However, that is
no longer true. An increasing
number of individuals — and
even entire families — today
live on pavements, in
abandoned parks and under
bridges.

DEGRADING THE ENVIRONS

The landfill site in Karachi is not designed as a landfill, but

simply as a dumping ground for garbage and, as such, it is
highly polluting. The neighbours of the dumping site and
of the recycling industry have constantly complained of
the pollution that they cause, and some of them have also
initiated cases against the recyclers. According to the
media, residents of settlements on the periphery of the
District West landfill site have often complained of
various ailments, which are related to the pollution it
causes.

It is claimed by the recycling industry operators, and also

by the media, that the Pakistan recycling industry also
imports recyclable material from the Gulf, since recycling
it and selling the produce is a very lucrative business.

There are five GTS in Karachi. Each district is supposed to

have one, but only five of Karachi’s seven districts have a
GTS. On the way to the GTS, the worker accompanying
the driver picks out valuable items from the trash
collected, which he and the driver later distribute
amongst themselves.

At the GTS, there is a further categorisation of the solid

waste collected to separate any useful leftovers from the
garbage. Ahead of the GTS, another contractor comes. He
collects about 12-15 trucks of leftover trash into a
dumper, which is then taken to a landfill site. After
reaching the site, the driver sells the dumper-truck’s
waste to the people residing there.

The cost of the garbage in the dumper is determined by

where the garbage comes from. If it is from richer
neighbourhoods, the price is high because the ‘quality’ of
garbage is also higher. Garbage from low-income
settlements, on the other hand, has very little recyclable
material in it, and so it is cheaper.

The residents at the site are formerly Hindu families who

have converted to Islam and call themselves Sheikhs.
Nearly 350 such families live here along with their
children. The site is foul-smelling, full of stray dogs and
pests, and many of the residents are shoeless. There are
no facilities for them and no schools for their children.
However, the Hub canal passes by the site, where people
can bathe by paying the police located there Rs 50 per dip
into the canal.

In 2001, a study suggested that proper facilities should be

provided for not only the residents of the site but also for
the Afghan boys who pick garbage from various sources
and that the recycling industry should also be shifted to
near the landfill site. However, the contractors
controlling the Afghan boys refused this suggestion
because no free food for them would be available at the
landfill. In the city, they were provided free food by
various charities and at mazaars, so the proposal fizzled
out.

There are many local-level solutions in Pakistan of solid

waste management at the neighbourhood level, but they
have never been utilised at a city or even district level.

A RISING HOMELESSNESS
 A map of Bahria Town Karachi superimposed on
satellite imagery of New York City | Mapping by Rida
Khan

Fifteen to 20 years ago, Karachi’s social scientists and

planners were very proud of the fact that, unlike Bombay,
very few Karachiites lived on the streets. However, that is
no longer true. An increasing number of individuals — and
even entire families — today live on pavements, in
abandoned parks and under bridges.

However, the 2017 housing census informs us that there

are only 5,000 persons who are homeless in the city. Dr.
Noman Ahmed’s very informative study on homelessness
informs us otherwise, and so does the work we carried
out for the ‘Study of Urban Challenges in Karachi from the
Perspective of Poor Communities’.

There are various types of homelessness and many

different ways in which people manage to survive. There
are individuals who have a home but prefer to sleep in a
park or on the street so as to save travel costs between
their place of work and home — which is on the city
periphery. They visit their home on the weekend or public
holidays. To access toilet facilities, they either go to the
mosque(s) nearby or they reach an agreement with the
park manager, who then makes the park facilities
available to them at a cost. These are mostly single men.

Another way in which homelessness manifests is through

entire families, often from the “lower castes”, occupying
space with their belongings underneath bridges or in
open-air, vacant public areas. The local administration
gives them protection in exchange for some money. In
case of police action to evict them, they find another
similar place to live — and the cycle repeats.

Apart from this, another form of survival for the homeless

exists. They find refuge under bridges such as the Lilly
Bridge in Clifton. These families rent charpoys from
nearby hotels or junk shops for Rs 50 per night. Every
family takes the number of charpoys they need and
selects a spot that will provide them with some sense of
privacy.

While members of a family sleep huddled together on

these charpoys, multiple families tend to sleep in close
proximity to one another, for an increased sense of safety.
One member of each family stays awake during the night
to stand guard against potential theft and harassment.

The shopkeeper who rents out these charpoys then sends

his worker to collect money from these families. This
process goes on every day till these people relocate to
another location, either in search of work or due to the
continuous trouble given to them by city authorities. New
families are fast to fill in their spots.
DEPLORABLE LIVING

Many of these people are migrants who have come to

Karachi looking for livelihood or those who have been
evicted from their homes by their landlords. They are,
however, pushed to live in deplorable conditions without
the security of a permanent shelter because their lack of
employable skills and social capital renders them unable
to secure a decent life quality due to the ever-rising cost
of living.

Many of these people try to make a living by performing

various types of work during the day, such as selling
balloons, polishing shoes, taking on odd-jobs, or even
resorting to begging. Their cumulative income is just
enough to get them through the day. The meagre sum
they collect is insufficient to meet their formal housing
needs, and the conditions they end up living in expose
them to a variety of health and safety hazards. In the
absence of social welfare systems, whatever little they
could have saved goes into taking trips to the doctors and
paying their bills.

At times, one can even spot a makeshift kitchen or a

temporary washroom close to these dwellings, but people
are wary of utilising these facilities even when they are
available, since they are afraid that, in their absence, their
belongings will be stolen.

Since they do not have cooking facilities, they have to buy

food from nearby dhabas; when low on cash, they take
food from whoever offers it to them. Drinking water is
bought, costing about Rs 30-50 per can. This water is not
chlorinated and is simply filled from the tap by dhaba
owners and sold to these people.

Most of the families have infants and young children

living with them who suffer from various stomach and
skin diseases because of the poor quality of water they
consume and the absence of basic hygiene from their daily
lives. When a visit to a doctor is needed, they prefer going
to the nearby clinic rather than government hospitals.
This is because of the unsatisfactory treatment they
receive at the latter — from having to wait endlessly, only
to know that their turn will not come, to being ill-treated
by the staff, who view them with suspicion and hostility.

Most of the homeless people around Lilly Bridge use the

washrooms available at the railway station to shower on
alternative days, or whenever they can afford it. A shower
visit costs Rs 50. However, not everyone is able to avail of
this service.

Mothers can frequently be seen giving their young ones a

bath in open spaces when water is available to them,
though at times they have to go on for days without a
single shower. Not having proper sanitation facilities is
especially difficult for women, who end up facing serious
harassment from the men around them.

Similarly, there are pavement hotels that lay out rows of

charpoys on the footpaths, mostly near transport
terminals, railway tracks and small business areas. They
provide their customers with drinking water and toilet
facilities in exchange for Rs 100 per day. Most of these
people have come to the city to find work or settle their
administrative, business or personal issues.
WHAT DOES IT MEAN FOR THE CITY?

What the development of these huge gated housing

schemes mean to the city of Karachi in physical and
environmental terms is fairly well understood. It means
the loss of whatever little farmlands are left in the city,
the loss of water resources, and congestion due to an
increase in human beings and vehicles. It also means an
increase in air pollution and the need for the creation of
new and expensive transport systems, linking these gated
settlements with places of work, education,
entertainment and recreation.

However, the most serious repercussions will be social.

This is something that has not been researched. How will
the inhabitants of these settlements relate to the rest of
the city? These settlements are bound to have a low-
income informal services sector, for which no planning
has been done. Will low-income katchi abadis emerge
next to these settlements to fill this gap? We desperately
need to understand these issues and respond to them in
planning terms.

The Sindh Solid Waste Management Board work has

improved garbage-lifting and street-cleaning in certain
areas of the city, but it has a long way to go to serve the
city as a whole. In the media and in research done by the
Urban Resource Center, issues related to low payments
by subcontractors to the workers have also been made
and need attention.

The dumping of garbage in marshes and mudflats also

creates serious problems of draining out water to the sea.
It is surprising that, in a city that floods so often, the state
has not taken any action against this.

Meanwhile, various forms of homelessness are rapidly

increasing, especially pavement hotels. This trend is
taking root throughout the city with the exception of
parks in district South. If the homeless population
continues to rise at this rate, at what point will it become
a serious enough matter for those in power to consider
the reasons behind Karachi’s growing problem of
shelterless citizens and to eventually work on remedying
it?

Moreover, how will social relations in the country’s

largest metropolis change as a result of it? Sooner or later,
these questions and the ramifications of ignoring them
will come back to haunt us.

Arif Hasan is an architect and urban planner. He can be

reached at arifhasan37@gmail.com or
www.arifhasan.org .

Dhuha Alvi is a Social Development and Policy student

who enjoys researching the intersections of gender and
class with politics. She can be reached at
zohaalvi.21@gmail.com .

Anum Mufti is Karachi-based academic. She can be

reached at anum.mufti@gmail.com

Header photo by Fahim Siddiqui/White Star

Published in Dawn, EOS, November 27th, 2022

Theme 3: Environment
 RECLAIMING
KARACHI’S EDGE
Pakistan’s largest megalopolis is fast losing its
coastline to ecological neglect & deterioration. Can
anything be done about it?

Marvi Mazhar | Anushka Maqbool | Harmain Ahmer | Published

August 23, 2020

Unsustainable coastal reclamation, unregulated

construction, untreated sewage disposal, diminishing
public spaces, polluted marine life — Pakistan’s largest
megalopolis is fast losing its coastline to ecological
 neglect and deterioration. Can anything be done about
it?

One of the onlookers called out, ‘Where is the sea?’

Nobody answered him.
‘Where is the sea?’ He asked again.
There were few people to answer him, but really what
could anyone say. Where could the sea vanish to?
‘It must be here somewhere; you probably need to look
around a bit more attentively.’
… ‘This is a definite sign of a bigger calamity,’ another
voice was clearly heard saying.
‘Could be due to an oil spill, an ecological disaster, a local
effect, a nuclear holocaust...’

— Stealing the Sea (Samandar Ki Chori) by Asif Farrukhi

[Translated by Saeed Naqvi]

T
he tale of land reclamation starts with ocean waves
(that are Abdullah Shah Ghazi’s devotees) kissing
the wall of his shrine twice a day, depending on the
moon’s cycle. This sacred devotion has protected Karachi
against all-natural calamities that the city has been
threatened with over the years, even though the shrine
and the waves are now separated by vast land.

But decades of man-made alterations and activities along

the coast in Karachi now force us to take a step back and
critically examine the city’s edge, to understand the
threats our seafront and, therefore, our citizens face.
With some of the country’s most high-profile residential
and commercial projects popping up right along Karachi’s
edge, and our own wastewater and garbage threatening
marine life, there is a dire need to focus on the
preservation of our coast. We have neglected our natural
environment for far too long. We must now work to
protect and conserve what is left; we must now become
the saints and saviours of our own city.

RECLAIMING LAND
As the population continues to spike around the world
and countries race to ‘develop’ and expand further, the
demand for land has also increased rapidly. And so land
reclamation — defined by the International Association of
Dredging Companies as the process of creating new land
by “raising the elevation of a waterbed or low-lying land,
or by pumping water out of muddy morass areas” — has
emerged as a frequently applied solution.

But this frequently applied ‘solution’ is neither perfect

nor new.

Land reclamation in our region has a history older than

Pakistan’s existence. The British were one of the first to
carry out major land reclamation projects in India, to
connect and develop satellite townships, especially in the
coastal cities of Bombay and Karachi. Within Karachi,
areas of Old Clifton and Boat Basin, that were once
natural swamps and islands, were ‘reclaimed’ and
eventually connected to the main city infrastructure.
According to cartographic specialist Ryan Moore’s From
Minor Village to World Metropolis: Karachi in Maps,
approximately 144 acres were reclaimed from the sea in
Karachi between 1916 and 1920.

Decades later, land reclamation is still in vogue and, of

course, land still has one of the most important political
functions in the world. European thinkers have
philosophised that land ownership is one of the
foundations of a ‘civilised’ society. This can also be seen in
Pakistan’s context, with the value placed on having apni
zameen (own land).

Karachi is in dire need of an

updated land use map and
daily mapping practice. More
open spaces also need to be
allocated for public use, and a
proper ratio of built
environment versus open
space within Karachi must be
introduced. Only then will we
create a city that is
favourable to the locals and
the ecology of the land.

According to information provided at the UN’s Ocean

Conference , almost 40 percent of the global population
resides within 100 kilometres of the coast. Major land
reclamation projects in recent history are largely
concentrated in coastal cities like Karachi, primarily in
Asia. Of the 14 largest megacities located along the coast
globally, 11 are in Asia.

This, of course, exerts considerable pressure on this

critical zone. Rapid urbanisation at the coast is usually
accompanied by “major geo-engineering interventions
[such as Coastal Land Reclamation (CLR)] that form part
of what is called ‘ocean sprawl’, which increases the
pressure on the delicate ecosystems of those areas,” as
stated by Dhritiraj Sengupta and others in their 2020
article Gaining or Losing Ground? Tracking Asia’s Hunger
for ‘New’ Coastal Land in the Era of Sea Level Rise.

In a previous article , Sengupta points out that common

practices, like CLR, are under-researched and thorough
study is needed to understand and assess the level of
damage CLR has done to the ecosystems of coastal
megacities. This stands true for Karachi, where major CLR
projects, coastal development projects and others have
been in the works for years, without proper research on
the host of issues pertaining to the ecological,
environmental and cultural impacts on Karachi’s edge.

LOSING KARACHI’S EDGE

Karachi’s edge could be identified through its key
elements — a port, a source of income for its fisherfolk, a
public space for its citizens and a home to a vast amount
of flora and fauna. But, unfortunately, land used for real
estate and housing communities has also become a
prominent trait in the recent past.

Waterfronts in Karachi have fallen victim to Dubai-esque

perceptions of development, which entail the rapid
urbanisation and ‘modernisation’ of the city’s
infrastructure by significantly altering the land and its
resources. As such, land reclamation has been used to
‘modernise’ the coast of Karachi, harming elements of the
natural environment to accommodate the built
environment.

This rapid urbanisation and infrastructure development

has led to incredible monetary value given to land. Land
developers in Karachi have frequently used land
reclamation, specifically CLR, not just as a solution to the
shortage of land for development, but as a means of
making a profit, even when there is other land available.

Defence Housing Authority (DHA) Phase-VIII has seen

some of the most high-profile residential and commercial
CLR projects in the country. The Karachi Port Trust (KPT)
has also carried out massive CLR projects to expand their
facilities — the most recent being the Deep Sea Container
Terminal (locally known as China Port). Aside from CLR,
land reclamation projects have also been carried out
within freshwater bodies, such as the extensive
reclamation of China Creek to create KPT residential land
in the mid-2000s.

At the root of many of these

problems is the built
 environment being prioritised
over the natural environment
within city planning. This
practice started receiving
international criticism in the
1970s and has been globally
challenged with the
emergence of a new
paradigm — urban ecology.

This kind of ‘development’ is not specific to Karachi, or

even Pakistan. Forbes magazine contributor Wade
Shepard writes that the creation of new land provides
“what amounts to a developmental magic act:
government officials can virtually point their fingers out
to sea, say ‘voila,’ and a blank slate of prime positioned,
high-value real estate almost instantly appears.”
Developers and governments essentially get “blank slates
of land”, Shepard goes on, that they can easily develop
“without the hassles and expenses inherent to relocating
people, settling with existing landowners, and
redeveloping an already established area.”

These incredibly lucrative CLR projects are therefore very

attractive to land developers. This is precisely why so
many such projects have emerged within recent years,
especially in South Asian coastal cities, and in Karachi,
where the practice has been focused on housing societies.
 DHA PHASE-VIII
Over the last 30 years, DHA Phase-VIII has undergone
extensive land reclamation. One of the most prominent
projects in the area is Phase-VIII Extension, which
includes the Crescent Bay development by Emaar
Pakistan. The land has been created for both residential
and commercial use. A commercial section, ‘Saahil
Commercial’, is demarcated within Phase-VIII Extension,
and the first of the three ‘crescents’ of Emaar is reserved
for commercial high-rise development.

Satellite imagery of DHA Phase-VIII in 1984

and 2018, showing the extent of land
reclamation within the area | Courtesy
Marvi Mazhar and Associates

It is important to note that Phase-VIII Extension real

estate plots are pushed all the way to the edge. This may
be providing prime real estate to DHA, but it is very
detrimental to the ecosystem of the waterfront and will
greatly limit the availability of the beach to the public.
Contrastingly, the Sea View Apartments along the main
Sea View Road (Edhi Avenue) are built at a setback from
the beach, and have four roads (two service lanes, and two
main roads) between the apartment complex and the
start of the beach, and are therefore still contained within
the city.

These four roads then merge into two narrower roads as

you approach Phase-VIII and Phase-VIII Extension. From
here, the Sahil Avenue/Khayaban-e-Saahil, the latest
intrusive intervention, branches out to the edge of Phase-
VIII Extension, allowing the public to take their vehicles
right to the edge without any buffer.

Extension of DHA housing plots on to the

edge | Courtesy Marvi Mazhar and
Associates

Within DHA Phase-VIII, there are multiple similar

examples of development projects right along the edge of
the water. Creek Marina, a celebrated six-star residential
and commercial high-end development, started
construction in the early 2000s and was meant to be
finished in 2010. It now looms, half-finished and
abandoned, at the southern edge of Phase-VIII, right
opposite the most recent coastal high-end complex,
Emaar; both constructed upon reclaimed land, and both
limiting the access that the public has to the waterfront of
Karachi.
 DHA map of Creek Marina, alongside
Google Maps satellite imagery

SAVING THE SAHIL, ONCE

AGAIN
We’ve been here before.

Back in 2007, a civilian coalition called the Sahil Bachao

Coalition emerged, to mobilise against DHA’s extensive
‘Waterfront Project’ that aimed to construct theme parks,
marinas, expo centres, expensive hotels and
condominiums along Karachi’s Clifton Beach. Of the
project, architect Arif Hasan wrote:

“The DHA Waterfront Project is one face of real estate

violence and authority’s complicity. The awareness about
this subject is one step on the road to organise people. It
is clear that the concept of ‘development’ is not the same
for different social groups ... In Karachi’s case, the new
development project attempt [is] against a single
principle of access to public spaces for everyone.”
The Sahil Bachao Coalition was successful in pausing the
development plans back then, but new plans by the
Cantonment Board Clifton (CBC) have since emerged to
‘develop’ the strip of beach from Nishan-i-Pakistan to
Chunky Monkey Amusement Park along main Sea View
Road.

The development proposal for CBC’s

Project

With problems eerily similar to that of the Waterfront

Project, this ‘new’ plan would entail land reclamation into
the sea and produce massive amounts of waste during
and after construction. It would also create large concrete
structures that are not sustainable or desirable for the
area or the common man, and would further damage the
delicate vulnerable ecosystem of Karachi’s coast.

According to a July 2020 Dawn news report , the Sindh

Environmental Protection Agency (Sepa) approved of this
plan in February 2020 without a detailed Environmental
Impact Assessment, which is a legal requirement under
the Pakistan Environmental Protection Act of 1997. The
report quotes Dr Asif Inam, the former director-general
of the National Institute of Oceanography, saying that the
Clifton beach is experiencing rapid sedimentation of the
material dredged from KPT’s Deep Sea Container
Terminal, and that any structure along the Clifton beach
would obstruct the naturally occurring process of
longshore sediment transport from the West of Clifton to
the East, thus resulting in “accumulation of sediments on
the western side and erosion on the eastern side of the
structure.”

Besides the clear issue of the project’s inevitable

detriment to Karachi’s ecology, this information brings
into question the sustainability of this project’s upkeep,
due to the issues created by past coastal land reclamation
projects.

In a quote for the same article, Naeem Mughal, the

director-general of Sepa, says that the CBC project does
not pose any environmental risks because the area is
devoid of ecologically important flora and fauna. He
further adds that there is no threat of marine pollution, as
the project would have a sewage treatment plant, and
would instead “upgrade the beach which currently stinks
with polluted water.”

Even though it is claimed that these ‘development’

projects will benefit the public, there is often an aura of
secrecy around them. KPT’s Deep Sea Container Terminal
was also a massive CLR project that happened without
much knowledge or involvement of the public — perhaps
because the project was along the stretch of beach that is
not as frequented by visitors. This project has created a
huge mass of land along the coast in front of the Indus
Valley School of Art and Architecture, and a new harbour,
including breakwaters and an artificial bay.
Image of a signboard on reclaimed KPT land
| Marvi Mazhar

Satellite images show the progression of

KPT’s land reclamation from 2008-2018 |
Courtesy Marvi Mazhar and Associates

KARACHI’S ECOLOGICAL
NEGLECT AND
DETERIORATION
Land reclamation is only one of the threats Karachi’s
coastline currently faces. Other dangers include
untreated domestic and industrial sewage disposal in the
sea, the degradation of the fishing sector, the
unsustainable relationship of the general public with the
sea and the uncontrolled commercial activities along the
coast — to name a few.

Karachi is home to a 90-kilometre-long coastline that

provides protection to the city and its citizens. It has a
variety of flora and fauna, and stands as an effortlessly
beautiful and attractive public place. According to the
WWF’s 2019 Annual Report , Pakistan’s coastline is a
habitat for 134 ray and shark species, shrimp, tuna, green
turtles and salmon. The coastline also used to be home to
the 6th largest mangrove forest in the world, but has
dwindled down to 35th over the years.

While conducting field research and documenting

decayed marine life, we often witnessed, at the foot of the
Emaar project, a terrestrial plane with crabs crawling
across the beaches with their busy claws constructing
temple-like structures across the sand. We would see
construction boulders and tetrapods carpeted with moss,
and the unexpected but exciting arrival of blue bottles,
corrals and turtles depending on the season. But soon
into the fieldwork, a lot of marine life was found dead and
decayed on the city beach, due to plastic disposal, water
pollution and wastewater.
 Images of crab settlements along the
waterfront in DHA Phase-VIII | Marvi
Mazhar

At least 16 million people live in Karachi, the centre of

industrial activities and international and domestic trade
through its port. Hence, it is no surprise that a significant
amount of municipal and industrial wastewater is
produced daily in this urban habitat. Karachi’s
management of this wastewater and its disposal location
— the ocean — has become increasingly concerning. The
sewage treatment plants by the Karachi Water and
Sewerage Board (KWSB) function inefficiently and well
below their capacity. According to a 2017 study by Seema
Jilani , the plants only treat 12 percent of the sewage
released into the water.

Jilani writes that a substantial amount of sewage is

discharged on the Manoro Channel, and 80 percent of the
aggregate wastewater is dumped into Karachi Harbour,
including wastewater that drains into the Lyari and Malir
Rivers that flow into the sea.
Additionally, commercial buildings along the coast often
dispose of their waste directly into the sea due to ease of
proximity. In some cases, this disposal is visible through
satellite imagery.

Courtesy Marvi Mazhar and Associates

Jilani’s study also found that due to the disposal of

industrial effluents and sewage into the sea, the quality of
Karachi’s seawater has been rapidly deteriorating. The
water has alarming concentrations of heavy metals,
organic pollution and volatile matters. She explains that
reasons for the higher amount of pollutants and higher
concentration of metals is largely due to the sewage
disposal of the Lyari River that flows into the sea. This
contributes to the pollution level even more significantly
than local port activities.

Additionally, the sewage disposal enables a worrying rate

of coral bleaching and increases the risk of erosion and
inundation in low altitude coastal areas. Furthermore,
according to the International Union for Conservation of
Nature, it directly affects the reproduction and
biodiversity of marine life, which in turn impacts the
livelihoods of local fishermen, reduces stock for fisheries
and even threatens food security.

Within the ambit of health, such ravaged waters are the

habitat and feed of the very fish that we consume,
introducing massive amounts of heavy metals and
pollutants into our diet as well. The public also bathes in
this water, giving way to health hazards, which can be
illustrated by the fact that Naegleria (an amoeba found in
warm freshwater) was easily spread across seawater
because of the sewage disposal in the sea and nullah by
Sea View.

Dead fish along the Clifton beach | Marvi

Mazhar
 TREATING WASTEWATER
KWSB has come up with two projects to deal with
untreated sewage disposal. The first project is already in
the works and, according to a KWSB press release, aims
to increase the treatment capacity of the existing ‘Sewage
Plant-III’ in Mauripur by almost 800 percent, to the tune
of 36,117.459 million rupees. The second proposed
project is to treat industrial waste by establishing plants
in five different industrial zones: Korangi, SITE,
TransLyari, FB Area, and Super Highway SITE Phase 2.
These treatment plants were expected to start
functioning by June 2021. However, the project has yet to
commence as per media reports from earlier this year.

We need to put more thought into proposed solutions

before building further expensive infrastructure. The
DHA Cogen Desalination Plant, previously known as
Defence Cogen Limited (DCL), is yet another example of
costly infrastructure that has not been utilised and has
instead incurred a heavy loss of more than 150,000,000
rupees.

DHA Cogen Desalination Plant, located in

DHA Phase VIII, from street view | Marvi
 Mazhar

A much more sustainable approach to our sewage issues

is needed. An example of such a solution is the
Decentralised Wastewater Treatment System (Dewats),
developed in India. Dewats encourages the development
of small-scale, affordable sewage systems that treat and
then enable the reuse of treated water for gardening and
toilet flushing, as explained by Anurag Chaturvedi in his
article Fixing India’s Sewage Problem. Dewats cuts down
domestic water supply by 50 percent through water reuse
and uses approximately 90 percent less land. It is almost
80 percent less costly than large-scale wastewater
treatment plants.

Such cost-effective and sustainable sewerage systems

should be incorporated by the local governments across
our city to treat our waste. On a local level, the Orangi
Pilot Project’s highly successful low-cost sanitation
program proves that small-scale sewerage systems are
part of our city’s precedent and that projects similar to
the Dewat system can be incorporated in Karachi.

OTHER POLLUTANTS
The contamination of our coastline does not end with
sewage disposal, but is further aggravated with the
accumulation of plastic pollution, oil spills and nuclear
waste from Karachi Nuclear Power Complex, hospitals,
pharmaceutical organisations, factories in Korangi and
small cottage industries.
The issue of plastic pollution is also visibly serious across
Karachi’s coast, as 50 percent of the total garbage on the
Clifton beach consists of plastic, as reported by The News
in a 2017 article .

Satellite image of Lyari River, an important

channel of wastewater disposal into the sea,
also functions to maintain water levels

The water collects, transports and washes ashore plastics

such as bags, water bottles and cans. These pollutants
then harm marine life and biodiversity. Currently,
Karachi’s public beach is not well maintained and suffers
poor management by CBC. Tractors are used to clean the
beach, and though this proves to be a quick fix, it’s hardly
efficient or environmentally friendly. The heavy tractors
tend to collect parts of the natural environment, for
example seaweed and vegetation, instead of just solid
waste. The use of such heavy vehicles and claws is also
very harsh on the ground and ends up squashing and
pressing into the sand sea creatures like crabs, sand
structures built by them, sand dunes, seaweed,
vegetation and, ironically, the very garbage that the
tractors are supposed to pick up. The physical
suppression of garbage into the ground simply removes it
from view, but retains it within the natural environment.

CBC needs to cease using tractors to clean the beaches

and should instead use manual labour. The already-
existing labour force used by CBC to clean main Sea View
Road can be tasked with cleaning up the public beach.
Furthermore, CBC needs to implement stricter policies to
deter beach-visitors from littering the beach by issuing
small fines, providing garbage collection bins and placing
signage that clearly communicates the importance of
maintaining a clean natural environment.

AT ODDS WITH NATURE

At the root of many of these problems is the built
environment being prioritised over the natural
environment within city planning. This practice started
receiving international criticism in the 1970s and has
been globally challenged with the emergence of a new
paradigm — urban ecology.

Urban ecology, a term coined by French biologist Jean-

Marie Pelt, stands at the interface of the natural and the
built environment. Franz Rebele, in his article Urban
Ecology and Special Features of Urban Ecosystems, says
that urban ecology views the whole landscape of the city
as consisting of a singular ecosystem, wherein one
element cannot be studied independently of the other,
and reconciles the ‘human’ with ‘nature’ in a mutually
beneficial relationship. We can utilise the framework of
urban ecology by applying it to local level issues on the
coast of Karachi.

Speaking about the chain of events that takes place when

creating and claiming land, Tofiq Pasha, an urban
gardener/maali says, “When nature does it, it takes care of
the entire chain. When we do it, we do it to only one space
and don’t realise that we’re interrupting the whole chain...
How dare we do that?”

Current patterns of land use have significantly damaged

the natural environment and coastal ecosystem of
Karachi’s edge, by encroaching upon land and water that
serve as a habitat for many indigenous species of plants,
migratory birds and marine life. Furthermore, current
patterns of land use are devoid of inclusivity and place-
making for local communities. Due to the persisting
prevalence of such ‘development’, Karachi’s ecosystem,
and therefore its citizens, are now threatened and there is
a desperate need for preserving our dying edge, instead of
‘developing’ it.

Tamarix Aphylla (Athel Tree) | Marvi Mazhar

 Bromus, Tamarix Chinensis (French
Tamarisk) | Marvi Mazhar

Ipomoea (Morning Glory) | Marvi Mazhar

It is worth questioning who benefits from this

‘development.’

Most of the land reclamation projects in South Asia are

designed to cater to the wealthy and, therefore, the
inflow of capital and the development of these projects
leads to the gentrification of the areas around it. Locals
are often pushed out of neighbourhoods that once
belonged to them, spaces in the city become entirely
inaccessible, and many projects take over/encroach on to
areas that were once available to the general public.
 The continuity of access to the public beach
is hindered during high tide by Emaar
Development’s stone retaining wall |
Courtesy Marvi Mazhar and Associates

Writing about high-rise projects curtailing the public’s

access to the beach, architect Arif Hasan explains in
Experiences on Confronting the Negative Effects of
Habitat Privatisation (2006) , it is “universally
recognised in all development that, except in isolated
instances, you cannot deprive people of the beach and the
sea. It is a well-understood doctrine, ‘the doctrine of
public trust’.”

THE WAY FORWARD

Karachi is in dire need of an updated land use map and
daily mapping practice. More open spaces also need to be
allocated for public use, and a proper ratio of built
environment versus open space within Karachi must be
introduced. Only then will we create a city that is
favourable to the locals and the ecology of the land.

Reclaimed land within Korangi, DHA and Clifton could be

easily converted into a trekking trail, for locals and
tourists alike, as mindful recreational activities. Natural
vegetation or ‘urban forests’ already exist in Karachi in
these reclaimed areas, and, with some planning and
imagination, this vegetation can become an escape from
the busy, chaotic urban life in the city, and allow for a
much-needed natural ‘getaway’ for the public.

During the lockdown period, we started to notice the

need and desire that people have for open public spaces,
and we should adapt existing areas to fulfil these needs.

Images of open spaces that can be

converted to natural trekking areas on
reclaimed land in Karachi | Marvi Mazhar

It is an accepted fact that Karachi is in serious need of

more greenery. This is usually misinterpreted by officials
and locals as the need to plant more trees, regardless of
their species or cost. A much more sustainable and
beneficial way of making Karachi greener would be
incorporating non-curated naturally growing vegetation
in the city, and allowing the indigenous plants to grow and
thrive.

Plants such as the morning glory, wild grass, keekar, pillu

and tamarix are resilient and grow naturally in the area;
they are also very beneficial for the ecology of Karachi and
allow vegetation to grow without intervention. We need
to let nature reclaim the lands that we have tried to lay
claim to, and allow it to repair itself.
On an administrative level, we should rethink our
infrastructure, specifically with regards to the excessive
commercial activity along the coast. There needs to be a
focus on preservation rather than development.
Restaurants, high-rises and recreational spaces
permanently alter and encroach upon the public beach,
often restricting access to parts of it, and thus ruining the
sanctity of a free and accessible public space. Such
encroachment from private sector businesses on public
land needs to be highly regulated and controlled.

Most of the land reclamation

projects in South Asia are
designed to cater to the
wealthy and, therefore, the
inflow of capital and the
development of these
projects leads to the
gentrification of the areas
around it.

Additionally, we should consider introducing ‘softscapes’,

to create coastal buffer zones and prevent the natural
environment from being harmed by public activities. This
should be done along the distance of main Sea View Road
and the sea and within Phase-VIII Extension where Sahil
Avenue meets the water. The expansion of the softscape
can act as a pedestrian zone, to provide access to
pedestrians and cyclists, with formalised hawkers
providing services to tourists, pedestrians, cyclists or any
other passers-by.

The lockdown days revealed the importance of giving the

city ‘silent time’ — a period of recovery, after which the
area of the beach should be pedestrianised. In an ideal
scenario, perhaps during the weekends, motorised traffic
on main Sea View Road could be limited, to allow the city
and the ecology to recover and rejuvenate itself. Bicycle
and walking lanes should also be introduced along main
Sea View Road to encourage people to cycle along the
edge, instead of taking their vehicle. Ethical plantation
also needs to be part of the larger vision of development
authorities, and this should reflect in the ratio division of
built and open space.

Covid-19 has taught us that mental and physical

wellbeing during a crisis is the only way forward in urban
settings, and nature and humans can only coexist with
mutual respect.

Header image: Sewage floating in Karachi’s China Creek |

Marvi Mazhar

Marvi Mazhar is the principal architect at Marvi Mazhar

and Associates

Anushka Maqbool and Harmain Ahmer are research

interns at Marvi Mazhar and Associates

Published in Dawn, EOS, August 23rd, 2020

7/14/24, 6:58 PM Dry dams, leaky pipes and tanker mafias – Karachi's water crisis | Working in development | The Guardian
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Dry dams, leaky pipes and tanker mafias

Karachi's water crisis
Pakistan’s largest city is struggling to deliver water to
residents amid a shortfall and claims of state
mismanagement

A young boy sells water in Bilal Colony, Karachi. The city is currently meeting just 50% of its total water
requirement. Photograph: Sabrina Toppa

Supported by

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About this content

Sabrina Toppa in Karachi

Tue 28 Jun 2016 10.59 BST

“T
here’s nothing here,” says Farzana Khatoun, surveying the dry
expanse of land before her. “We don’t even have enough
water to wash up for prayer, do our laundry or wash our
dishes.” Khatoun cannot simply turn on a tap and expect
water to gush out; her home is not connected to the water pipelines of
Karachi, the sixth most water-stressed city in the world.

Karachi – home to more than 20 million people – is currently meeting just

50% of its total water requirement, according to officials from the Karachi
Water and Sewerage Board (KWSB). The city needs 1.1bn gallons of water
daily but can only supply 550m gallons per day (MGD). Meanwhile, Karachi’s
population growth rate of 4.5% per annum means that nearly a million
newcomers – economic migrants, refugees and internally displaced people –
enter the city every year, further stressing the already-limited water supply.

“Since this government came into power in 2013, we

haven’t had water,” says Mofiz Khan, a shopkeeper in Orangi Town, an
economically depressed area in westernmost Karachi. Khan has tried
different methods to provoke a response: he’s written letters, demonstrated
on the streets and waited in long queues for water tankers, at times getting
into a fracas with other water-starved residents.
The water crisis is the result of several factors. Scarce water resources
persistently fail to meet the massive demand from a burgeoning population.
The Hub Dam went dry earlier this year, leaving Karachi with just one water
source, the Indus river, which is more than 120km away.
This long transmission route also causes problems – leakages and water
thefts account for the loss of almost 30% of the city’s water supply, according
to Jawed Shamim, former chief engineer at KWSB. This is exacerbated by the
poor performance of outdated and inefficient pumping stations.

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7/14/24, 6:58 PM Dry dams, leaky pipes and tanker mafias – Karachi's water crisis | Working in development | The Guardian

Kamran Khan in Orangi Town, which is one of worst-affected areas due to its reliance on Hub
Dam (no longer supplies water) Photograph: Sabrina Toppa

When the water does reach citizens, distribution inequalities arise; there is
no metering system to monitor real use or water waste. A “water tanker
mafia” also illegally punctures pipelines and siphons off water to sell at
inflated rates on the black market, highlighting other problems linked to
chronic corruption, mismanagement and poor governance.
“In many places, such as Korangi, people end up having to buy the water
that was intended for their homes,” says journalist Taha Anis, adding that
neighbourhoods closer to a supply source tend to receive a greater share of
the city’s water reserve. Frustrated by the water paucity and poor quality,
almost three-quarters of Karachi residents do not pay their water bills,
according to the KWSB.
But the worsening water scarcity has also resulted in civil unrest. This
month, Muttahida Quami Movement (MQM) protesters smashed clay water
pots in front of the chief minister’s home, calling on the government to
address the water shortage.
Inhabitants of the impoverished Yousaf Goth neighbourhood have also
demonstrated against water losses and power cuts paralysing their area. In
response, the chief minister, Syed Qaim Ali Shah, offered free water tankers
to Karachi’s most parched areas.

With Ramadan – the Islamic month of fasting – and

temperatures rising with the onset of a heatwave, residents fear the water
scarcity and blistering heat will result in another public health crisis. Last
year’s heatwave – also coinciding with Ramadan – claimed the lives of more
than 1,300 people with the city’s acute water shortage widely seen as a major
c ulprit.
“Inshallah, when the heatwave comes, no death will occur,” says the Sindh
health minister, Jam Mehtab Hussain Dahar, whose provincial government
has already set up more than 170 rehabilitation centres in the city, including
water distribution points to stave off dehydration and heatstroke.

To alleviate the crisis, Karachi’s water board is working on the 25.5bn rupee
Karachi-4 (K-4) project, which will provide an additional 650 MGD to the city
by drawing water from Keenjhar lake. Expected to start later this month,
critics contend that there will be a gap in supply and demand by the time the
initial phase is completed in two years. By then, the population will have
climbed further, increasing the burden on the available water supply.
KWSB is also seeking to reroute pipelines to decrease leakages, as well as
upgrade the city’s main pumping station, Dhabeji, to boost flow across
supply lines. A desalination plant has also been suggested, but that brings its
own expensive problems.
The water crisis in Pakistan’s largest city is part of a broader trend of water
insecurity affecting the entire country. The water shortage is Pakistan’s
biggest threat , the Federation of Pakistan Chambers of Commerce and
Industry said earlier this year, as most citizens earn their livelihood in the
water-dependent agricultural sector. By 2025, it is forecasted that Pakistan –
the world’s sixth most populous country – will have depleted its available

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7/14/24, 6:58 PM Dry dams, leaky pipes and tanker mafias – Karachi's water crisis | Working in development | The Guardian
water supply and that by 2040, the country’s water stress levels will dwarf
that of all neighbouring countries in the region.

As with many mega cities in the developing world, the

question of whether supply can keep up with the demands of a booming
population as well as crises in government management of basic resources
remains unanswered. For some Karachiites, just turning on the tap yields an
answer.
Join our community of development professionals and humanitarians.
Follow@GuardianGDP on Twitter, and have your say on issues around water
in development using #H2Oideas.

More on this story

Isabel Buchanan: ‘In Kashmir death toll reaches The persecution of the
Pakistan, law was literally a 23 in protests at killing of Ahmadis must not be
matter of life and death’ rebel leader allowed to spread

17 Jul 2016 11 Jul 2016 7 Jul 2016 …

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Theme 4: Women’s Spaces
 THE CHANGING
STATUS OF KARACHI’S
WOMEN
The people, neighbourhoods and public spaces of
Karachi have undergone a radical transformation
over the past seven decades.

Arif Hasan | Dhuha Alvi | Khadija Imran | Published August 13, 2023

In a traditionally segregated society, a change in the

status of women alters every aspect of society — from
local governance, to trade and commerce, to politics and
gender relations.

Pakistan is passing through this phase, and there are

those who, like the authors of this article, believe that the
coming two decades are going to be the ‘decades of
Pakistani women.’

In this context, this article tries to identify the changes

that are taking place in Karachi. It draws upon the
observations and experiences of Arif Hasan during his 30
years of work in Orangi and with the Urban Resource
Centre (URC) Karachi, in addition to numerous surveys,
reports, interviews and studies done by his office; an
analysis of present-day trends within the youth and
grassroots movements by Dhuha Alvi; an ongoing
anthropological study of her family by Khadija Imran; and
discussions with visitors, of every category, to Arif Hasan
over a period of 40 years.

The trends discussed in this article apply to individuals

and groups in all of Karachi, including low-income
settlements — except for new settlements on the fringe of
the city or groups of juggis [shacks] scattered all over the
city. Even within the settlements, individuals and groups
have varying levels of exposure to the world around them
and, as such, generalisation is difficult.

The people, neighbourhoods

and public spaces of Karachi
have undergone a radical
transformation over the past
seven decades. These social
changes are most pronounced
among the lives of the city’s
 women. What impact does
that have on society?

THE KARACHI THAT WAS

Forty years ago, society in Karachi was very different from

what it is now. Pre-Partition settlements were ethnically
and caste-wise homogenous. People of the same caste or
tribe, irrespective of their income, lived together.
Examples of these settlements are Sheedi Para, Rama
Swami, and Gazdarabad.

The Muhajir settlements that emerged after Partition

contained neighbourhoods made up of extended families
and people from the same region of India. They were
settled in these localities of Karachi by informal
developers, in an attempt to create homogeneous
neighbourhoods.

Although they were ethnically different, these

settlements, in many ways, shared a common gender- and
family-related culture. Young men could not choose their
professions but had to conform to what their fathers
decided, nor could they or their sisters marry out of their
clan or caste structures.

More often than not, they married within the extended

family, with marriages being arranged by the elders.
Interaction between the genders before marriage was
rare, and even after marriage, it was limited to being
between the spouses and their extended families.
In keeping with the mainstream interpretation of the
Hadith and Islamic scholars’ preachings, women could
not leave the house alone or meet men, including friends
of their husbands. It was because of women not being
allowed to go out of the house alone that most women of
that time had never visited other places outside of
Karachi. Even in Karachi, many had never been out of their
neighbourhoods or even seen the ocean; this holds true
today as well for many — and, as a result, men are better
acquainted with the landscape of the city and the country
as a whole.

However, there was a class which was the product of

colonial education and had acquired a veneer of Western
culture. This was a pre-Partition class, to which post-
Partition convent-educated young men and women were
added. Much of the bureaucracy that governed Karachi
came from this class, and there was a class both above and
below them which tried to emulate their culture and their
use of the English language.
 In 1981, only 48.8 percent of women in Karachi were
literate| The Scroll by Shazia Sikander

These classes were responsible for the image that is

portrayed of post-Independence Karachi: an image of
bars and nightclubs (some of which also catered to the
working and middle classes), numerous bookshops, and a
liberal society that tolerated diversity and dissent. It was
this class that not only dominated but ruled the city as
well, as populist politics of votes and constituencies, that
challenged its power, had not yet emerged.
In society, there are always generational differences, and
it is generally agreed that these are a result of the
difference between the values and ethos of the parents on
the one hand, and on the other, the aspirations of the
younger generation and the larger socio-political context
in which it grows up. In a more liberal environment, these
differences can be accommodated through discussion and
understanding. However, where they are at loggerheads,
it often leads to verbal and/or physical violence.

The parents of the ‘90s grew up in Gen Zia ul Haq’s

Pakistan, governed by a reactionary political
interpretation of Islam. In schools, the teaching of global
history and geography was discontinued and the teaching
of Islamiat was reduced to that of rituals. Classical
dancing and music was discontinued on radio and
television, and so was the presence of progressive
Pakistani poets and thinkers. Attempts at introducing the
chopping of hands for theft and stoning for ‘adultery’
were made and blasphemy and Hudood laws were
formulated. Every attempt was made to take society back
and fossilise it, but change can never be fully arrested.

This challenging of societal

attitudes is also supported by
the emergence of social
media as an outlet of women’s
expression. Women are
increasingly taking to social
media groups, including many
 all-women Facebook groups,
with tens of thousands of
members each, to express
their thoughts and feelings

Many of the traditional roles which women were

expected to play, both in society and at home, are now
increasingly being questioned and scrutinised | The
Citizens Archive of Pakistan

A SOCIETY IN TRANSITION

The major change that took place was the beginning of

the demise of the extended family. There were many
reasons for this.

For one, since the 1970s, there was a mass migration of

Pakistanis to the Gulf and they sent back money to their
extended families — as a result of which, disputes and
conflicts on the use and ownership of the money arose. In
addition, the better-off families migrated to locations of
new public and commercial housing schemes.
Due to a shortage of housing, settlements also densified
and, for these reasons, they became multi-ethnic, with
new families having to befriend and socialise with each
other. Clan-based marriages slowly came to be replaced
by marriages between neighbouring families, irrespective
of caste. This also led to the women of the new nuclear
families demanding a separate kitchen for themselves.

There is sufficient evidence to show that the break-up of

the extended family had at least two major repercussions.
One was that close family friendships, in which cousins
shared their problems and secrets with each other, ended,
resulting in loneliness and a desire for new friendships.

It also led to the creation of an ambience where the

education of women became relatively easier.
Consequently, while only 48.8 percent of the women in
Karachi were literate in 1981, 62.9 percent of them were
literate in 1998, and the figure further increased to 71
percent in 2017, as per the population census.

This was aided by the fact that, in the market, the need for
writing and reading skills became a requirement for even
low grade jobs. Education became an important factor in
choosing a spouse, for both men and women, especially
for the lower-middle class. All this changed the culture of
marriage, and the custom of the to-be bride and groom
meeting before a decision could be taken became
acceptable in certain quarters.

This change was accompanied by an increase in women’s

employment in the industrial sector, in garment,
pharmaceutical and packaging factories. This meant an
interaction between the sexes at work and during
transportation, although men insisted, as many still do,
that the woman’s journey should be specifically to work
and back home. In the process, the rules of segregation
softened, and at marriages where segregation was
enforced, it often disappeared towards the end of the
function, even in working class areas.

Apart from the emergence of marriage out of the clan or

extended family, the concept of free-will marriage also
emerged, and with it the reported increase in karo kari
[so-called ‘honour killing’].

Music was also frowned upon and forbidden in many

cases, as it still is in many households. As a result, aspiring
musicians and singers practised their craft secretly,
without informing their parents. Along with that, many
women in hijab at public sector universities took it off for
evening functions. Meanwhile, young men started
asserting their right to choose their subject of education
and many qualifying in engineering or medicine went on
to choose the subject of their specialisation and financed
their own education by part-time work.

This period also saw the emergence of private sector

universities, which charged exorbitant fees that only the
rich could afford. Those who could not afford it took on
part-time jobs and their parents struggled to raise the
required funds. Costs at public sector universities also
increased but the creation of private sector universities
created a new division in society, with two different
cultures — with the private universities having a fairly
heavy Western orientation in lifestyles and behavioural
patterns.
A NEW GENERATION EMERGES

Those becoming parents today are the product of a very

different culture and have been moulded by globalisation,
social media, and the state attempts to balance itself
between traditional values and emerging global trends.

One of the important factors in this struggle has been the

Pakistani electronic media and its contents, which
continues in its television dramas to reinforce the
stereotypical world of a woman, consisting mainly of her
mother-in-law, love triangles, and the father and sister-in-
law. However, previously taboo subjects, such as ‘illicit’
love affairs, children born out of marriage, and the
expression of emotions in a more open manner, have been
added to many dramas. The public reaction to these has
been mixed.

Regardless of the presence of modern ideas in these

dramas, though, it is the traditional values that eventually
emerge victorious. In contrast, on YouTube, celebrities
openly discuss their personal lives, including their love
life, marriages, divorces, body image issues, health
complications and, sometimes, also their affairs. All this
material is viewed and discussed by the Pakistani younger
generation. It is noteworthy that a few television
advertisements are also beginning to promote values that
reflect the changing nature of society, especially related
to women.

There are shows on Pakistani media such as Geo’s Hasna

Mana Hai, where the host questions the audience about
their personal lives in a thinly veiled flirtatious manner. It
is something that the audience, consisting primarily of
young men and women, participate in happily and enjoy
immensely (although it is true that much of this audience
is invited by the programme producers themselves).

In addition, there are also other shows, such as Rewind by

Samina Peerzada, where well-known personalities
discuss their love lives with the anchor. There are also
YouTube shows in which a wandering host discusses the
marriage preferences and other personal matters of
random people in a bazaar — mainly working class men
and women.

It can also be safely said that Netflix and YouTube have

normalised, or at least made acceptable to a large section
of the population, non-marital love stories, platonic
relationships between men and women, and humanised
sexualities and gender identities that fall outside of
mainstream consciousness. This has, however, further
antagonised the conservative sections of the population.

Social media platforms have also helped enormously in

developing and promoting local musicians and artists,
who are to be found in every working class and lower
middle class neighbourhood.

Post-Zia era parents have seen the emergence of the

Pakistan women’s cricket team, women mountaineers,
female bureaucrats, and a substantial increase of women
in the police force, as well as a women’s hockey team
whose uniform came under severe attack from
conservatives because it exposed the knees of the hockey
players. However, the uniform has stayed.
It is important to note here that, in a survey of schools
and colleges in the katchi abadi [informal settlement] of
Sultanabad (carried out by the Department of
Architecture at Dawood University), women were asked
as to what they would want in a park. To the surprise of
the persons who had initiated the survey, they wanted a
space to play cricket, gym machines, a space for yoga, and
an open air library — very different from earlier surveys.

Anthropological discussions and observations show that

the difference is not only between generations but also
within them. In many cases, older siblings were required
to cover their heads and not meet with men, but these
restrictions were withdrawn for the younger ones.

In the above processes, self-willed marriages have been

reluctantly accepted by an increasing number of parents,
along with the meeting of the bride and groom before the
marriage. The concept of “girlfriend”/“boyfriend” has also
been accepted by the younger generation, even in the
working class, and so has the concept of “dating” and
getting married through a dating application.

This is despite the Pakistani state’s and religious right-

wing’s attempts at curbing the mingling of men and
women, such as the government’s ban on five dating apps
(including the globally renowned Tinder) in 2020 and the
Jamaat-e-Islami’s rebranding of Valentine’s Day as ‘Haya
Day.’

Prior to the aforementioned ban on these apps, they had a

sizable market in the country, which is reflected by the
fact that Tinder had been downloaded 440,000 times in
Pakistan during the one year before being banned. Even
after this ban, other apps have been quick to fill the gap —
such as Bumble, Muzz, and Dil Ka Rishta.

Some of them (such as Bumble) come with safety features

that exclusively allow women to send the first message to
any ‘match’, to ward off cyberharassment from unknown
men. Muzz, which was previously called ‘MuzMatch’, is
marketed as an app for Muslims and has additional
privacy features in place; as of June 2022, it had 400,000
members in Pakistan and had led to 4,000 marriages,
according to its British-Pakistani CEO.

Similarly, the relatively new Dil Ka Rishta app reached

100,000 users within just the first two weeks of its launch
in late 2022. These are major and irreversible trends,
which will continue to transform Pakistani society’s
relationship with romance, both inside and outside of
marriage.

Bike-riding is emerging as a means of transport for

women due to the absence of an efficient public
transportation system | White Star

BREAKING THE SHACKLES

Twenty years ago, it was not possible for a single girl to
rent an independent accommodation for herself, and the
same was true for unmarried couples. However, because
of increasing demand, things are changing.

Many university-going girls and formally employed

women are choosing to live in hostels or shared
accommodation, with other similar people in the city.
Organisations and apps such as ‘MyGhar’ and ‘Hostayl’ as
well as social media groups dedicated to this cause have
also sprung up to cater to this demand for independent
living.

More women are also doing paid work, which gives them
greater autonomy to have a say in decisions about their
lives, including the option to part ways from their spouse
if they so wish, or to move out of their parental home
without being married. Young migrant workers who
earlier lived with senior members of their clan in Karachi
now get together and rent accommodation, giving them
the freedom for recreation and entertainment.

Mobility and walkability are major points of concern for

women, and bike-riding is emerging as a means of
transport for them in the absence of an efficient public
transportation system. Pink Riders Pakistan is an
organisation that provides bike-riding training to women
across the country and, as more women are appearing on
the roads driving motor vehicles, societal perceptions of
what is respectable for people of certain genders to do is
also being challenged. During the five years of its
existence, the organisation has trained 9,500 women all
over the country, and the numbers are increasing rapidly.
This challenging of societal attitudes is also supported by
the emergence of social media as an outlet of women’s
expression. Women are increasingly taking to social
media groups, including many all-women Facebook
groups, with tens of thousands of members each, to
express their thoughts and feelings — from the mundane
details of their everyday life to commenting on politics
and world affairs.

Such platforms are also opening up avenues for women to

dance and sing in front of the public. Many things written
here are class-specific and difficult to generalise, but there
is a constant exchange of ideas and lifestyle aspirations
between all the classes. These aspirations include the
education of children, a healthy physical environment,
and prospects of upward mobility.

These requirements cannot be fulfilled, as a result of

which an increasing number of young people want to
leave Pakistan for greener pastures abroad, often illegally,
and a whole system to provide such a facility illegally has
also developed. Just during the first two months of 2023,
data from the Bureau of Emigration and Overseas
Employment shows that a whopping 127,400 Pakistanis
moved abroad.

A culture of gymming has also developed in urban areas,

including mixed gender gyms, where people — young and
old — come for physical training at the cost of a few
thousand rupees every month. Along with this, personal
grooming has also become important, and that explains
the proliferation of beauty parlours, even in low-income
settlements and katchi abadis. The women who operate
them have learnt their craft through Indian and Pakistani
TV programmes. Increasingly, the maids working in
middle income and elite homes are starting to look like
their employers.

Another aspect is the change in people’s eating habits and

its connection with society. Any area where an
international fast food outlet such as McDonald’s, KFC or
Pizza Hut opens up, changes. The public space
surrounding it commercialises, with the opening up of
other mid-to-high end food outlets. Over time, it also
comes to influence the culture of the city it is located in as
a whole.

For example, young people prefer to dine at these outlets

with their friends rather than invite them to their homes
to get together, even if it is affordable only once or twice a
month. Similarly, families — including joint ones — also
dine in or get food delivered from there every once in a
while.

For a society where certain sections used to look down

upon the practice of eating food from outside the home
until a few years ago, this is a sign of social change. The
expansion of these fast food franchises to all corners of
Pakistan also shows an increasing tilt towards
urbanisation and upward mobility, which links in with the
younger generation’s desire for a different lifestyle than
what has been the tradition.

YOUNG ASPIRATIONS

In the absence of the possibility of acquiring a house, the

unaffordability of education for their children, the
absence of transport and culture, and the high cost of
entertainment, health and recreation, the aspirations of
the Pakistani emerging lower middle and working classes
cannot be fulfilled.

There is a fundamental conflict between these

aspirations and thinking processes behind them on the
one hand, and the lived reality on the other. Given the
political and economic uncertainty, and the existence of
an uncaring elite, it is unlikely that this can be resolved
without a major conflict, which has already begun
between and within the institutions of the state.

One of the ways to avoid this conflict is the development

and effective management of physical and social
infrastructure. An important part of this infrastructure is
sports facilities, which the state has developed but which
are inaccessible to young men and women. The design of
parks, schools, public toilets and public spaces is being
neglected and, where these spaces do exist, they do not
cater to the needs of the younger generation, especially
women.

Laws and notifications restricting the use of social media

by the state increase this conflict and show how afraid the
state is of the emancipation of the younger generation.
This fear is also expressed in politics, especially with the
enactment of the Pakistan Army (Amendment) Act, 2023,
and amendments to the Official Secrets Act, 1923. A
sympathetic embrace by the state of the aspirations of
the younger generation is essential for peace, stability
and prosperity.
Arif Hasan is an architect and urban planner. He can be
reached at arifhasan37@gmail .com or
www.arifhasan.org

Dhuha Alvi is a writer whose research revolves around

gender, class and politics.
She can be reached at zohaalvi.21@gmail.com

Khadija Imran is a researcher working with Arif Hasan.

She can be reached at
khadijaneedmorestorage@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, EOS, August 13th, 2023

Header illustration by Sarah Durrani

 Sign in

News Opinion Sport Culture Lifestyle

Cycling the city Cities

This article is more than 5 years old

'People think we’re from another planet':

meet Karachi's female cyclists
Teams of women and girls are among numerous cycle
groups increasingly to be seen on the streets of the frenetic
Pakistan megacity
 Girls cycle outside Karachi’s colonial-era Custom House. Scenes like this are increasingly being played out
across the city on weekend mornings. Photograph: Zulekha Dawood/Lyari Girls Cafe

Saba Imtiaz in Karachi

Wed 26 Jun 2019 12.00 CEST

E
arly on Sunday morning in Karachi, a group of girls are riding loops
around an empty stretch of road outside the colonial-era Custom
House. At 6am they left the narrow alleys of the old neighbourhood
of Lyari, branded a war zone by national and international media
after a lengthy and brutal gang conflict. Two hours later they are still happily
pedalling away, in ballet slippers and with headscarves tucked under
helmets.

“I used to cycle alone,” says Gullu Badar, 15. “It’s nice to cycle here because
there’s no danger, no cars. It feels good that there are other girls cycling with
me too.”

“Don’t you want to take a break?” asks Zulekha Dawood, their instructor
from the Lyari Girls Cafe collective. “No,” they shout, and continue chasing
each other around.

The ego of our men is It is rare to see women cycling in Pakistan

very fragile. If someone is but scenes like this are increasingly being
trying something new they played out across Karachi on weekend
cannot tolerate it mornings. Numerous cycling groups take
Aliya Memon over the empty streets, such as the Critical
Mass movement. Cycling initiatives have
made their way to campuses such as the NED University of Engineering and
Technology. There are also sponsored and themed bike rides, including ones
to raise awareness of polio, to mark the start of mango season and to honour
Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the country’s founder.

As cycling becomes more popular, many people are returning to bikes for the
first time since childhood. For Aliya Memon, 30, who climbed on a bike last
September after a 15-year gap, the memory of how to ride immediately came
back. “I started cycling again because it is an emotional outlet,” she says.
“You release endorphins when you cycle. You have a sense of achievement.”
 The Lyari girls cycle past graffiti. Photograph: Zulekha Dawood/Lyari Girls Cafe

But it can be difficult in a frenetic city of 15 million. As Karachi has grown

from a fishing village to Pakistan’s first capital and now its economic hub,
traffic and commute times have increased. Transportation options are
dismal.

On the city’s dilapidated buses, women squeeze into a cramped reserved

section with only a few seats. Sexual harassment is rife onboard and at bus
stops, and the limited service forces passengers to walk long distances. For
women, the only other options are to share a rickshaw or taxi – an often
expensive proposition – or depend on male relatives to drive them to work
and school.

Cycling could be one way for women to gain personal and economic freedom
but it will be a long and bumpy road ahead – quite literally, given Karachi’s
potholed streets. For most, cycling is just a recreational weekend activity,
not a way to commute. Karachi has no bike paths or cycle parking, and the
motor traffic is chaotic. The few cyclists on the roads are mostly daily-wage
earners using basic bikes. While some people ride bikes to complete quick
errands, the fear of being robbed deters many from cycling to work with a
laptop, for example.

In addition to security risks, women have to contend with social acceptance.

Women ride side-saddle on motorcycles and are often told to stop cycling
when they’re teenagers. Faiza Hasan Rizvi, a 32-year-old cyclist who rides
with GG Riders, says women are dissuaded by cultural norms and even by
their families. “We’ve been brainwashed [to think] that we can’t do it,” says
Rizvi. “For women my age there’s no imagination to do anything.”
 ‘We’ve been brainwashed [to think] that we can’t do it’ ... Faiza Hasan Rizvi. Photograph: Faiza
Hasan Rizvi

Zulekha Dawood, the coordinator at Lyari Girls Cafe, first began cycling on
her neighbourhood’s uneven roads with another colleague. “It felt good, like
we were free,” Dawood says, sitting in the front room of the cafe on a quiet
weekday afternoon. The power has gone out, and a loud generator hums in
the background. “We faced some resistance [from] the students of the
madrassa, some religious people … [but] if you stop a girl’s path in one way,
many more ways will open up.”

Deciding there was safety in numbers, they trained indoors for seven
months, learning from four women who already knew how to ride a bike.
When they had a large enough group, they ventured out on the road.

Habiba Allahdad, 39, a resident of Lyari, was hesitant at first, thinking her
weight would be an obstacle. Now she hopes she can one day use a bike to
run errands: “I want to show people in the neighbourhood that the girls who
have this desire in their heart can look at me and do this too.”

While there is safety in numbers, many cycling groups rely on support cars
and mechanics. Women don’t ride alone on main roads. “When you’re on a
bike, you feel a certain sense of freedom,” says Sadaf Furqan, 42, on a
Saturday morning after completing a 25km ride with the Cycologists group.
But cycling unaccompanied, she says, isn’t an option. “I long for the day I
can take my bike and go out on my own but I have to bank on other people to
ride. If I go on a long ride, there have to be at least five men in the group.”
 Two of the Lyari girls pause for a moment. Photograph: Zulekha Dawood/Lyari Girls Cafe

Nearly every woman interviewed recounts catcalls, stares and harassment.

“People think we’ve come from some other planet,” Dawood says.

“No matter how progressive people become, if someone is trying something

new they cannot tolerate it,” Memon adds. “The ego of our men is very
fragile.”

Conservatives in Pakistan have been riled by female cyclists. In Peshawar,

religious-political parties objected to a cycling rally for women organised by
Zamung Jwandun (Our Youth), a local NGO. Wafa Wazir, the group’s 23-year-
old founder, had been inspired by accounts of women who wanted to drive
rickshaws or ride bikes. As opposition grew, however, Wazir was forced to
put the plan on hold, citing the safety of participants.

That hasn’t deterred the girls of Lyari, nor any of the women who’ve found
cycling offers a release from the stresses of life in Karachi.

“They want to scare girls so they don’t go out to cycle, and neither do
others,” says Allahdad. “Because if girls ride a bicycle then they can also ride
a motorcycle. I think it’s also jealousy at seeing girls getting ahead.”

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Theme 5: Violence
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CONFLICT / COMMENTARY

Karachi’s Turf Wars

Violence is a political tool in the city that never sleeps

Pakistani police forces block a street in Karachi, where violence between the ethnic Muhajir
and the Pashtun-nationalist political parties has escalated in recent months. ASIF HASSAN
/ AFP PHOTO

SHAHERYAR MIRZA
01 August, 2011

THEY LOOKED LIKE CROWS perched along telephone wires strung

through the hills on the outskirts of Orangi Town in Karachi. But in fact
they were armed men from the Pashtun-nationalist Awami National Party
(ANP), crouched over and looking through the crosshairs of their rifles at
homes near the bottom of the hill in Qasba Colony.
Up to 100 people were killed from gunfire within four days when violence
erupted in Karachi in early July. The murder of an ANP activist triggered
the ever-simmering war between the ethnic Muhajir Muttahida Qaumi
Movement (MQM), Karachi’s largest political party, and the Khyber-
Pakhtunkhwa based ANP. The majority of the killings took place in Orangi
Town, which has become a hotbed of violence when tensions rise—it is
home to a large Muhajir community whose claim to the area has been
threatened by the surge of Pashtun migrants settling in Karachi. Violence is
used as a political tool throughout Karachi: both parties take advantage of,
and sustain, ethnic tensions between the communities to exploit the
public’s vote in exchange for security.
On the fourth day of violence I stood along a deserted road staring at the
men on top of the hill, the air thick with the sound of gunshots in the
distance. A Muhajir resident from the area approached me and whispered
through his paan-stained teeth: “Do you want to see where they are
shooting from?” I hesitated, as the only people not hiding in their homes at
this time were likely to have a political affiliation. I put my fate in his hands
as he took me to the top of the Zubeida Medical Center. “When you get to
the landing on the second floor, duck and run to the next staircase,” he said
as his eyes darted to the hilltops and back. It was becoming clear that he
was taking me to his own hideout, which was a target of the rival group.
When we reached the top, the hastily hidden guns and ammunition
confirmed my suspicions. He handed me a pair of binoculars and instructed
me and my cameraman to look through the holes: “Keep your eyes on the
wall with the ‘ANP’ graffiti and you’ll see a man coming out and firing.” We
spent 15 minutes capturing the best possible footage to satiate the public’s,
and admittedly our own, voyeuristic urges.
Back on the deserted street, feeling heroic and accomplished, we sent the
recording to our headquarters to be aired as soon as possible. We had
managed to capture footage of gunmen to correspond with the percussion
of gunshots echoing in the soundscape. But triumph quickly gave way to a
sinking feeling, the one journalists get when they have seen only one side of
the story.
As we moved towards the Qasba Mor intersection and the flags changed
from the MQM’s green and white to the red of the ANP, I thought a balance
was about to be struck in my reporting of the conflict. But just as we arrived
at the intersection which divides the two communities, shots rang out and
we ducked for cover behind our car. As I looked to my side, a policeman
was crouched down beside me. I jeered at him, to which he responded: “No
way am I firing back. We don’t have orders to and I only have four bullets.”
We both laughed cynically.
Without trustworthy contacts and filled with fear, we decided not to go any
further. As the sun began to set I realised that most of the media had never
ventured into the labyrinthine, largely peaceful community on the hills.
This omission has helped to shape the narrative that Muhajirs bore the
brunt of the violence in those bloody four days, but of course it is only half
of the truth. The combination of sophisticated logistics and a more media
savvy Muhajir community meant that the ANP was largely invisible, and
easily demonised.
As midnight approached and the body count grew, the horror of Qasba had
reached the public’s living rooms and the pressure on the lackadaisical
government increased. After four days without interference from security
forces, the Rangers, paramilitary forces under government control, were
sent in to evacuate families who had been stuck in their homes because of
the conflict. Families came pouring out from the back of armored
personnel carriers empty-handed, carrying with them only the ghastly tales
 of violence and loss. Many of their homes had been burnt, their life savings
stolen, family members displaced in the violence and several of them had
nowhere to go.
Once the Rangers moved into the hills, the gunfire died down by early
morning, but what the government described as a “targeted action” was
only focused on the violence coming from ANP areas. The MQM districts
had been conveniently ignored—the armed men there could stash their
weapons and return to their homes. Any detentions or arrests made by the
Rangers were inconsequential, and once again the civilians in the region,
because of their home addresses, carried the burden of consequence.
This is a familiar story for those in Karachi who have survived the violence
in the 1990s and over the past few years. Turf wars between political parties
are settled on the backs of a population taken hostage by heavily armed
paramilitary forces. The privileged and the powerful are largely insulated
from the violence. Body counts are merely numbers, not faces, as
journalists along with the public get increasingly desensitised to the
frequency of violence in the city. No one side can be absolved from guilt in
these skirmishes, and the ill-equipped politicised police force is too scant to
make an impact, even if they were reformed.
Land is priceless in this growing metropolis, but lives have become
increasingly worthless.
Karachi, the “City of Lights” and the city that never sleeps, is in a fragile
state of perpetual fear. While its most vulnerable residents rest their
sleepless heads, the threat of another turf war weighs heavy on their future.
And as they remain blanketed by dark political forces that exchange
security for votes, the cycle continues.

SHAHERYAR MIRZA has a maters degree in journalism and public affairs and works as a
reporter for Express 24/7 in Karachi, Pakistan.

Karachi paramilitary Pakistan Pashtun ethnic violence Muhajir

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 NICHOLA KHAN
(Editor)

Cityscapes of Violence
in Karachi
Publics and Counterpublics

A
 A
Oxford University Press is a department of the
University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective
of excellence in research, scholarship, and education
by publishing worldwide.
Oxfordâ•… New York
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Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press
in the UK and certain other countries.
Published in the United States of America by
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Copyright © Nichola Khan 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press,
or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with
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Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above.
You must not circulate this work in any other form
and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
Nichola Khan.
Cityscapes of Violence in Karachi: Publics and Counterpublics.
ISBN: 9780190656546

Printed in India on acid-free paper

 CONTENTS

List of Images vii

Acknowledgements ix
Contributors xi
Preface: A Transformed Landscape Nichola Khan xvii

Introduction Nichola Khan 1

1.╇People All Around You: Locating Karachi in the Poetry of
Azra Abbas Asif Farrukhi 25
2.╇1994: Political Madness, Ethics, and Story-making in
Liaquatabad district in Karachi Nichola Khan 41
3.╇Karachi: A Pashtun City? Zia Ur Rehman 63
4.╇The Sunday Fighter: Doubts, Fears, and Little Secrets of an
Intermittent Combatant Laurent Gayer 85
5.╇Life in a ‘No-go Area’: Experiences of Marginalisation and
Fear in Lyari Nida Kirmani 103
6.╇‘Our Rule’: The MQM, the Dawat-i-Islami, and Mohajir
Religiosity OskarVerkaaik 121
7.╇Prohibition and ‘Sharab’ as Political Protest in Karachi
Nadeem F. Paracha
€ 135
8.╇The Cost of Free Speech: the Media in the Battlefields of
Karachi Razeshta Sethna 153
9.╇From the Demise of Cosmopolitanism to its Revival: Trends
and Repercussions for Karachi Arif Hasan 173

v
 CONTENTS
10.╇Four ‘Ordinary’ Deaths Kausar S. Khan
€ 187
Afterword I Farzana Shaikh 199
Afterword II Kamran Asdar Ali 213
Select Bibliography 229
Index 239

vi
 2

1994
POLITICAL MADNESS, ETHICS, AND STORY-MAKING
IN LIAQUATABAD DISTRICT IN KARACHI

Nichola Khan

From 1993–5 I lived in a community in Central Karachi where many

residents consisted of Indian Muslim migrant ‘Mohajirs’ who moved to
Pakistan following Partition in 1947. I lived in Liaquatabad district, a
historical theatre of intermittent conflict dating back to anti-govern-
ment riots in the 1960s, ethnic conflicts between Mohajirs and
Pashtuns in the 1980s, and where in the 1990s the security forces
raided houses, arrested, terrorised, and fought armed battles with resi-
dents. Many residents, but not all, supported the Muttahida Qaumi
Movement (MQM) party, formed in 1984 to represent the Urdu-
speaking Mohajirs’ concerns. Since 1985, intense violence involving
the MQM, the state, and all political and ethnic groups dominated
Karachi. At the same time, the MQM won all elections in Karachi. The
party’s political dominance in Karachi has been dented by malaise
amongst Karachi’s Mohajirs themselves after three decades of violence,

41
 CITYSCAPES OF VIOLENCE IN KARACHI
by large-scale changes in Karachi’s demography, by political interfer-
ence and interests of the state (see Rehman, this volume), and new
liberal reforms to the media (Sethna, this volume).
â•… Between 2000 and 2006 I conducted periods of anthropological field-
work with supporters of the MQM, and Jamaat e Islami in Karachi. In
2004 I returned to Liaquatabad in order to record interviews with men
who became mercenaries in the MQM throughout some intense early
phases of the conflict. This chapter draws primarily on my time in
Liaquatabad in 1994, which served effectively as my introduction to
Karachi, and the basis for my subsequent research on violence. It does so
via a focus on a single case, that of ‘Arshad’, which I have discussed in
detail elsewhere (Khan 2010a; 2014). I use pseudonyms for all my infor-
mants who have since moved from Liaquatabad, died, or left Pakistan.
â•… I want to reflect here on questions of ‘madness’—as a psychic and
political metaphor, rather than absolute category—that have preoc-
cupied me over several years. Here I seek company with writers such
as Begona Aretxaga, Byron Good, and Thomas Blom Hansen (see
Verkaaik, this volume), who have reflected on violence and political
madness in diverse contexts, or otherwise sought to link individual and
political disorders without collapsing individual political or cultural
factors into one another. Likewise, with the presence of what cannot
easily be grasped in an ethos of surviving violence that disrupts prac-
tices rooted in territorial modes of historicism and grand theories
(Singh 2015), in favour of dreams, stories, and retaining the ineffable
‘inscrutability of suffering’ (Das 2015, 212).
â•… My concern derives from a more existential question about the limits
of humanity and human action, as well as my personal difficulty to assim-
ilate the details of much of what I heard, and my work as a social and
psychological anthropologist. There are many ‘types’ of people who have
killed—those who work at steady jobs during the week, have killed
once, several times, and those ‘intermittent fighters’ who avoid doing so
(Gayer, this volume). Men like Arshad approached killing with all the
seriousness of a military career, and they occupy a different category.
Their violence, which certainly constitutes what Gayer discusses in this
volume as a form of labour seemed to go far beyond any ‘call of duty’,
and prompts my questions about the ways political and individual aspects
of extreme violence are related in ideas of madness. I also consider some

42
 LIAQUATABAD DISTRICT
ethical questions regarding the role researchers, journalists, and com-
munities play in the representation of violence.Violence was not a total-
ising condition in Liaquatabad. Indeed, the majority of my neighbours
were not involved in violence, certainly did not condone killings, and had
small knowledge of their local militants’ activities which mostly occurred
outside the neighbourhood.
â•… Academic accounts have characterised the Mohajirs’ condition as
deeply intertwined with their position in Muslim India, Pakistan’s
bloody inception, and their marginalisation from Pakistan’s social and
political power structures. They provoke questions regarding why theo-
risations of state power inevitably revert towards explanations of cor-
ruption, state failure, or disappointed political aspirations. Alternatives
include Gayer’s analysis of the unifying potential of Karachi’s violent
topography wherein a complicated palimpsest of actors are at the root
of a series of orderly disordered dilemmas which pattern crises of vio-
lent transition (2014). Some interesting perspectives developed by
anthropologists include Veena Das who refers to the ‘illegibility’ inter-
nal to the modern state, Talal Asad who describes the ‘margins of
uncertainty’ alongside legal-bureaucratic legitimation, and Brighupati
Singh whose focus on the natural waxing and waning of forces across
‘thresholds of life’ de-emphasises the moralised struggle between
‘freedom-fighting heroes’ and ‘colonising villains’ in favour of ‘more
ordinary necessities and desires’ (2015, 123). These works critically
open up a more complex view and set of problems where ‘normality’
may not be the opposite of ‘madness’, weakness of strength, or demo-
cratic politics a logical salvific solution for the problem of violence.
â•… To the extent only a small minority became killers such as I describe,
this chapter’s centre of gravity concerns individual dimensions of vio-
lence. Previously I elaborated an (arguably controversial) moral-political
position to reveal these men’s humanity, and show how their actions
developed ‘normally’ within the specific contexts of political mobilisa-
tion, discrimination, and military repression in Karachi, and Liaquatabad
particularly, in which they grew up. I drew on neo-Marxist critiques,
South Asian anthropology, and psychodynamic arguments, drawing on
intersections of national, cultural, and biographical histories. I argued
that violence is destructive but also generative insofar as it restores or
intensifies the self. At the same time, it produces a stubborn fascination

43
 CITYSCAPES OF VIOLENCE IN KARACHI
with tales of extraordinary terror that are also very ordinary. This shapes
the experience of being unable to move on—and reproduces radical
violence as a conventional means of conducting politics.
â•… Since then, I have felt uneasy about this analysis. I wonder if I was
too close, too influenced by, or defensive of these men (my former
neighbours) to consider more deeply questions of pathology and
accountability, or to shine a light on my own complicity and fascina-
tion. Following what Kapferer terms the ‘aporia of the exotic’ (2013,
822), here I ask how we can represent violence neither as radically
other, nor as the minor discourse, in the sense of giving voice to sane
individuals in insane situations—that is, as neither madness nor sanity?
One way to avoid the question of either/or is through the problem: to
question the concord between metaphors of normality and madness,
societal and individual violence. Let us be clear. Case study analysis can
reveal features of madness in an individual. However, it would be quite
erroneous (even mad) to claim all killers are mad, or to impose a
model of psychosis on all forms of violent political practice. At the
same time, it is important not to leave individual dimensions, the
psyche and the psychoanalytic, out of analyses of violence (Good,
2012). Likewise, while Veena Das argues it may be entirely correct to
view the subject of madness as an ensemble of relations and conditions,
‘in no case does this conception authorise us to put aside the separate-
ness of the individual or the fact of his or her suffering on the grounds
the subject is not simply the individual. Such is the complexity of the
situation that madness brings into existence’ (Das 2015, 84). Thus my
aim is to highlight ways ‘madness’ creates differing modes of attach-
ment and detachment, agonistics and aesthetics, for people who com-
mit and live amidst extreme violence. Correspondingly, I aim to exam-
ine how lives are ‘really’ ruined by realities of a collective enthralment
with atrocities, but also to take seriously the safety imagined in a situ-
ation which fosters individual and political continuities between nor-
mative and floridly pathological modes of violence.
â•… Those men I wrote about spoke in graphic and varyingly personal and
impersonal detail of whom, how, and why they killed. Each case raised
questions that still trouble me. What are the moral limits of sympathy
for the suffering of a killer? Why are tales of fantastic violence, even if
racked with terror, torment, and exaggeration, often perversely enthrall-

44
 LIAQUATABAD DISTRICT
ing? What does it mean for Arshad to ‘confess’, with a look simultane-
ously proud, defiant, and strangely blank, that he was named on eighty-
six murder charges? Is telling such stories an exercise in ‘empathy’ with
oppressed communities and actors, or an ‘exoticisation’ of violence? In
a highly charged situation where stories of violence are distorted for
political gain, should they even be told at all? And who will publish
them? Individuals like Arshad are certainly accountable for their actions.
Yet politicians, communities, and commentators are also responsible,
albeit to differing degrees, for the thrall in which violence can hold
them, even while they produce excoriating accounts that fiercely oppose
it. That is, is ‘commentary’ a distancing tactic that fails to foster a rela-
tion of respect with the populace it engages—one which might lead
such stories to become a site of refusal and a way to write against, rather
than more superficially abhor, violence?

1994
For all of 1994 I lived in Liaquatabad, an area known interchangeably
as Lalukhet. Lalukhet (‘Lalu’s farm’) was the pre-Independence name
given to the neighbourhood, changed in honour of the first Prime
Minister Liaquat Ali Khan after 1947. Since the 1950s it has been an
almost exclusively, low-to-middle income Mohajir settlement. I had
been living in South-East Asia, and I came to Liaquatabad for the first
time with my former Mohajir husband.
â•… We lived in a three-storey building that backed onto the Lyari river,
between the ‘old’ sabzi mandi (vegetable market) and the Teen Hatti
bridge, following S. M. Taufiq Road. The attenuated river separated our
€ €

area from the largely Pashtun areas sabzi mandi and PIB Colony, and a
bridge divided it from the squatter settlement Nishtar basti. Here
migrants from Afghanistan, Peshawar, and the tribal agencies lived in
severer conditions and, until its closure in 2002, many worked as hawk-
ers and lorry-loaders at sabzimandi. Half the ground floor was let to a
garment factory; some small apartments upstairs were rented to
Mohajir tenants. Several Kashmiri migrants rented cot-beds on the roof.
I lived behind Akhri stop, last stop for the no.â•–7H bus. My days passed
mostly in the narrow ‘gullies’ (lanes) and homes between the river and
the main road. That is, between five bus-stops: Akhri, Sindhi Hotel,

45
 CITYSCAPES OF VIOLENCE IN KARACHI

Image 1: Liaquatabad district, A Area, 1994 (Nichola Khan).

Image 2: Liaquatabad district, 1994 (Nichola Khan).

46
 LIAQUATABAD DISTRICT
Nursery, Sheesh Mahal and, passing the mechanics’ workshops, lastly
Dakhana (the Post Office), where the road met the roar of city traffic.
â•… By 1994, military operations against the MQM in Karachi had con-
tinued for almost two continuous years. Earlier, in the 1960s, Lalukhet
had become a site of anti-government riots, and in the 1990s a ‘no-go’
area for non-residents and the police. My arrival in Liaquatabad coin-
cided with the aftermath of ‘Operation Clean-Up’, a severe military
repression in the 1992 operations on Karachi’s ‘kalashnikov culture’, in
which Liaquatabad was targeted by the security forces as a major MQM
stronghold. Whilst the curfews, strikes, and armed Rangers patrolling
the streets in trucks all signalled the danger, they also shut down pos-
sibilities of movement—to work, school, onto the main road—enforc-
ing a claustrophobic idleness and oppressive sense of boredom, con-
finement, suspense, and waiting—for the curfew to end, for something
to happen. Many MQM workers did not go to work for fear of being
arrested, or because their salaries were paid in any case. Some spent
time leafleting and chalking MQM slogans on the walls. Others had
murder charges or militancy-related First Information Reports (FIRs)
registered against them. They were officially ‘underground’, living
between relatives and friends.
â•… People eagerly greeted the tempo change around 4pm when the
Jang newspaper was released with its usual numeric headline: 17, 9, 12
et cetera, referring to the numbers killed across the city that day. This
was the time to venture into the gullies to sit, gather, talk about the
news and how Mohajirs finally had a hope in the MQM who would
crush the army and honour the sacrifices they had made and were mak-
ing for Pakistan. Small shops and foodstalls also opened now. The local
men hung around near Hakim’s shop, savouring pan parag (betel nut
mix), smoking, joking. Perhaps I’d join them to chat, or be pulled by
their giggling children into their homes to drink tea, sit with their
mothers, and be teasingly questioned about my life. Shahjah, white-
haired now, would fry potato chips on his small portable cooker; one,
two, or five rupees a portion. The mood in the gullies was relaxed in
contrast to the main road which was tense, and patrolled by Rangers
who largely did not enter.
â•… When there was no curfew, in the mornings, the Kashmiris left for
work as labourers, porters at sabzimandi, or in the garment factory.

47
 CITYSCAPES OF VIOLENCE IN KARACHI
Rabia, who lived upstairs, set off to sell baryan (dried cooked pulses)
and hair-removal powder door to door. Her mother might drop in, a
locally famed ‘princess’ from Uttar Pradesh in India who had lost ‘all’
her money and jewellery when she migrated to Pakistan during
Partition, this being her sacrifice to build the new Pakistan. Most days
Rashid, Rabia’s brother, worked on the buses. In the evenings he sold
packets of heroin to local addicts. Occasionally his estranged wife and
children visited, and he would parade his sons about, though more
often sit outside on the chabouter (stone ledge), too drugged to sit
upright. I might climb to the rooftop and chatter with the women
opposite. Or gaze over the river, the cows grazing on the scrubby
grass, the washing laid out to dry, the remnants discarded from the
garment factory, the accumulating rubbish. Once I fired a kalashnikov
here, recoiling at the deafening sound, surprised at the physical effort
required. Yasmin, who lived in the building, turned up her nose—
someone had to disapprove. But another day she laughed and we took
photographs of each other with the gun. Another neighbour proudly
demonstrated he could take a Kalashnikov apart and rebuild it in one
minute. His weapon bore the inscription ‘Made in China by Muslimer’.
He also had two TT pistols stuffed behind a sofa in his room. During
army raids after I left, many weapons were buried by the riverbed.
Many of those first-generation Mohajirs I knew have died, or moved
away; the building I lived in has long been empty. Now that the river-
bank is being dug up and many houses there are scheduled for demoli-
tion in order to finish construction on the Lyari Expressway, the unsus-
pecting ground-workers will no doubt uncover the cache.
â•… Liaquatabad’s fearsome reputation largely protected the area from
strangers and the ‘agencies’ who might venture inside. A symbolic
space of Mohajir pride and of MQM power, it was also an ‘inside’
space for its residents to pursue everyday life; to pass time, perhaps
invite one’s friends, or rent a film from Kashif€Video Store. Not every
house had a television then. If visitors came, I found it was only a
short walk to Mohammadi Sweets to buy biscuits and snacks, naan
khatai, or namak parai; or sweets such as ladoo, jalebi, gulab jamun, or
ras malai. Some�times, eager for a change of scene, I walked to the 8A
bus stop in PIB Colony where the stalls sold second-hand English
books and novels. Or perhaps cross the riverbank to the poorer

48
 LIAQUATABAD DISTRICT
Nishtar basti and visit a family whose father and young daughter,
Salma, made money performing magic and card tricks on the street,
she a queen of marvellous prestidigitation.
â•… To borrow a motorbike felt like a passage to freedom. Sometimes I
caught a ride out to visit Mr Nadeem at Sindhi Hotel who kept a fancy
€

of pigeons on his roof. Or, past the lengths of dyed cloth drying in the
breeze, where Sindhi Hotel gave way to Liaquatabad Areas 6, 7, 8, 9
and 10, to visit Irfan. Here, in a row of old houses painted jade blue,
Irfan lived in two rooms with his twelve children. His wife invariably
sat beatifically in the centre of the room, while her daughters busied
around her. Or perhaps the bike would bump past the armed police at
the checkpost at Akhri and continue over the crossing, past the butch-
ers and teashops in Mohammadi Colony, past Gulberg School where
vendors mixed powdered glass with coloured paint for the most cut-
throat kite-strings in all Karachi; kite fighting was a popular past-time,
in Ramadan especially, on the rooftops in the cooling hour before
breaking the fast (iftar). On through Sooka Bagh and Azam Nagar
where children played on the dusty ground; past Baloch hotel, across
the main road into Azizabad, and on to Aisha Manzil for fresh juice.
â•… Near Sooka Bagh in Sikander Abad was the infamous ‘Peeli Kothi’
(Yellow house) dwelling. One interlocutor and self-defined MQM mer-
cenary, Arshad, told me he had been a member of an elite ‘militant
wing’ of seven ‘bodyguards’ who lived here in 1988–9. These ‘body-
guards’ were chiefly charged with conducting killings and kidnappings,
providing armed assistance, firing on opposition rallies or raising funds
through robberies and violence. They operated under secrecy. Arshad
described a haunted house which before 1947 was occupied by Hindus,
who were killed during Partition by Muslims who ransacked the dwell-
ing. He described a cloying eerieness which intensified in the room
where political opponents and wealthy businessmen ‘died under tor-
ture’ (notably he did not say ‘were murdered’). The room felt terrible
and cold; none of the ‘boys’ wanted to enter there. As the bodies piled
up, they took them away and dumped them in the Nazimabad or
Gulshan-e-Iqbal areas. By 1990, the dwelling had become too notori-
ous. It was abandoned and converted into a party sector office. Later
the sector office moved to Liaquatabad No.â•–4 and the house reverted
to more ordinary, pedestrian uses.

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 CITYSCAPES OF VIOLENCE IN KARACHI
â•… During 1994 many rumours of killings circulated. Sometimes vio-
lence occurred in our neighbourhood. Or perhaps local Unit leaders
would dispatch ‘boys’ to attend clashes outside—although not Arshad
and his comrades, who considered themselves ‘above’ such lesser tasks.
The Rangers would patrol the main road at night, and sometimes enter
and conduct dawn raids. In other neighbourhoods if there was a strike-
call or protest, someone would burn a government building or bank, fire
at the police station, or set a bus alight—not at Akhri because the local
drivers lived nearby. One day the still curfew was broken when someone
set fire to the Habib bank at Sindhi hotel. Hundreds of people poured
onto the road, furiously decrying the army, calling for violence. Someone
shouted to me that I should publicise the atrocities being perpetrated
against Mohajirs to the world outside. Someone else pushed me back
inside; for my safety, in case of reprisals, or if matters deteriorated.
â•… Word often spread that there would be a strike the next day. In
Liaquatabad the shopkeepers, MQM loyalists, always closed without
hesitation. Elsewhere MQM workers would pass by on motorbikes,
banging shutters with sticks. During the stultifying heat, endless power

Image 3: Burnt vehicles, A Area Liaquatabad district, 1994 (Nichola Khan).

50
 LIAQUATABAD DISTRICT
cuts, and the utter boredom of daytime curfew, many workers would
sleep. Because of the cover and ease of movement afforded by the
night, these became the hours the ‘boys’ went out; to spy on Rangers,
build makeshift lookouts from where to fire into the road, burn buses,
or just whisper excitedly and plot. One night, amidst a noisy secrecy,
some young men received a delivery of weapons; they decided to go
out to fire at the Rangers. One, Shabbir, shot his leg by accident. I
watched as they carried him, a shaken unwieldy bundle barely out of
childhood, across the water to PIB Colony and called the ambulance
there, mindful of alerting the Rangers into our area.
â•… Another such night, I watched some workers block the bridge to
sabzi mandi; they would ensure no traffic passed here. About 4 am they
ventured in silence onto the road. One jumped aboard a bus and
manoeuvred it into the road. The others fortified the blockade by plac-
ing tyres across the road; then home to sleep through the long daylight
hours of strike.
â•…One mohallydar (local neighbour), too ‘important’ for such low-scale
activities, was Javaid. Lumbering and typically taciturn, Javaid was a
prominent local militant. Little educated, he had trained as an electri-
cian; his father bred pigeons and derived a small family income by betting
on pigeon racing. One afternoon amidst a flurry of activity I saw Javaid
and a friend step out from the gully into a waiting rickshaw, with covered
faces. Later the news spread a Haqiqi ‘spy’ had been shot dead at the paan
stand opposite Akhri. Had Javaid hurried to ‘protect’ the area? I tenta-
tively ventured to look. The ground had been doused clean with water.
People said the blood was everywhere; a sense of trepidation, and a fore-
boding fear of reprisals hung in the air. I asked Javaid directly if he was
responsible. He smiled but said nothing.

Unravelling
In mid-1995 I left Karachi. Our building and the entire area were sub-
sequently raided by the Rangers, three times. Many residents fled. Two
young brothers from one family, one studying for his matriculation
exam, spent long weeks in police custody, then jail. Their mother, a
widow, scraped around for the bail money. When the youngest was
released his eye was damaged, his leg fractured. One evening, amidst

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 CITYSCAPES OF VIOLENCE IN KARACHI
another raid on the area, she gathered her four younger children and
fled in a rickshaw to a relative. They spent three years moving between
relatives until, finally, they were able to rent a house elsewhere in the
city. She never saw the building again.
â•… I did, when I returned in 1998. Trying to pick up the pieces, to find
and understand what had become of those I lived with was the begin-
ning of my fieldwork. Arshad had been jailed, I heard. Now released,
he complained shakily that Altaf Hussain had sold his efforts; he was a
murderer, not a revolutionary. He had nightmares about the people he
killed, one woman in particular. He saw her face at night, in the trees,
he awoke at night crushed by her ghost. The same year, in October,
another former neighbour, Aamirullah, was jailed in a high profile case
for the murder of Hakim Said, the Governor of Sindh. Everyone talked
about it. ‘Stupid boy’, they said. ‘He didn’t do it. He just wanted to be
famous, to emulate the bigger guys.’
â•… In summer 2001 I returned to conduct a study on the MQM and
Jamaat e Islami in Karachi, and to make a trip to Afghanistan. By
September, preparations were under way for Aamirullah’s release; a
group of friends from Liaquatabad would join an official party at
Central jail to welcome him. I hoped to speak with him about his expe-
riences but his release was delayed and I returned to the UK. A week
€

later, the 9/11 attacks happened in New York. The next weeks were
overshadowed by the bombing of Afghanistan which I watched,
stricken, on British television. Given President Bush’s threatening
rhetoric about Pakistan harbouring terrorists, Karachi again seemed
too close to violence, too dangerously vulnerable.
â•… In 2004 and 2006 I returned to conduct fieldwork in Liaquatabad
and met many old neighbours. It will be difficult to talk to Aamirullah,
I was told. He is scared of being seen, talked about, rearrested. He is
hiding, paranoid, ‘underground’ in his mind.You can ask Arshad for an
interview instead. Javaid, I was told, had been jailed for multiple mur-
ders. He had given up politics and now worked as an electrician.
Others whispered he was involved in robberies, pimping, ‘doing vio-
lence’ for money. When I saw him, I asked him about the murders he
was jailed for. Had he committed them? He cocked his head with an
enigmatic grin and asked me, ‘What do you think?’
â•… How should we interpret Javaid’s smile? How can we understand
why Aamirullah might claim a murder he may not have committed?

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 LIAQUATABAD DISTRICT
How can we understand Arshad’s disclosure, in a gesture simultane-
ously intimate but also detached, that he cut bodies into pieces? Let me
return here to violence’s irrational quality. This is where attention to
the details of an individual case come into play. Despite the ‘normality’
of killings in Karachi, Arshad’s actions might certainly fall under what
psychiatrists and other professionals of the mind would consider patho-
logical. I am not a clinician and cannot comment, save speculatively.
What I do find interesting is how these men’s activities find normal
expression within the ‘double-bind’ madness of a political culture (that
must be historicised), wherein killings and reports of killings in part
relished the brutalities they deplored. That is, what can violence reveal
about the frontiers and limits a culture or a self is open to?
â•… Classical psychiatry is less concerned with the symptomology of
classifications as with the underlying logic of symptoms, which may
take ‘normal’ or pathological form. Darian Leader argues that many
people have ‘ordinary psychosis’ and live perfectly normal lives: that is,
they are ‘mad’ without going mad (2012,11). Psychosis is often trig-
gered via revelatory moments involving the crystallisation of a delu-
sional idea. This provides the logic for the person’s conviction that
something is wrong with the world (paranoiac), or themselves (melan-
cholic). Psychosis, Karl Jaspers argued, concerns less the content of a
delusional idea which may be quite reasonable (for example that politi-
cal realities are not what they seem; that they are engineered by invis-
ible forces), than the person’s belief that it expresses an undiluted truth
(1913). Ronald Laing later attributed psychosis with cathartic and
transformative potential (1960). He argued (as did Freud, Jung, Lacan,
and Winnicott) that psychosis and delusions are not constitutive of
madness. Rather, they express people’s attempts to communicate their
distress, and recover their natural state. Psychosis may not be apparent
in people who have strong support structures or ways of coping with
everyday life: it is only if the paranoid area is touched upon, for exam-
ple in an increased distrust in a person’s environment (which may
reflect real circumstances), that it may trigger and they go and kill
someone (Leader 2012, 94).
â•… Psychosis may originate in childhood trauma; traumatic events may
precipitate psychosis (for a short variation on this argument see Khan
(2014)). Arshad’s clear realisation, amidst deadly attacks on Mohajir

53
 CITYSCAPES OF VIOLENCE IN KARACHI
areas in the mid 1980s, that killing would be necessary precisely
‘because a war was happening’ may have brought to the fore the repeti-
tive homology of these conflicts with earlier violences of his childhood.
Arshad was the first child born into an impoverished family in
Liaquatabad. His father migrated to Pakistan as a child. His earliest
memories include experiencing absolute terror during the night-time
bombings of Karachi in the 1971 Indo-Pakistan war, frequent hunger,
violence at home, and disturbing stories about Partition. Bollas argues
that the individual who experiences annihilation terrors in early life,
the ‘murder’ of his ability to feel safe, may later realise these fears
through by reproducing traumatic shock in others through the use of
violence (1995, 201). Howell suggests such individuals may ‘turn the
tables’; visiting their past experience of terrorisation on many victims,
they recreate the ‘timeless’ (never-ending) loss of their safety and
imagination (2005, 256).
â•… Psychosis, whether quiet or florid, ubiquitously features the belief
in one’s exceptionality. Certainly Arshad was an unreliable historian
who distorted events in many self-aggrandising tales. He drew com-
parisons with Indian film heroes to describe how he was ‘chosen’,
‘destined’ to be a martyr, saviour of the community, had sworn an oath
of loyalty, and killed ‘more than 400’. These stories buffered him
against a fragmenting reality, and detached him from any ‘normal’
sense of reality. Wernicke theorised in the nineteenth century that sur-
viving in psychosis entails creating a secret place to rationalise delu-
sions of persecution. This allows the person to exist in yet also outside
the world they inhabit (Leader 2012, 93). Being uniquely singled out
by a party leader and entrusted with ‘secret tasks’ vitalised a fantasy
space for Arshad within which real social power relations and a new
self-image could be materialised. Killing became a way to distance
from reality, to feel safe.
â•… The Other in psychosis is vital for survival yet also highly destruc-
tive. The MQM’s charismatic leader Altaf Hussain fulfilled this role,
epitomising a supra-human, extraordinary, ethical icon to identify
with, whose words Arshad described, were ‘like magic, they pierced
my heart, so powerful, he could make us cry, kill anyone for him.’
Verkaaik (this volume) discusses how Mohajir religiosity in the MQM
played in a very powerful way with Sufi, and to some extent Shia, lan-

54
 LIAQUATABAD DISTRICT
guages of tyranny, betrayal and sacrifice, and ideals of the devotion of
the murid (follower) to the pir (spiritual leader). The magical appeal of
violence in the MQM, its martyrdom and treacherous power also bear
aptly on Taussig’s term ‘fabulation’ (1991). That is, on ways ‘magic
realism’ ‘created an uncertain reality out of fiction, giving shape and
voice to the formless form of ‘reality’ in which an unstable interplay of
truth and illusion becomes a phantasmic social force (101–2). For
Taussig magic realism is also a powerful means by which ‘liberators’
discipline and control the desires of the people. Revered and feared,
Altaf Hussain created terror and chaos at will, vitalising cults of death
and redemptive violence as ways of acquiring and holding onto political
power. Amidst the ferocity of the violence instrumentalised, many
miraculous stories circulated. His image has appeared on trees and
buildings across the city; during his hunger strike in 1990 throngs of
birds alighted on his saintly body (in timely appearance for a press
conference). Such practices transposed Altaf Hussain into a powerful
charismatic icon able to provide the love, vision, guidance, and author-

Image 4: Graffiti in Liaquatabad district, Unit 161. The slogan in Urdu reads
‘Masloomoon ka sathi ha Altaf, Altaf Hussain’ (Companion of victims Altaf, Altaf
Hussain). Unit 161, Liaquatabad, March 2006 (Nichola Khan).

55
 CITYSCAPES OF VIOLENCE IN KARACHI

Image 5: Graffiti in Liaquatabad. The slogan in Urdu reads Jeay Mohajir! (Long
Live Mohajirs!), Liaquatabad, 2006 (Nichola Khan).

ity necessary to renew hope for the future—and the imagined context
for the restoration of Mohajir wholeness in Pakistan.
â•… Despite their gruesome details, Arshad’s stories about killing had
an unreal quality, as if he were describing the imagery and events of
himself playing centre role in a film—in which he felt afraid but also
strangely detached, immune, or even protected. Arshad’s and others’
actions constitute a political culture which fosters modes of detach-
ment and interpersonal disconnectedness. As a social, political, and
psychic experience born of power relations, violence cannot simply
be understood as punctuated by moments of either sanity or delusion.
Political disorder has specific geographical, social, and historical
forms; it reflects social discord and internal individual conflict. Freud
argues that war externalises our psychic struggles and is enlivening.
For Klein it ‘cures’ the intolerable depression and madness of the
inner war experienced all the time by the individual. Importantly,
individual disorder can become reality through being instrumentalised
by political leaders and the state. Attention to biography can reveal its
particular singularity.

56
 LIAQUATABAD DISTRICT
â•… Anthropologists have developed on these ideas through analysing the
phantasmatic presence of colonial apparatuses in experiences of politics
and madness. Certainly, individual paranoia may mirror local and
national political events, the so-called ‘madness of the state’.
Alternatively, the ‘insane violence’ of radical nationalists such as Arshad
may also rest in something more hidden, secretive, and problematic: in
the presence of a traumatic history not altogether resolved—the phan-
tom of Partition. This has to do with the tainted birth of the nation: the
foundational violence which has not disappeared, but has been nur-
tured and used by Pakistan’s political powers to legitimate the very
form of democracy, or military rule. This produces a ‘sense’ of continu-
ity with the violence of Independence and colonial rule. Whilst resis-
tance is the ‘story’ of many like Arshad, it is highly paradoxical. It
produces the passionate desire to banish violence, but to also hang on
to it, and push it to its limits. Writing on Basque nationalism, Aretxaga
suggests that the fantasy of radical nationalists ‘hides something
unspeakable and rather shameful’ (2008, 60). This is the belief that
achieving the goal of the nation-state will entail the loss of an idealised,
unified, national collective with which they deeply identify.
â•… The paradox for Arshad’s generation, whose grandparents and par-
ents constituted part of the divine migration from India, is that pursu-
ing Mohajir rights in Pakistan (and on behalf of his parents) so fero-
ciously ensures the desired form of the nation will never emerge.
Instead, what happens is the present perpetuates itself ad infinitum; the
future is always coming but never fully arrives. Perhaps what is really
feared is the dissolution of a unity of identity, which is bound to occur
with the disappearance of an enemy. I reiterate: the real madness in
political violence is the sense of safety it ensures. This is the idealised
unity of the nationalist project. In Homi Bhabha’s terms, it character-
ises the profound ambivalence of the postcolonial situation that cannot
be acknowledged, and is one reason it remains the same (1994).
â•… In Arshad’s case the dream ruptured. I have written elsewhere in detail
about the killing that haunted him: when he decapitated the pregnant
wife of a police superintendent in her home (Khan 2010c, 240). He
described being ordered to ‘make it horrible’ so it might be published in
the newspapers, and terrorise the populace. After this killing, Arshad
continued; killing to forget about killing, to try and regain his sense of

57
 CITYSCAPES OF VIOLENCE IN KARACHI
detachment. What happened was the collapse of the distance between
reality and the film. Severe trauma may deprive a person of fantasy and
illusion: ‘when the terrible becomes true, not only are we unsafe, we lose
the ability to imagine’ (Howell 2005, 256). This killing took away
Arshad’s hiding place. It forced him to become the hero, and confronted
him with the evidence of a permanent dissociation, from any possibility
of returning to a ‘normal’ life. In making the film a reality, he lost control
of the story. The life he extinguished remained immutably present. At the
point he desperately wanted to reverse an irreversible act and erase the
image, the story and reality became permanently joined. Although he
never ‘recovered’ after this killing, there was some residual satisfaction.
His fantasies were vindicated.
* * *
Arshad and Javaid since left Pakistan. I felt compelled to write Arshad’s
story. I thought writing would help me grasp an understanding which
seemed so difficult and elusive. This was a relational enterprise; Arshad
wanted the shared fantasy, for me to see him as the avenging hero. I was
the soundboard on which to reinforce the story as reality. I assumed a
minor part in his film. His story became a personal mythology to make
sense of himself, and keep his terrors at bay. It described a man who
failed to get a government job, joined the MQM, became a killer, and
span dramatic stories about the violence he committed. This made him
feel uniquely recognised, proud to be named on eighty-six murder
charges. Turning those stories into reality became addictive. As did his
victimhood: blaming those who recruited him,€Altaf Hussain for deceiv-
ing him, the government for failing him, the broken promises of
Partition, anyone except himself. My role was to uphold the story.€And,
given that I felt keenly attuned to experiences of ‘madness’, of dissolving
selfhood and reality—in the context of the painful disintegration of my
marriage that was occurring alongside—to an extent I did.
â•… Arshad’s unprompted confession of killing the pregnant woman
shocked me deeply. It begs how far into violence a person can go
before the mind unhooks from reality. It detached me too from real-
ity—my head spinning afterwards sometimes, flying from my body,
like that woman’s. Was this his feeling when he cut into her body, half-
living his story, half trying to absorb its finality? Was telling me an

58
 LIAQUATABAD DISTRICT
aggressive attempt to inflict on me the death-in-life experience he lived
through? Relationships too are about telling stories. All that is needed
is a series of facts to thread together. And so I followed Arshad into his
extraordinary story, becoming deeply immersed, trying to make sense
of it: a story in which he suffered, he was the pawn in a deadly game,
free of guilt and shame. A story in which he was innocent.
â•… Missing from Arshad’s heroic account is any compassion for his victims
whose stories are unspoken, or cannot be spoken because their authors
are dead. More than any feelings of guilt, shame, or anathema, what
Arshad describes is a deep narcissistic rupture to his self-image as a ‘good
terrorist’. His primary goal became to survive, and to maintain some
coherence of selfhood. In Freud’s ideas of psychosis, disturbing ideas are
not forgotten, or their emotional charge displaced, but totally abolished.
Erased from the psyche, the unacceptable, banished thought, ‘I am a bad
person’, returns from the outside as a delusion, in the belief of being
persecuted, victimised (45–61). Over twenty years since I first met
Arshad, his story, likewise, has become increasingly intractable. It seems
less about inflating his ego, as an essential way to survive. When I spoke
to Arshad after the raids on Nine-Zero during the 2015 operations
against MQM, he warned, or hoped for, a volcanic groundswell of retal-
iatory violence. If the trauma of killing and the experience of psychosis
at one time held positive potential (Laing) for remorse or a new political
position to emerge, it did not. Rather, Arshad re-attached himself to the
dissociative thrall of the fantasy and the idea he would if ‘necessary’, kill
again, this man sacrificed and victimised by Pakistani politicians. Killing,
after all, was the one time he felt truly alive.
â•… Byron Good’s term ‘postcolonial disorders’ is germane in its empha-
sis on how relationships between powerful political economic and state
entities are shaped by the violent experiences of colonialism; their
insinuation into the institutional entanglements of the present as the
historical legacy of violence and appropriation, traumatic memory, and
the ‘altered’ mental states associated with living through the uncertain,
threatening conditions of dislocation, disarray, and marginality (2012).
Undeniably mental health problems—trauma, depression, anxiety, and
‘nervousness’ (Taussig 1992)—result from these conditions. When vio-
lence becomes endemic in a culture, any alternative becomes perceived
as weakness, or surrender. Renouncing violence is very difficult because

59
 CITYSCAPES OF VIOLENCE IN KARACHI
it threatens the established order on both sides. At the same time, many
examples of non-violence around the world have been successful.
â•… Becoming sensitised to the rhythm of violence as both life and death
or decay does not imply a transcendence that redeems life from terri-
ble moments of destruction. Rather it is to acknowledge the moments,
days, and years of failure and unremitting sorrow in the task of going
on, and surviving life as best one can. It means we might blur distinc-
tions between madness and normality, play-acting and work, reality
and unreality, the mundane and the spiritual—and accept the uncer-
tainty that comes with allowing such components to remain in an
‘unresolved, nondialectical tension’ (Singh 2015, 123). While the
inability to grasp experience is a difficult position to hold, it is not
necessarily pessimistic. For Das it is in the fragility of relations revealed
when madness cannot be absorbed in the everyday that change can be
invited in. She writes:
I saw too much suffering and violence to say that mental illness is all a
matter of social construction or that symptoms are only forms of resis-
tance. Instead, I offer the idea that the illness resides in the network of
relations, in the movement over institutions, and that the pathology is
trying to find an environment in which it could re-establish new norms
(2015, 104).
â•… Perhaps then it is in the inscrutability of these movements, despite
Arshad’s singular refusal to move, is where we might find momentum
for change.
â•… To conclude: the trouble with stories is they are seductive. They
become the fabulations of very different realities. Killers do not live in
a vacuum. We must question our addiction to phantasmagoria, the
collective dissociation and collusion that allow us to accept and detach
from atrocities; the cultural and cinematic enfolding of violence into
subjectivity and experience, the ease with which Arshad followed a
pathway into killing, and with which political leaders pursue mass mur-
der. Can such stories become a way to write against political practices
that resort automatically to violence? Telling stories involves being
changed—and becoming open to being changed—by them. Telling
Arshad’s story created a dissonance; a space of transformation which
polarised our parts in the film. His story did traumatise me. It is also
sad. Now, I feel a different kind of incomprehension at his refusal to

60
 LIAQUATABAD DISTRICT
entertain the idea that his actions were wrong. This means, for Arshad,
that I have betrayed him. Perhaps he fears if he allows the guilt to touch
him, he might break. But as it engulfed him, and took on a life of its
own, so did his film animate another truth: in the end we are account-
able for our stories.

References
Aretxaga, Begoña, ‘Madness and the Politically Real: Reflections on Violence
in Postdictatorial Spain’, in Mary-Jo DelVecchio Good (ed.), Postcolonial
Disorders, Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008, pp.â•–43–61.
Bhabha, Homi, The Location of Culture, New York: Routledge, 1994.
Bollas, Christopher, Cracking Up, New York: Hill & Wang, 1995.
Das, Veena, Affliction, New York: Fordham University Press, 2015.
Freud, Sigmund, The Neuropsychoses of Defence, ‘Project’, Standard edition,
Vol.€3, London: Hogarth Press, 1966 (1894).
Good, Byron, ‘Theorizing the ‘Subject’ of Medical and Psychiatric
Anthropology’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 18, August
(2012), pp.â•–515–35.
Howell, Elizabeth, The Dissociative Mind, New York and Hove: Routledge,
2005.
Jaspers, Karl, General Psychopathology, vols.€1 & 2, Baltimore and London: Johns
€

Hopkins University Press, 1997 (1913), trans. J. Hoenig and Marian

€

W. Hamilton.
€

Kapferer, Bruce, ‘How Anthropologists Think: Configurations of the Exotic’,

Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 19, November (2013), pp.â•–813–
37.
Khan, Nichola a, ‘On the Limits of Empathy: a Note on Psychoanalysis and a
Case of Extreme Violence in Pakistan. Clio’s Psyche, Special edition, AnthroÂ�
pology and Psychoanalysis: Intersections of the Intrapsychic and Social, Aaron
Denham (ed.), March (2014), pp.â•–408–12.
———â•–b, Mohajir Militancy in Pakistan. Violence and Practices of Transformation
in the Karachi Conflict, London and New York: Routledge, 2010.
———â•–c, ‘Violence, Anti-/convention and Desires for Transformation
amongst Pakistan’s Mohajirs in Karachi’, Cultural Dynamics, 22, November
(2010), pp.â•–225–46.
Laing, Ronald D., The Divided Self, London: Penguin, 1960 (2010).
Leader, Darian, What is Madness?, London: Penguin, 2012.
Singh, Brighupati, Poverty and the Quest for Life. Spiritual and Material Striving in
Rural India, University of Chicago Press, 2015.

61
 CITYSCAPES OF VIOLENCE IN KARACHI
Taussig, Michael, Shamanism, Colonialism and the €Wild Man. A Study in Terror and
Healing, University of Chicago Press, 2001.
———, The Nervous System, New York: Routledge, 1992.

62
Theme 6: Karachi’s “Cosmopolitan
Writers”
 SUBSCRIBE

LITERATURE / BOOKS

A Different Story
New fiction in English on Karachi

Karachi—a modern port city of some 20 million people, and Pakistan’s largest metropolis—is much
more than the sum of a series of violent events. A-DIFFEREASIM HAFEEZ / BLOOMBERG /
GETTYIMAGESNT-STORY_THE-CARAVAN-MAGAZINE_FEBRUARY-2016_01

SARAH WAHEED
01 February, 2016

It is difficult for an outsider to think of Karachi and not immediately call up

images of violence, death and victims. Scrolling through headlines about
the city over the past year is a macabre exercise. In April, Sabeen
Mahmood, an activist and intellectual, was shot dead outside a cultural
centre she founded. In May, gunmen attacked a bus, leaving 43 dead. A heat
wave in June, during the holy month of Ramzan, killed more than a
thousand. In August, Shafqat Hussain—tortured at the age of 16 into
confessing to the murder of a boy over a decade earlier—was executed.
Amid these spectacles of death, where are the stories of the living? Karachi
is, after all, a modern port city of some 20 million people, Pakistan’s largest
metropolis, and the country’s financial and economic centre. It is home to
many, successive waves of migrants, who speak half a dozen languages.
Post-colonial Karachi is much more than the sum of a series of violent
events.
There is a pedagogical, ethnographic quality to Karachi Raj, in
the vein of what the anthropologist Clifford Geertz called “thick
description.” Shivani writes about mundane interactions with
sharp attention to detail.

Since the onset of the so-called war on terror, there has been a surge of
fiction in English published by Pakistani writers. Karachi in particular has
been the subject of works by Kamila Shamsie and Mohammad Hanif, and
has featured in several recent debut novels—Anis Shivani’s Karachi Raj,
Saba Imtiaz’s Karachi, You’re Killing Me!, Shehryar Fazli’s Invitation, and
Bilal Tanweer’s The Scatter Here is Too Great, among others. These novels
address class mobility, history, sexuality and patronage politics, and point
readers to the extremes of everyday life in the city, from the most
humiliating deprivations to the unlikeliest moments of beauty, humour and
happy coincidence. Karachi comes across, at times, as a metaphor for
Pakistan. To read these books is to get a glimpse of Pakistanis’
contemporary self-image, as well as of the particular challenges of the
country’s urban life.
ANIS
SHIVANI

In Karachi, which over the decades has grown phenomenally in size, land is
in short supply and highly contested. Its scarcity and mismanagement have
led to numerous displacements, and various ethno-linguistic communities
have been exiled from one part of the city to another. On the eve of
Partition, Karachi was home to almost 450,000 people, the majority of them
Sindhi speakers. By 1951, with the influx of refugees from India, that
number had surpassed a million, the city’s Hindu population had dwindled,
and Sindhi speakers became a minority. Now it was Urdu speakers who
dominated numerically. These changes, along with government initiatives
that further marginalised the poor, had a huge impact on the culture,
politics and development of Karachi, and on its relationship to the state of
Sindh and to Pakistan as a whole.
Karachi’s frenetic present is today paired with a vanishing past. In the
words of Asif Farrukhi, a Karachi-based writer and translator who has
compiled several volumes about the city’s short modern history, “historicity
is not what strikes you most in and about Karachi ... Perhaps because
Karachi’s history has just begun.” But the city’s history remains essential to
any understanding of it, and two of the recent novels— Fazli’s Invitation
and Tanweer’s The Scatter Here is Too Great—dig into specific currents of
the national past, including the decimation of an indigenous secularism by
the early post-colonial state and its military, which entailed a crackdown
against communists, dissidents and progressive intellectuals in the 1950s,
and through the following decades. Both books feature a father or a father
figure punished for his leftist links, and so also examine cross-generational
familial relationships during the period in question. Notably, they break
away from the nostalgic notion, currently pervasive in Pakistan’s liberal
circles, of an idyllic Karachi that predated today’s age of extremism and
militancy, and also the dictatorship of Zia ul-Haq between 1978 and 1988.
The two other debut novels—Shivani’s Karachi Raj and Imtiaz’s Karachi,
You’re Killing Me!—focus exclusively on the present, and look at Karachi’s
people in terms of their everyday experiences. But whether set in the past or
the present day, each of these novels, in its own way, upends how the city,
and Pakistan overall, is depicted in news headlines, and in television shows
such as Homeland: as a land of militants and mosques, good Muslims and
bad—all caricatures from an imagined land.
Karachi Raj Anis Shivani Fourth Estate, 416 pages, T699

Anis Shivani’s Karachi Raj, released last year, follows three individuals
connected to a basti—a slum. There is Hafiz, who moves from one job to
another—labourer, shop-keeper’s assistant, peon to a wealthy actress—as
he seeks independence in a tightly controlled world of patronage networks.
His sister, Seema, has, against all odds, earned a full scholarship to Karachi
University, where she finds herself friendless as she negotiates rifts of class.
Seema’s predicament is not entirely believable, though, since Karachi
University, as a public institution, has a more diverse student body than the
one Shivani pictures, and is hardly a preserve of the elite. Claire, an
American anthropologist, lives in the same impoverished conditions as the
basti-dwellers she is researching, while also working for the city’s largest
NGO, and looks for clarity in her own life as she tries to understand the
lives of those around her.
The contrast between the brother and the sister, children of factory workers
who were among the earliest residents of the basti, is striking. Hafiz is a
wanderer and an idealist, who readily adjusts to every setting, whether a
bookstore for religious literature or the home of an actress. At one point, he
develops a romance with a co-worker’s wife, and dreams of escape from
Karachi. Meanwhile, Seema is a goal-oriented realist, self-reflective and
studious, an intellectual who feels out of place both in the basti and at the
university. She has an intimate relationship with a professor twice her age,
Ashique, whose elegant and upper-class sister begins to pressure her into
marrying him. This causes Seema to cautiously reflect upon her place
within this world: “Would she ever be consulted about her life, her
emotions?”
There is a pedagogical, ethnographic quality to Karachi Raj, in the vein of
what the anthropologist Clifford Geertz called “thick description.” Shivani
writes about mundane interactions with sharp attention to detail. Hafiz,
Seema and Claire are figures who illuminate the “actual,” as opposed to the
popularly imagined and misunderstood, space of the basti. Geertz wrote
that “anthropological writings are themselves interpretations … The claim
to attention of an ethnographic account does not rest on its author’s ability
to capture primitive facts in faraway places … but on the degree to which he
is able to clarify what goes on in such places, to reduce the puzzlement.” In
similar fashion, Shivani’s characters—complex, imperfect and human—
serve to demystify the bastias it is typically seen by upper-class, English-
speaking audiences: a world, presumably, of squalor, repression, and a
robotic class of poor people.
Khuda Ki Basti, the settlement depicted in Karachi Raj, is an actual slum in Karachi—where, in 2009,
the walls of a church were painted with pro-Taliban slogans. ASIM HAFEEZ /BLOOMBERG/
GETTY IMAGES

Since most of the novel, with the exception of its ending, does not contain
any major events, the month-by-month chapters drag on. They read, at
times, like journal entries from Karachi, but written through a distant,
objective lens which does not really draw the reader into an intimacy with
its world. Karachi Raj’s ethnographic ethos is reinforced by the fact that its
most compelling character is the anthropologist, Claire. As extraordinarily
complex as Seema and Hafiz are, each trying to create a better life, it is
Claire, with her academic degrees, her notes lost to a flood, her interactions
with expat NGO co-workers, and her helplessness in the face of a dramatic
turn of events at the book’s end, whose self-questioning alerts the reader to
the brutal reality of “good intentions.” Adding further to the novel’s
ethnographic dimension is the fact that Khuda Ki Basti, the settlement
depicted in Karachi Raj, is an actual slum under the Orangi Pilot Project,
which was founded, as Shivani notes in an interview, by “a major South
Asian NGO leader, Akhtar Hameed Khan … who believed that slum
dwellers could improve their lot by taking the initiative to make their
environment conducive to health and prosperity.”

Refreshingly, Shehryar Fazli does not romanticise the period of

Pakistani history prior to Zia ul-Haq’s Islamicising dictatorship.

The name “Khuda Ki Basti”—which can be translated as “City of God” or

“God’s Own Land,” or perhaps also, more poetically, as “Abandoned
Settlements”—has an old link to Karachi, Pakistan and literature. It is the
title of a 1955 Urdu novel by Shaukat Siddiqui, about the demise of a family
living in the slums of Karachi amid land-grabs and state-led development
schemes. Khuda Ki Basti was adapted, in 1969, into a popular television
serial of the same name. Its popularity coincided with the rise of the
democratically elected leader Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, and his Pakistan Peoples’
Party.
Siddiqui, who died in 2006, was born in Lucknow in 1923, and in 1950
migrated to Pakistan, where he was involved with the Progressive Writers
Association, edited several newspapers, including the leftist paper al-Fatah,
and eventually headed the Pakistan Writers Guild. Khuda Ki Basti was his
first novel. His basti is replete with petty, bourgeois perpetrators of
injustice, and their victims, the working poor. At first glance, Karachi Raj
seems to offer a more nuanced portrait of basti life. While the Urdu novel is
intimately connected to the basti—Siddiqui lived close to Khuda Ki Basti, in
the city’s commercial centre, which has a multi-class character—Shivani’s
novel is intent on demystifying the settlement, and presents it from the
perspective of an outsider who has just discovered it. But Karachi Raj’s
more studious approach feels forced, especially in contrast to the social-
realist thrust of Siddiqui’s novel, where the basti is not a distant world.
SHEHRYAR FAZLI

The basti has been a central preoccupation and setting for Pakistani novels
in Urdu. It features, among other books, in Khalid Akhtar’s Chaakivada
Mein Visaal, a satirical tale about an eponymous settlement in old Karachi,
before it became the now notorious Lyari Town; and, of course, in Intizar
Husain’s Basti, which describes a pre-Partition settlement in a place not far
from Lahore. Siddiqui’s novel is unique in being shaped by the specific
history of the basti during the 1950s—particularly the post-Partition influx
of Muslim migrants from north India, and the rampant discrimination
against the urban poor. But Karachi Raj lacks a knowledge of the long and
literary history of the basti, and the novel is limitedby it.
Invitation Shehryar Fazli Tranquebar Press, 386 pages, T495

Shehryar Fazli’s Invitation, published in 2011, is also concerned with

Karachi at a pivotal period in Pakistan’s history. Thebook is set in 1970, on
the eve of Bangladesh’s emergence as an independent state, and challenges
a major blind spot of contemporary Pakistani nationalist accounts. Its
narrator and central character is Shahbaz, who hails from what was then
West Pakistan, but was raised partly in France. He returns to Karachi as a
young man at the behest of his father, to help resolve a property dispute.
Shahbaz is seduced by power, and the novel follows his descent into moral
depravity. He eventually secures the property for his family through a
Faustian bargain with a brigadier. The novel insinuates that Shahbaz
betrays the poor, and is complicit in crimes perpetrated by the West
Pakistani state against East Pakistan, which is now Bangladesh.

“Nobody was going to know that part of the city as anything but
as a place where a bomb went off. The bomb was going to
become the story of this city. That’s how we lose the city.”

Refreshingly, Fazli does not romanticise the period of Pakistani history

prior to Zia ul-Haq’s Islamicising dictatorship. His is an ambitious project.
It is not easy to write a historical novel set in Pakistan without giving in to
the temptation to view the 1960s and the 1970s through rose-coloured
glasses—a temptation particularly hard to resist considering the socio-
religious conservatism that has crystallised since the Zia era, and also given
that the period the book covers lacks an adequate scholarly literature to
frame it conceptually. Fazli’s novel also insightfully cautions readers not to
romanticise Pakistan under Zulfikar Ali Bhutto as a place of untrammeled
social or political freedom. Fazli approaches that moment of Pakistan’s
history as one imbued with authoritarianism, and significantly influenced
by a corrupt military.
BILAL TANWEER

Shahbaz is a smoking, drinking, drug-taking, whoring young man, whose

abysmal sense of self stems in part from guilt over an inability to confront
his experience of racism in Paris: there, his ayatul-kursi—a pendant with
Quranic verses, worn for protection—was stolen from him by a rogue who
threatened to report Shahbaz for snorting coke. Shahbaz followed the man,
but failed to retrieve the pendant.

He knew I wasn’t of the city and hadn’t mastered its codes and its tricks.
So I walked, ducked my head, and avoided eye contact, went back into the
city which had just secured another little triumph against me.

Nor can he resist the temptation to join the world of Pakistan’s power
brokers. When he first arrives back in the country, he stays at the Agra
Hotel, a brothel, but before long he befriends a military official who invites
him to stay at his house. This man is known throughout the novel simply as
“the Brigadier.” Though nameless, he is still personable, and full of wisdom.
Shahbaz, embedded within the brigadier’s home, comes across,
simultaneously, as naive in his apolitical apathy to his own role, and cynical
in his tendency towards occasional pin-pricks of conscience. Invitation
forces readers to confront the complex relationship between morality and
politics, especially in the contradictory language used by some Pakistani
liberals to justify the actions of the country’s military.
Shahbaz himself speaks broken Urdu, and finds himself practicing the
language by ordering drugs through his driver and conversing with the
brigadier’s sister. He is hard to like—obfuscatingly charming, opportunistic
and exceedingly
classist, referring to the poor squatters on his family’s property as “a
cancer.” And yet, as readers are led into his complicated inner world, they
come to understand that his self-hatred stems, in part, from his relationship
with his father—an erstwhile leftist, charged and then exiled for his
suspected involvement in a planned coup. “So much of Karachi life, its
grandeur and power, was unavailable,” Shahbaz says. “I was still living my
father’s exile.” Later, he says of his father,

Actually, he was too nervous and afraid to come back. Caution,

trepidation: that was the legacy to me. And so this man who took part in a
failed communist coup, who should have, for example, embraced the
events of May ’68 in Paris, instead rejected and recoiled from them.
Worse, he’d instilled that same passivity and caution in me.

Actually, he was too nervous and afraid to come back. Caution, trepidation:
that was the legacy to me. And so this man who took part in a failed
communist coup, who should have, for example, embraced the events of
May ’68 in Paris, instead rejected and recoiled from them. Worse, he’d
instilled that same passivity and caution in me.
Saba Imtiaz’s
Karachi, You’re
Killing Me!
describes life
behind the
scenes in a
Karachi
newsroom.
ROBERT
NICKELSBERG/
GETTY IMAGES

Shahbaz’s need to prove himself to his father leads him straight into the
brigadier’s home, where he encounters a range of characters—from
Hammad Sahib, a Dhaka University professor; his driver and drug dealer,
Ghulam Hussain; the object of his desire, the Egyptian cabaret dancer
Malika; Zulfikar Ali Bhutto himself; as well as two mysterious brothers
with ties to the Islamist organisation Jamaat-e-Islami. Even though
Shahbaz constantly devises justifications for being in the wrong time at the
wrong place, he is far from being an innocent or passive observer. His
narrative demands that the reader come to terms with the murder of
Hammad Sahib—which serves to symbolise the violence of the 1971 war
that secured Bangladesh’s independence.
Bilal Tanweer and Saba Imtiaz’s novels are more compelling accounts of
Karachi than these other two books, and this is not because they seem to be
principally concerned with violence. Rather, it is the forms of storytelling
they employ that make them distinctive. Neither author attempts to create a
sweeping or comprehensive epic of Karachi. Rather, both consciously
reflect upon the role of the writer, speaking out loud on narration and its
dangers, and raising questions about the very process of writing about the
city.
The Scatter Here is Too Great Bilal Tanweer Random House India, 214 pages, T350

Tanweer’s The Scatter Here is Too Great came out in 2013, and explores how
the lives of various people are forever fragmented by a bombing on a busy
street. There is an ambulance driver who cannot shake apocalyptic visions;
an elderly and lonely communist poet who wanders around town shouting
at people, barely able to hold the interest of truants; his son, a wealthy
businessman who has become detached from his father, and seeks the
affection of his own children; a young woman who tells her brother tales to
communicate and also conceal her heartbreak; her lover, a young man who
works for a professional gang that threatens loan defaulters; and, among
them all, is a writer who is often at a loss as to how to voice his descriptions
of his shattered city. He writes:
Nobody was going to know that part of the city as anything but as a place
where a bomb went off. The bomb was going to become the story of this
city. That’s how we lose the city—that’s how our knowledge of what the
world is and how it functions is taken away from us—when what we know
is blasted into rubble and what is created in its place bears no resemblance
to what there was and we are left strangers in a place we knew, in a place
we ought to have known. Suddenly, it struck me that that’s how my father
experienced this city. How, when he walked this city, he was tracing paths
from his memory to the present—from what this place had been to what it
had become.
Tanweer’s prose is reminiscent of Saadat Hasan Manto’s in Siya Hashye
—“Black Margins”—a powerful collection of anecdotes about Partition
violence, and is also influenced by other Urdu writers, such as Naiyer
Masud, as well as contemporary Pakistani poets. His writing does not
attempt to capture a single truth. Rather Tanveer traces the interruptions,
the connections and broken links between people, as well as the fractured
states of mind that accompany the experience of violence, both that of the
everyday variety, such as the abuse the young woman faces for having a
lover, and of the spectacular kind, with the bombing itself. Tanveer
consciously reflects upon story-writing as a form of map-making for the
city.
Most importantly, however, as Tanweer signals in the passage quoted above,
to write Karachi is to remember Karachi—to move away from having
bombs alone define the memory of the city. The many stories Tanveer tells
in the first person—whether of an amateur gangster falling for a girl, with
whom a first real date goes awry; or of a truant mocking his fellow
passengers on a bus journey—rather than being peripheral to the novel,
constitute its essence. The city, then, neither has a single author, nor is
defined by famous landmarks, street names or out-of-the-way places
 awaiting discovery. Rather, it might be made known through acts of telling
and listening to stories.

Saba Imtiaz describes how an entire industry of foreign

correspondents and fixers has mushroomed following the
militant attacks on the United States in 2001, offering
purportedly authentic stories that are often simply fixed from
an Islamabad desk.

Storytelling is also a mode of survival. This is certainly true, for instance, in

the case of the young woman who tells her younger brother tales of kings,
queens and viziers, implicitly narrating her own desires and heartache.
Here, as elsewhere, Tanweer turns the journalistic way of writing on its
head. To follow a story is not to collect “the facts,” but to listen, and to
follow someone’s tale. As the brother of the young ambulance driver with
apocalyptic visions states, reflecting on the end of the world and a city that
is dying, “what appears strange and complex becomes even stranger and
more complicated once you begin to investigate it. That’s the true nature of
the world.” In fragmentary prose, Tanweer’s novel urges one to listen, and
to “look again at the bullet-smashed screen: the bullet hole is a new
territory. It cracks new paths, new boundaries. These are maps of an
uncharted city. They tell different stories.”
SABA IMTIAZ

Saba Imtiaz’s Karachi, You’re Killing Me!, published in 2014, also considers
the role of the writer, though in this case of the journalist or reporter in
particular. Imtiaz describes life behind the scenes at a Karachi newspaper,
with each section of the novel echoing an often witty headline. These range
from, “Dissident cleric rushed to hospital after eating toxic halwa,” to “23%
of Pakistanis say white is their favorite colour: poll.” Imtiaz captures, with
rich humour, the absurdity of how news is made. The book is centred on
Ayesha, a perpetually broke journalist, who discusses in frank and vivid
ways what happens between editors and reporters, as well as what goes into
covering political rallies or hobnobbing with socialites. Imtiaz, having
herself been a reporter in Karachi for years, convey’s Ayesha’s point of view
wonderfully well.
Karachi, You’re Killing Me! highlights the challenges faced by Pakistan’s
journalists: lacking safety, being underpaid and unsupported, and expected
to embed themselves in political parties and report accordingly. Even as she
evokes laughter, Imtiaz criticises Pakistan’s politicians and elites, as well as
the aggressive American military adventures currently playing out in the
country. She describes how an entire industry of foreign correspondents
and fixers has mushroomed following the militant attacks on the United
States in 2001, offering purportedly authentic stories that are often simply
fixed from an Islamabad desk. Alongside them are local reporters, all
competing with one another, in one of the most dangerous countries on the
planet for journalists. The novel captures the absurdity of this world
through Ayesha’s fast-paced life, as she simultaneously tweets, researches,
figures out transport, deals with her boss, drinks whiskey and eats chilli
chips, all the while reflecting on Karachi’s many peculiarities and problems
while also pondering her own love life—or lack thereof.
Forced to choose between wealthy, drug-addicted, bored and boring men,
and fellow journalists engaged in cut-throat competition with her, Ayesha
has few options. With Karachi closing in around her in both personal and
professional ways, she longs to leave the city, and hopes to be hired by a
foreign media organisation so she can get away from this place “where life
and love come to die.”
Pakistani fiction is a varied and rich terrain of novels, short stories, novellas
and graphic novels. To define it solely in terms of recent English-language
novels, would be a disservice to the country’s long tradition of Urdu fiction.
While it is true that new novels in English have given some competition to
the Urdu novel, it is also important to recognise that the supposed death of
Urdu is mostly a myth of English-language discourse. The Urdu literary
scene, which has tended to be dominated by poets, is buzzing with exciting
novelists, such as Pakistan’s Mirza Athar Baig, author of the critically
acclaimed Ghulaam Bagh, and India’s Shamshur Rahman Farooqi, who
wrote Kai Chand Thay Sar-e-Aasmaan, which sold out in both India and
Pakistan.
KARACHI, YOUR’RE KILLING ME! SABA IMTIAZ RANDOM HOUSE, 272 PAGES, T299

As Pakistani writing in English continues to grow, however, it is refreshing

to read debut novelists whose work, unlike that of many of their
predecessors, is not focused primarily on the Pakistani diaspora in the
United States or the United Kingdom, but is concerned with the life-worlds
of the Pakistani cities that they have left behind and returned to. It is also
good to see writing specifically about Karachi that treads across a range of
human experiences, going beyond the headlines of bomb blasts and foiled
terror plots. Even more pleasantly, the novels here do not situate Islam as
the main force in understanding Karachi, or Pakistan overall—an all too
common mode of describing Pakistan’s woes.
These novels, together, show Karachi as a city of cities, of many stories, of
people with incredibly unique lives. But Karachi also comes across as
having much in common with other densely populated post-colonial cities
in South Asia, with their many migrations, losses and exiles. As Intizar
Husain once wrote, “They had left their cities, but carried their cities with
them, as a trust, on their shoulders. That’s how it usually is. Even when
cities are left behind, they don’t stay behind. They seize on you even more.
When the earth slips out from under your feet, that’s when it really
surrounds you.”

SARAH WAHEED is an assistant professor of South Asian history and director of South
Asian studies at Davidson College, North Carolina.

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With BINA SHAH (/tag/bina-shah/)

Your name: Bina Shah

Current city or town: Karachi, Pakistan

How long have you lived here: 35 years

Three words to describe the climate: Hot, humid, dusty

Best time of year to visit? November through March. The weather drops to about 75-
80° F and it’s just magnificent.

1. The most striking physical features of this city/town are . . .

I’ve heard it said that Karachi is one of the ugliest cities in the world. Its buildings
and infrastructure: haphazard, chaotic traffic, peeling paint and overcrowded
concrete apartment blocks, broken roads that look like bomb sites, messy
construction, garbage and sewage everywhere. The city grows by leaps and bounds;
the population seems to double in size every few years. And yet we have unparalleled
beauty: the sea and its dramatic, sudden sunsets, bougainvillea growing on every wall,
palm trees and neem trees, and then the trees that flower in a blaze of white and
yellow, red and pink—plumeria, flame trees, gul mohur and amaltass. On the coast,
the mangroves are filled with seabirds, cranes, egrets; sometimes you can see dolphins
in the ocean. At night the jasmine known as raat-ki-raani, Queen of the Night,
blooms and the air is heavy with its exquisite perfume. The contrasts drive you mad.
They also never leave you.

2. The stereotype of the people who live here and what this stereotype misses . . .

People think Karachi is mainly made up of Urdu-speaking people, or refugees, who

came to Pakistan during the partition of India in 1947. This isn’t true: there’s immense
diversity in Karachi, with Pashtuns from the Northwest, Sindhis who are the native
inhabitants of Karachi (made up of dozens and dozens of villages) and who also come
from the rural areas of the province. But there are immigrants from everywhere:
Chinese-Pakistanis who settled here after the Cultural Revolution in the 1950s, people
of Turkish and Central Asian origin, Burmese Rohingya, Bengalis. We have
Christians, Parsis, Hindus, and even a few hidden Jews. It’s true, though, that life in
Karachi is fast-paced, dynamic and cosmopolitan because of the tremendous mix of
people. We’re also probably more business-minded as Karachi is a city of
entrepreneurship.
3. Historical context in broad strokes and the moments in which you feel this history .
..

Karachi has changed over the centuries from a sleepy fishing town to a British
garrison, and then, from Partition onwards, it was the capital of Pakistan until the
government moved to Islamabad in 1967. But every layer of history is embedded in
Karachi’s streets, walls, buildings, people. In the morning the fishermen take their
boats out onto the sea and cast their nets as they’ve done for centuries. Beautiful
colonial-era buildings are everywhere, yellow sandstone bungalows and office
buildings which some are desperately trying to preserve as they fall into disrepair and
ruin. The modern glass towers and buildings sprang up along I.I. Chundrigar Road,
Karachi’s Wall Street, as Pakistan took steps to modernize in the 1970s and become
part of the global economy. And everywhere, shacks, huts, shanty-towns and illegal
construction as the people on the city’s margins hustle and survive.
4. Common jobs and industries and the effect on the town/city’s personality . . .

The transportation industry in Karachi is probably the one that has most affected the
city’s personality. That’s because there is no mass public transit, so people travel in
rickshaws, taxis, and privately-owned buses. These buses are almost exclusively owned
and managed by Pashtuns, who moved to Karachi from the Northwest and are now
one of the largest ethnic groups in the city. They take their plain buses and trucks to
“bodymakers” that specialize in creating giant decorative iron frames that fit over the
body of the vehicle. Those frames are then decorated with all manner of flowers,
curlicues, leaves, painted very bright colors, and adorned with verses of poetry, pithy
sayings, and their names. They also paint hoors (beautiful women of Paradise) and
buraaqs (the winged horse on which the Prophet Muhammed, peace be upon him,
flew to Paradise). Then they drive through the city at breakneck speed, racing with
each other, picking up passengers and dumping them in the middle of the road
without even slowing down. The conductors hang out the back screaming the names
of the bus stops, jump off and load people on, then jump back on again. They’ve
caused numerous fatal accidents all over the city, but Karachi would not function
without them…

5. Local political debates frequently seem to center on . . .

As local politics go everywhere in the world, people talk about how useless the
government is at solving their problems. This is particularly true in Karachi, which
hasn’t had a properly functioning city government over the last seven years. Hence
the crumbling of our infrastructure and non-maintenance of the city, and problems
for citizens trying to obtain water, petrol and gas. Electricity is also a problem. This
year the government has embarked on a massive anti-encroachment drive, clearing
away decades’ worth of slums and settlements from government land, so people are
hotly debating whether this is good for the city or whether it tramples on the rights
and livelihoods of the already-dispossessed. Another debate that is a little amusing:
the Commissioner of the city decided to put up signboards all over Karachi
demarcating the “Downtown,” “Uptown,” and “Old City,” without anyone really
knowing what this means. Other signboards have motivational slogans like “Karachi:
City of Peace” and “Karachi: An Epitome of Resilience.” People are arguing about why
the boards are so badly-designed. I’m upset about the odd grammar, but I guess that’s
just me being pedantic.

Bina Shah (/tag/bina-shah/) is a novelist and essayist who lives in Karachi, Pakistan.

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ED. MAGAZINE

On: Bland Food, Binders, and Being

Outspoken
POSTED May 14, 2016 BY Lory Hough

It was early evening in Karachi, and Bina Shah, Ed.M.'94, was settling down with a cup of tea. Dinner
was hours away, and she had a phone interview lined up with an American reporter. She was taking a
break from work on her seventh book, a feminist dystopian novel in the tradition of Margaret
Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale but with what she calls a "distinctly Asian phenomenon" — that of the
rising male-to-female birth rate and the consequences for society. As any talented writer will tell you,
Shah isn't sure the novel is any good.
"Every time you write, you're taking a gamble," she says. "I am plagued by fears that it's a ridiculous
premise or that it's completely unbelievable."

By that measure, Shah takes a lot of gambles. Not only has she published four novels and two short
story collections, but she's also a journalist, contributing regularly to The International New York
Times, Al Jazeera, and Dawn, Pakistan's oldest English-language newspaper. She posts regularly on
her blog. She's active on Facebook and Twitter. Her writing, it seems, is everywhere.

Pretty impressive for someone who never really planned on being a professional writer. When she
came back to Pakistan after her year at Harvard, where she had been drawn to the Technology,
Innovation, and Education (TIE) Program and to professors like Eleanor Duckworth and Gerald Lesser,
and a year writing medical manuals for a software company outside of Boston (plus four at Wellesley
as an undergrad psychology major), she had no idea what she was going to do.

"I was dislocated. I was very lost," she says. And so she started to write. For two technology
publications, using her tie skills. For cultural websites and literary journals. And then for herself: short
stories, which led to her first collection, Animal Medicine, and then a year later, her first novel, Where
They Dream in Blue. "The writing really helped me find myself." And so, she jumped in headfirst.

"Once I decided I was going to go for it, I always thought I'd go for it in a big way. I always hoped I'd be
known internationally," she says. "I always had that kind of attitude: I'll do it myself and figure it out
as I go along."

It's not the first time Shah had to figure it out as she went along. Just after she was born in 1972, her
parents took her to live in the United States while her father, Shafqat, was getting his master's degree
in foreign affairs at the University of Virginia. The initial plan was to live abroad for two years.

"He decided to stay on and complete his Ph.D. That decision was influenced in part by political
events," she says. Her uncle, Zulfiqar Ali Shah, had been jailed by then-Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali
Bhutto, (the father of future Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto), for his association with Pir Pagara, a
spiritual leader of the Sunni Muslim order of the Hurs. It was feared that Shah's father might be next.
"So he made the swift decision to stay on in Virginia," she says. As she wrote in a piece published on
Medium, the decision was not only swift, but also nerve-wracking. "In a midnight escape more
thrilling than the screenplay of any movie, my father, mother, and I fled to the airport, where friends
arranged for us to be driven straight onto the tarmac, avoiding passport control and Bhutto's cronies
in the immigration department," she wrote. "We boarded a plane to go straight back to the United
States, where my father had been invited to continue his studies and earn a Ph.D. We arrived in New
York City 24 panicked and frightening hours after we had left Pakistan. My father did not even have a
valid student visa, but the immigration officer let him into the country on the strength of my father's
still-valid student ID card from the university. It was a gesture of generosity my father has never
forgotten." They stayed until 1977, when Bhutto was deposed and it was safe to come back.

It was a tough transition for a five-year-old who loved her home in America.

"Virginia was idyllic: The area is green, in the Blue Ridge Mountains, lots of horses and farms
everywhere," Shah says. "Charlottesville is a charming university town with lots of international
students whom my parents were all friends with. They were raising their children together, so it was a
community within a community in which we socialized."

Times weren't always easy — the curriculum was challenging and political uncertainty at home
stressful — but there was a built-in support system among the graduate students, who helped one
another with babysitting and through illness, Shah says. "I remember a lot of dinners and get-
togethers, everyone celebrating each others' holidays. My parents are still friends with all the people
they knew there, even though they're spread all over the world now. For me it was very tranquil and a
time of utter freedom and happiness."

And then the move back to Pakistan.

"I suffered tremendously from culture shock. I was never happy about being here and always wanted
to go back to the United States, which I considered my home," she says. In Karachi, she was teased for
having an American accent and not being able to speak Urdu. She missed the bland American food
she had come to adore. "I missed so many brandname foods, the stuff you grow up with: Kraft
marshmallows, Ruffles potato chips, Jell-O, Kool-Aid." Occasionally she got to taste them again: The
Americans in town had access to a commissary where these brand names were sold. Shah
remembers that at her school, the Karachi American School, the commissary food was valued
similarly to gold. "Sometimes we had school picnics and we'd get fed with food from the commissary.
I remember a picnic where we got Oscar Meyer beef franks and grape soda. I told my teacher it was
the best meal I'd ever eaten."

For this westernized girl, the culture shock those first few years might have been even harder if it
hadn't been for her mother, Nasreen, the woman she describes as the first feminist in her life.

"My father's family was very socially conservative. The women of the family observed purdah, which
is a type of seclusion practiced mainly by people who consider themselves descendants of the
Prophet Muhammed," Shah says. "They wouldn't go to school. They wouldn't go outside of the house
unless heavily veiled and accompanied only by male family members. They would never work. So I
saw this extreme environment, and while my immediate family did not practice this, we were affected
by the restrictions for women." As a result, she grew up hearing a lot about what girls could and
couldn't do — but not from her mother. "My mother insisted on me being allowed to travel on school
trips and participate in extracurriculars like sports, music, and drama. But there was always tension in
the house, not because my dad minded those things, but because the extended family might
disapprove."

Shah, too, might have accepted things as the way they were for certain members of the family if her
mother hadn't protested so vociferously about them.

"My mother was a big influence on my father, too, giving him the courage to oppose a lot of the
restrictions and not apply them to his own family. But with family pressure he might have just carried
on with the traditions."

Still, as she wrote in a blog post explaining why she calls herself a feminist, "no matter how visionary
or open-minded my parents were, they still had to make compromises for the restrictive environment
in which we lived, and I was the victim of those compromises." As Shah got older, when visiting her
father's family in Sindh, about two and a half hours from Karachi, she was no longer allowed to play
freely or visit the men's section of the house. The family farm was off limits because it was improper
for women to be seen by "ordinary laborers." She started wearing baggy shalwar kameezes — loose
pants and tunics.

When it was time to think about college, there was pushback when she suggested applying to schools
outside of Pakistan.

"Going to college in the United States was a very contentious subject and almost didn't happen. It took
a lot of convincing for my father to agree to send me," she says. She considered the Ivy Leagues and
the University of Virginia, but her family finally said yes to Wellesley for one big reason: It was a
women's college.

She was elated. She was going back to America, the country she longed for. Yet, as is often the case
with things we desperatly want, the return didn't quite start out the way she expected. "I had a
rebellious attitude, but it was so suppressed and repressed that I felt guilty for wanting to do all the
things that other kids, especially boys, got to do," she says. Mixed with guilt was a new longing — to
be back in Karachi. "I felt disloyal for being homesick for Pakistan, rather than America. I had for 12
years considered America home and felt homesick for it while I was in Pakistan. I wanted to return to
America like a salmon going back to its birthplace. But now, at 17, I was separated from my family
and my friends and Pakistan. That felt so antithetical to what I expected."
In time, shah began to love america again, with
Wellesley's ideals of freedom and sisterhood easing
the transition. And it was at Wellesley that she
eventually found her voice. "Being away from the
suffocating environment of Pakistan, because it was
nowhere near as progressive as it's become today, at
least in the intellectual circles I move in now, helped
me to find my voice," she says — the voice that
would allow her, decades later, to plunge into writing
that covers taboo and divisive topics like women's
rights, beggars, Muslim male privilege, honor killings,
and head coverings for women. A voice that allowed
her to write in her newest novel, A Season For
Martyrs, about Benazir Bhutto — the daughter of the
man who wanted to jail her uncle, and herself a
controversial figure in Pakistan. Surprisingly, despite
this history, Shah was distraught when she heard the
news in 2007 that Bhutto, the first female prime
minister of a Muslim nation, had been assassinated.

"I was at home, it was about 6 p.m. in the evening, and it was flashed on the news," she says. "I ran
out of my room into the living room and stood and watched. It was awful." By then, Shah says she no
longer had conflicted feelings about Bhutto. "In a way I worked them out when she returned to
Pakistan for the last time to try and fight the elections. I felt she'd changed, become more mature, and
learned from her past mistakes. She'd also distanced herself from her husband, who had been
accused of the corruption… . What happened to my uncle was because of her father, not her. She was
a different person from him, and I don't think she would have done the same thing."

Since then, Shah's strong voice has also allowed her to become the go-to person in Pakistan on issues
related to education and girls and learning. In The New York Times, she recently talked about teaching
liberation to girls in her country and girls being left out of sports. Al Jazeera interviewed her about
Boko Haram and a girl's right to go to school. And on the BBC, where she is a frequent guest, she has
talked about genocide, provocative photos of women in the media, and another controversial figure
in her country: Malala Yousafzai, the young Pakistani girl who was shot while on her way to school
and eventually awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. The criticism swirling around Malala isn't surprising,
Shah says.

"There's always a backlash against anyone feted by the international community, read: the West," she
says, "and anyone who exposes the darker side of Pakistan to be picked over by the world, which she
did by virtue of being shot just for wanting her education. What happened to Malala says very bad
things about Pakistan, which people were ashamed of, and they deflected by turning her into a villain.
The more she accomplishes, the more they'll continue to hate her. Pakistanis are very conflicted about
people who succeed in our society, especially on their own terms, or at least on terms that are not set
by the 'chattering classes.' What a great phrase!"

Shah, too, faces criticism, sometimes quite personal, not only for being outspoken, but also because
of her link to the United States. "Anyone with a Western outlook is treated with suspicion even as
Pakistanis have a fascination/admiration for the West, as a result probably of our colonial past and
then the very close client–patron relationship we've had with the United States since 1947," she says.
"We're repelled by the very thing we are attracted to. I think this is really a colonial legacy."

Still, she never shies away from her bicultural upbringing or education — or for continuing to identify,
as she has over the years, with both homes.

"I've always had two time zones in my head, Pakistan and the United States," she says. "Somehow I
always find myself thinking about what time it is in Pakistan and America. I think I exist in two spaces
in my head, Pakistan and America, almost all the time." It's why she tells people she's a "bridge" for
both cultures. "But a bridge encourages traffic in both directions," she says. "Americans might be
uncomfortable with me because of my Muslim and Pakistani background, but they trust my opinion
when they learn how westernized I am."

Asked if she's ever worried about her own safety, given that a close friend of hers, Sabeen Mahmud,
the owner of a progressive cafe in Karachi where Shah wrote two of her novels, was gunned down in
her car one night last year for being outspoken, Shah says not any more than anyone else.

"Living in Karachi, everyone's worried about their safety. It's a big, lawless city with a lot of crime," she
says. "Lots of armed guards everywhere with automatic weapons, guarding the airport, the malls, the
cinemas. It's comparable to Johannesburg or Rio de Janeiro in terms of street crime. But I watched
Sicario, [the movie] about the drug cartels in Mexico, and that struck a chord with me, too, the
organized violence, which we have a lot of as well. Much of ours is politically motivated. It's second
nature to be conscious of security or lack of it when you live in Karachi, not necessarily because of the
work I do."

In any case, Shah says nothing will stop her from being outspoken.

"Do you remember the phrase they used back in the early '90s to make people aware of AIDS? 'Silence
= Death.' I guess that's how it feels for me," she says. "If I don't get to speak out and express myself, I'll
die."

And so she continues to write and

edit, with her own style.

"When I'm writing a first draft, the

writing is all over the place. It might
happen early in the morning or late
at night. Whenever inspiration
strikes," she says. "But when I'm
editing, then it's much more dreary:
from 10 a.m. until about 1 or 2 p.m.
in the afternoon, then I quit for the
day. I'm a restless writer. I'm always
getting up to walk around and trying
not to get distracted. I drink a lot of
water when I write. I become very
crabby and I don't want to be around people very much, so there's very little socializing."

There are, however, binders.

"There is a group on Facebook called Binders Full of Women for women writers, after that famed
statement by Mitt Romney in the U.S. election. I keep trying to exit the group and someone always
adds me back in," Shah jokes. "But in my own writing, I do use binders. I print out the whole
manuscript after I've written it and then divide the pages — there are more than 300 of them usually
— between three different binders, and I edit with a pen." It's a skill she learned when she interned at
Oxford University Press in Pakistan in 1991. "The classic way to edit a manuscript was with editors'
marks, which I learned while I was there. I still use a very corrupted version of them when I edit my
own work. You can scribble notes in the margins, write out different versions of sentences. You have
no idea how good it feels to just strike through a paragraph you don't want anymore with a red pen.
Clicking the computer keys isn't nearly as satisfying."

As Shah finishes the interview and heads back to slog away again on her new novel, she laughs when
asked if it's harder to write the beginning of a novel or the ending.

"Getting started isn't easy, but by the time you're near the end, I'm near a nervous breakdown," she
says. "Something people don't realize is how exhausting it is to write a book, how much it takes out of
you. Remember how you felt at the end of your first-year exams? Like that. I do it to myself over and
over, which must mean that I like it."

Ed. Magazine
The magazine of the Harvard Graduate School of Education

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Author, author This article is more than 14 years old

Books
Kamila Shamsie on leaving and
returning to Karachi
'I'll write about other places, I told myself, as I set off for
London'

I
Kamila Shamsie
thought I was done with Karachi, in fiction. After writing four novels
Fri 12 Mar 2010 19.05 EST
set almost entirely in the city of my birth and upbringing, which long
Share continued to be the centre of my peripatetic life, and where I always
returned in order to write, I became embroiled in a fifth novel – Burnt
Shadows – which started in Japan, ended in New York and Afghanistan, and
had Karachi as merely one of its several locations. This geographical
widening of my imagination was one of the most important factors in my
decision to move to London three years ago – I was eager to alter my
relationship to Karachi from part-time resident to visitor. Prior to that, I
would not have been able to contemplate leaving Karachi without worrying I
was becoming unmoored from my subject matter.

I'll write about other places now, I grandly told myself, as I packed my bags
and set off to London with a passport containing a freshly stamped "writer's
visa" (a category sadly now made defunct by the Labour government).

So, when I was commissioned by Radio 3 to write a series of Karachi

Postcards (to be broadcast from Monday at 11pm), I thought it a form of
leave-taking. One final burst of writing on that city, and then I'd be through.
It seemed apt that the final essay in the series was called "Departure". So
farewell then, Karachi-of-my-fiction, I imagined myself writing as a final line.

It was not merely location to which I was saying goodbye, but something
central in my understanding of the kind of writer I am. There are, of course,
many ways to end a sentence which begins "There are two kinds of writers . .
.", but for me, one of the most important is "those who write about places
with which they are intimately acquainted, and those who don't".

Much space is given in discussion of fiction to the definition of "intimately

acquainted", and whether it has to mean that you continue to live in a place,
or if it's enough to have lived there for a time. As someone who grew up in
Karachi and then, for most of her adult life, lived part of the year there and
part in London and upstate New York, I fell somewhere between those two
categories, which made it easy to ignore both of them.

But wherever I lived, Karachi was the place I knew best and the place about
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up?
they were different. Those
But when I wrote about Japan and Afghanistan – both countries I had never days are numbered
Will Hutton
visited – I discovered a previously unknown pleasure: how to make a distant
place feel intimate. This, I realised, was what fiction had meant to me before ​ FBI names suspect, 20, as
I started writing it. In Karachi, growing up immersed in Anglophone novels ‘subject involved’ in Trump
set Elsewhere, I discovered London and Toronto and Rome and Delhi rally shooting
through fiction. (The only time I recall reading about Karachi in novels was in
Salman Rushdie's early works – both Midnight's Children and Shame. But ​ The experts: oncologists on
Rushdie's vibrant, dynamic Bombay felt far more Karachi-like to me than his the simple, doable, everyday
versions of Karachi.) So perhaps I shouldn't have been so surprised to find things they do to try to prevent
cancer
myself becoming a writer who wanted to transform the unfamiliar into
familiarity. At the very outset of my life as a reader, that transformation had
been at the heart of fiction. All this I thought, and believed. And then, last
month, I was in Karachi.

Details of the world around me which I would have once stored up, knowing
I could use them in evoking the city's texture, I found myself ignoring. But
one day I found myself in the studio of the artist Naiza Khan, looking at the
work she was producing based around the island of Manora, which is both
part of and apart from the city, and which I've only ever skimmed the surface
of; and later, I was talking to the photographer Amean J, poring over his
photographs of a Karachi bus known informally as "Shehzadi" or "Princess"
because it runs the longest route, with the greatest frequency.
Its extravagantly decorated interior, in Amean J's pictures, looked like a place
of dreams. I've never been on the bus myself, so had no images but his with
which to create my impression of Shehzadi. And as I considered the works of
these artists, I saw unfamiliar worlds starting to feel familiar.

And this is why the end of the final essay is not what I had anticipated.
Instead, it is this: "There are 15-20 million people in Karachi. There is a
different Karachi for every one of them."

Does this mean I'll always write about it? No. I already know stories I want to
tell that require me to turn my sights elsewhere. But I know now that
"writing about places with which you are not intimately acquainted" is not
really a question of geography at all. It is a question of texture. Once I was a
writer who wrote about a texture she'd felt wrap around her a hundred
thousand times. Now, I want to write that texture into being.

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Pakistan This article is more than 16 years old

Karachi calling
When novelist Mohammed Hanif told friends he was
returning to Pakistan after 12 years in Britain, they were
aghast. Why would he and his young family swap London
for a city with daily power cuts and rampant gun crime? The
answer proved surprisingly simple ...

Mohammed Hanif
Mon 23 Jun 2008 19.01 EDT

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Hanif ... 'In Karachi, no one ever talks about the weather'. Photograph: Teri Pengilley

Twelve years ago, I arrived in London from Karachi with eight suitcases, a
new wife and a three-year job contract. Before leaving for London, we had
put our books, furniture and even some of our kitchen utensils at our
relatives' houses. When I told my friends and family that we would be back
after exactly three years, they gave us a knowing smile and encouraged us to
sell that sofa instead of putting it in their store room.

Two months from now, we are planning to return to Karachi with a container
full of furniture, more pots and pans than we left behind and a 10-year-old
son. Friends and family in Pakistan are aghast. From London to Karachi?
Why are you coming to Karachi? Do you know what happened to Sana's
friend the other day? Do you have any idea how you'll live without electricity
for 10 hours every day? And, by the way, have you discussed this with
Channan? How does he feel about it?

I will return to Sana's friend's plight and my own plans for living without
electricity later, but let's deal with the Channan question first. It's a heart-
wrenching one. He was born in Chelsea and Westminster hospital. He goes to
a Church of England school in south London where he is the self-styled star
of the school cricket club. His school people are divine, and not because of
the church connection. His trumpet teacher has finally managed to get him
into a school concert. His closest friends live in the neighbourhood.
Obviously, he doesn't want any of that to change.

It doesn't help that we have had a Pakistani news channel turned on round
the clock during the past year because of one crisis after another in Pakistan.
When he sees a news report about another bomb blast and the news
presenters giving graphic details about how the police found the severed
head of the suicide bomber, he gives us that "are-we-still-going?" look. His
questions are genuine, tinged by a 10-year-old's emotional pull. My
responses come partly from parental responsibility, partly from yearning for
the Karachi sea breeze. Lately I have added a new, rather self-serving,
argument to my discourse: If London is so much safer than Karachi, how
come kids your age are being knifed every day?

He has been to Pakistan every year and that is where he has learned cricket
and his cool dance moves. We only have to be in my village in Pakistan for
half an hour and there are a dozen boys his age shouting at him to bowl faster
and keep his bat down. It doesn't take him long to find playmates and make
friends. Recently he has also visited some of his best friends from south
London who have moved to Pakistan during the last couple of years, made
new best friends and settled into schools that are more challenging and even
more fun. Even his uber-nerd friend, who will be called S for reasons of
privacy, has a girlfriend. And during our house hunt he saw a house that had
a little swimming pool, which seems to have brought about a considerable
change in his attitude. Our conversations have shifted from, "Why are we
going?" to "I'll only move if we get that house". But how can we justify filling
a swimming pool when most of our neighbourhood doesn't have running
water? He strikes another bargain. "Can I have a TV in my room?" Failing
which, "I'll only go if we get the latest Mario Kart game for Nintendo Wii
because everyone in Karachi has it."

Everyone in Karachi has a personal crime story to share. Advertising

executive Arif had his iPhone snatched at gunpoint - at a traffic light as a
police squad looked on. Jimmy's sister was driven around the city by robbers
and made to take money out of cash points across Karachi. Raja's colleague
went on a blind date a month ago and hasn't come back; his family has not
even received a ransom note. And these are all middle-class professionals
with two cars and five servants per household. But what people don't need
to remind me is that Karachi is a city of 16 million people, where even the
poor are robbed in broad daylight at gunpoint, where robbers, when caught,
are burned alive. And those who cannot be robbed are made to stand in day-
long queues to buy flour. Everyday crime in Karachi is only slightly higher
than in Bombay and slightly less than Rio. Twelve years ago, when I left
Karachi, people were being kidnapped for a few thousand rupees.
Everybody's cousin had been robbed at gunpoint. Carjacking was rampant.
Even an obscure journalist like me had a gangster or two stalking him. So no
change there then - a phrase I have learned in London and come to like.

But the city couldn't have stayed frozen in time for my return. So, of course,
there is a new texture. There is the urban legend of the suicide bomber who
 gets a lift from a family in a car, asks them to drive around looking for a
target, all the while trying to convince them that they will go to heaven with
him. He fails to find a target and the car runs out of fuel. As the bomber
leaves them, the head of the family tells him that if he wants to carry out
God's mission he should at least learn to drive. Another discernible
difference between then and now is that they didn't use to snatch mobile
phones at gunpoint. One reason for that could be that hardly anyone had a
mobile phone back then.

More learned friends constantly remind me of something called the myth of

return. I have been told many times that the place I want to return to doesn't
exist any more. But during the 12 years that I have lived and worked in
London, I have also seen eroded the conventional myth that people come to
London for better lives. Increasingly people, especially people with young
children, are heading back home, in search of better schools, cheaper
domestic help and sometimes, because of a vague feeling of duty, to partake
of the suffering of the people of the country they left behind, sometimes out
of an acute sense of nostalgia.

Neither does the London that I came to exist any more. When I came to
London, Labour had just swept into power. Tony Blair's grin symbolised a
nation's sunny mood. A pint cost a pound. Broadsheets were broadsheets
and tabloids were tabloids. And men with beards were just hairy freaks, not a
threat to the existence of western civilisation. As I prepare to leave, we have
a mayor whose first priority is to ban drinking on public transport. Some
would say that should be reason enough to leave London. But as a citizen of
the world, I feel that one can't find happiness in the same city after a decade.
I have already overstayed my welcome.

London and Karachi: both are cities of my imagination, made real only
through mortgages, the price of a meal and quality of domestic help. After a
decade in London, Karachi appears to have some very obvious advantages:
no one ever talks about the weather. Working actors are rarely out of work.
There are more television channels than trained journalists.

And wouldn't you agree that there is something quite primal about life
without electricity? It's not as apocalyptic as it sounds. If I go without air
conditioning for a few hours, what will happen? If the fridge doesn't work,
you can always go out and eat. You can always read in candlelight. And when
all else fails, you can do what every one else does: buy your own generator. If
you want to do your bit to reduce pollution levels, you can buy a generator
that runs on natural gas.

For most of our 12 years in London, the only violence we have seen has been
restricted to aggressive bouts of tennis on Wii. But, increasingly, I find myself
reading stories about kids being stabbed. Channan insists that they are
teenagers, not 10-year-olds and he has no patience for detail. I saw an advert
recently, which said that if you carry a knife you are more likely to be
stabbed. Every day I count my kitchen knives after dropping him to school.

I asked Channan the identity question once, a term that seems to have been
invented basically to make life more difficult for people with a different
colour or accent, and easier for privileged PhD students short on dissertation
ideas. This was a time when he was creative enough to invent words if he
didn't know one. He said that he was a Londoni. Although I wasn't born in
Karachi, I always call myself a Karachiite because that's where I found love
and work and the sea. So if a Karachiite can live in London for more than a
decade, surely a Londoni can be a Karachiite.

And did I tell you what happened to Sana's friend? She got stuck in a beauty
parlour for six hours with no electricity and a generator failure and almost
missed her own engagement ceremony. I guess I am not going to have that
problem at least.

· A Case of Exploding Mangoes by Mohammed Hanif is published by

Jonathan Cape. He will be speaking at the London Literary Festival on July 10
at 7pm. For more information: southbankcentre.co.uk
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ISSUE 112

EDITOR John Freeman

DEPUTY EDITOR Ellah Allfrey
ARTISTIC DIRECTOR Michael Salu
ONLINE EDITOR Ollie Brock
EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS Emily Greenhouse, Patrick Ryan
PUBLICITY Saskia Vogel
DESIGN INTERN Daniela Silva
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MARKETING AND SUBSCRIPTIONS Anne Gowan, David Robinson
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IT MANAGER Mark Williams
PRODUCTION ASSOCIATE Sarah Wasley
PROOFS Sarah Barlow, Lizzie Dipple, Katherine Fry, Lesley Levene, Jessica
Rawlinson, Vimbai Shire, Mirza Waheed
ASSOCIATE PUBLISHER Eric Abraham
PUBLISHER Sigrid Rausing
 CONTENTS

Leila in the Wilderness

Nadeem Aslam

Poem
Yasmeen Hameed

Portrait of Jinnah
Jane Perlez

Kashmir’s Forever War

Basharat Peer

Poem
Daniyal Mueenuddin

Ice, Mating
Uzma Aslam Khan

The House by the Gallows

Intizar Hussain

Butt and Bhatti

Mohammed Hanif
High Noon
Green Cardamom with a foreword by Hari Kunzru

Arithmetic on the Frontier

Declan Walsh

Poem
Hasina Gul

A Beheading
Mohsin Hamid

Pop Idols
Kamila Shamsie

Restless
Aamer Hussein

Mangho Pir
Fatima Bhutto

White Girls
Sarfraz Manzoor

The Trials of Faisal Shahzad

Lorraine Adams with Ayesha Nasir
The Sins of the Mother
Jamil Ahmad

Notes on contributors
Copyright
MANGHO PIR

Fatima Bhutto
I was seven years old the first time I visited a Sheedi neighbourhood in
Karachi. I had accompanied my grandmother on a campaign tour, visiting
homes and receiving applications from men who needed legal aid to fight
cases in the perpetually clogged city courts, from others who had lost their
jobs and had no way of feeding their families, and from widows seeking
stipends from the state. I felt nervous at the sight of crowds, preferred my
car rides free of screaming men chanting slogans and wanted desperately to
sit at home and talk without the noise of loudspeakers, megaphones and
microphones. My grandmother, Joonam – ‘my life’, as I called her in her
native Farsi – had been thrust into party politics after the assassination of
her husband, my grandfather, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, and had been jailed,
beaten and elected to congress before I lost my first tooth. I adored Joonam
and relished time spent with her, even if it meant engaging in campaigning.
Karachi was, in my imagination at least, a bustling metropolis. Palm trees
lined the city’s wide avenues, children thronged Clifton Beach, buying
roasted corn smeared with lime and chilli from street vendors and sidling up
to the men who sold camel rides for a couple of rupees. But there were
millions who would never benefit from its occasional munificence, even
though there should have been plenty to spare. There were no Sheedi on
Clifton Beach, smack in the middle of the affluent old Clifton
neighbourhood where my family lived. There were no Sheedi in the new
electronics stores, buying CD players or shiny fabric from the city’s up-and-
coming designers. And yet, although they lived in the shadows, they refused
to go unnoticed. The poverty and political dispossession could not hem
them in. That first visit with Joonam was a jolt to my mental shaping of a
city that I had, until then, only seen on its best and most welcoming
behaviour.

Karachi, like all port cities, is a hub for travellers, traders and settlers. It is
a sweltering mix of those who have been brave enough to settle on its
shores – Parsis, Jews, Baha’is, Pushtun, Afghans and so many more. The
city has no majority; but even in this outrageous muddle of people and
shades and colours, the Sheedi are unusual – an ethnic minority displaced
among the swell of Karachi’s various populations. While the most
successful of the Sheedi – and there are not many who escape the
deprivations of their community – enjoy a reputation that spans the world of
arts, politics and athletics, they are best known for the northern Karachi
shrine they protect and serve. A shrine built upon centuries of myth and
modern-day fables that proclaim living breathing avatars of their lost saint
and inspire spiritual searching. But no visit to this holy site of pilgrimage
can ignore the impoverished environment of the surroundings. The glorious,
the divine, and then the rot.
Mangho Pir, home of the Sheedi shrine, and its environs are covered in
white mist. Men walk across haphazardly constructed pedestrian paths in
rubber slippers and frayed shalwar kameez, coated in the white talc, dark
hair lightened and skin powdered. This is a quarry town – dust escaping
from the mines announces that you have arrived at the largest marble
market in the region.
The gritty stone comes from across Sindh Province: from Thar, Sehwan,
Jamshoro and Dadu, from Balochistan and, for some reason, perhaps owing
to the desolate nature of this conveniently forgotten town, ends up in
Mangho Pir. The marble slabs are lined neatly in towers with jagged shards
that look sharp enough to cut through skin. Onyx is sold here too but marble
is what makes a man’s business in Mangho Pir.
The keepers of the shrine are ethnically African Pakistanis whose
ancestors settled on the Balochistan coast and the Sindhi shores around 628
ce. One narrative identifies them as the descendants of opulent traders.
They arrived, the story goes, through Bharuch, a seaport in Indian Gujarat
fabled for its spice and silk trade, a crossroads through which traders from
the Levant, Ethiopians seeking westward winds, Greeks, Persians,
Carthaginians and Romans all passed. Alternative histories identify them as
the progeny of brave warriors, descendants of soldiers who came a hundred
years later (in approximately 712 CE), combatants loyal to Muhammad bin
Qasim’s conquering army that landed on the banks of the Indus, at
Bhambore in Sindh, when bin Qasim was only seventeen years old,
bringing Islam to the Hindu and Buddhist subcontinent. Bin Qasim’s
soldiers were known as Habshi (Abyssinian) or Zinji, ‘Negro’ in the
warrior’s native tongue. Still another story points to a forced migration of
Bantu-speaking peoples (largely Swahili, a language still heard in Sheedi
poetry and folk songs) of East Africa. They were transported to the still
flourishing seaport of Bharuch in the seventeenth century by Portuguese
slave traders who thought their human booty suitable gifts, to be offered in
exchange for protection, as baksheesh if you will, for the Nawab of
Junagadh. Those who were not presented to the local ruler were said to have
been sold at the port. There are grounds, perhaps, for all three legends to be
true. Linguistic, mercantile and political trajectories can be traced in
support of all three narratives – soldier, trader or slave.

Maulabux is a Sheedi political activist whose maternal grandfather came to

Karachi when the British were transforming the city into a mega seaport at
the time of the Bombay Presidency. Although my parents, and indeed my
grandmother, knew him from his work as a dedicated political activist, I
remember meeting Maulabux at a funeral; I was eleven years old, maybe
twelve. A Sheedi man, another grass-roots worker, had been killed by the
Karachi police. He had been tortured and held without charge in police
custody. He left behind two small children and a shy, young wife. The
mourners screamed angry curses at the government that had killed one of
their best organizers, the women wept and hurled their tattered plastic
slippers at the police vans perennially parked in the area, the men sat
huddled together over a table and worked on a statement condemning the
murder and drew up plans for a shutdown of local businesses in protest.
Maulabux was one of those men. I remember him, calm but shattered,
working quietly that day to ease the grief of the man’s family and planning
the community’s response.
Maulabux is from Lyari, one of Karachi’s oldest Sheedi settlements. He
is a tall man, his hair clipped close to his scalp and his face clean-shaven.
Although I have never seen him chew paan, his stained teeth betray its use –
his smile a reminder that for all his serious political background (and his
background is serious) he is a raconteur. Maulabux isn’t sure which line
about his people’s antecedents he buys, but he tells me stories passed down
to him by his father and grandfather. ‘They brought us over as slaves,’ he
says over tea one afternoon in a Karachi garden. ‘They put us in ships and
forced us to row to our new prisons – like in the movie Amistad. Have you
seen Amistad?’ I nod, more perplexed by the fact that Maulabux watches
Spielberg films than anything else.
 I ask him about bin Qasim’s army, and he wagers that there were indeed
African troops but that they can’t possibly account for the large population
of Sheedi in Pakistan today. He doesn’t call himself Sheedi, he doesn’t use
the term the way I do – to refer to an ethnic group. He says blackion
instead, adding the Urdu suffix -ion denoting the plural to black, a Minglish
– Urdu/mixed English – construction. ‘There are blackion in the Rann of
Kutch in India, in Iran, Bahrain, Oman and in the Gulf.’ Maulabux
acknowledges that the blackion didn’t face the same sort of discrimination
in places like Oman, where they ‘practise the European style of accepting
different races’, so tolerant and accepting are the Omanis of anyone who is
willing to come and build their sultanate by the sea. The Sheedi Maulabux
knew who had settled there were all ‘highly educated, visible in
government posts like immigration offices and customs’; they were not
shamed into hiding like the blackion in our country.
I say, ‘There are Sheedis in the Punjab too, aren’t there?’ We are playing
hide-and-seek with geography and migration, and I feel I must have
trumped him now. Maulabux smiles, points to his curly hair and thrusts his
fingers at me. ‘They are not the original blackion.’ Case closed, he leans
back and gingerly sips his tea.

Sakhi Sultan Mangho Pir Rehmat Ullah Alaih, whose birth name was either
Hasan or Kamaluddin, was an Arab descendant of Hazrat Ali, the Prophet
Muhammad’s son-in-law and progenitor of the Shiite line of Islam. It was
during his long pilgrimage at the site of Mangho Pir that Hasan or
Kamaluddin became elevated to sainthood, proclaimed enlightened by the
respected teachers who oversaw his spiritual journey and the devoted
followers who believed in the power of the would-be saint’s prayers spoken
straight to God. The stories of Hasan or Kamaluddin’s sainthood are filled
with the fantastic. After his death, according to the best legend, the lice
living in his long dreadlocks fell to the ground and were reborn as
crocodiles.
For as long as the shrine of Mangho Pir has been part of Karachi’s Sufi
culture, it has been tended to by Sheedis. Today the shrine is teeming with
devotees and guardians alike. The majority of the faithful are Sheedi – in
fact, I am the only non-Sheedi on the day I visit – men, women, teenagers,
children. While pockets of Pakistan fall to Islamists, filling the vacuum
created by decades’ worth of corrupt government, and the country becomes
a state synonymous with fundamentalism, there are millions who would
shake their heads and say that there is another Pakistan, that the one spoken
of in BBC headlines isn’t the Pakistan they know at all, that the one they
know is tolerant and diverse and always has been. The shrine of Mangho Pir
is proof of that alternate, retiring society.
I am met at the shrine by Haji Ghulam Akbar, who lives in the adjoining
Sheedi Goth (‘town’). A former campaigner and political activist who
successfully stood for local office in the late 1970s, Akbar has a thin
moustache dyed mandarin orange with henna and eyes lined with kajal.
Everyone we encounter seems to defer to him, though he takes little notice
as he hurries along. The site is packed with people; women gather in front
of an old man selling salt in a steel bowl outside the shrine’s doors, a shifa,
or treatment, that they hope will cure them of all sorts of diseases –
depression, rheumatism, kidney stones, skin ailments, all are dashed by
either ingesting a good amount of the water from the hot springs here or
bathing in it. The faithful also come to the shrine to seek blessings from the
crocodiles, avatars of the saint that have made their home here for centuries.
Many families will spend three days, sleeping on the cool marble floors,
purchasing salts, incense, gifts for the saint to enhance the effectiveness of
their treatments.

The short distance from Mangho Pir to Sheedi Goth is unpaved; the ground
beneath not made to withstand traffic. If the shrine is blessed with spirits
imbued with the powers of healing and access to the divine, it is an oasis
enclosed within a much more earthbound reality. Half the town’s
inhabitants’ homes are illegal. There are plain, unpainted brick houses,
shaped like concrete boxes with no windows; there are homes made out of
tents that gypsy Sheedi sleep in when the annual urs (festival) rolls around;
filthy swathes of cloth haphazardly sewn together to provide the bare
minimum of what would loosely be considered shelter for the local
homeless. Everything standing seems to be made of mud, of dust and dirt
and stones. There are no pavements, no chaikhanas (tea houses), no
playgrounds. The children are barefoot. There are a hundred to a hundred
and fifty homes here, and a population of five hundred souls.
 ‘You know, in these non-registered homes are some of our best
footballers, cyclists and boxers. Though our name hasn’t come forward in
cricket yet …’ Akbar says, his head bent and eyes fixed on the ground – the
usual pride that accompanies the fact that the Sheedi are among the nation’s
most gifted athletes seems curiously missing, reserved for giants such as
Syed Hussain Shah, who won a bronze in boxing at the 1986 Olympics,
Mehar Ali Shah, a boxer who represented Pakistan at the Asian Games,
Aziz Baloch, who plays football on the national team. ‘But we live in an
invisible community. There are no options open to us – only sports, and that
only because we break through; they cannot stop us. And this urs.’
The residents of the goth are the curators of the festival that marks the
death of the saint through a celebration of his life – very unlike the usual
manner of marking deaths in Pakistan, where songs and drumming are not
encouraged. The urs will happen any time between May, June and July,
lasting for four or ten days – however many the residents can afford. The
crocodiles will be showered with rose petals and offerings, Sheedi Goth’s
residents will beat the drums strung up on maypoles across their run-down
town and sing and dance in troupes traditionally led by women. The urs is
held at a different time each year and newspapers, both local and foreign,
only publish news of it, along with photographs of the revellers and
crocodiles, once it is over and done with. This year, the UK Daily Mail ran
a photograph of a man and his infant son, brought to be blessed at the shrine
and standing precipitously close to the famous reptiles, with the caption
‘Make It Snappy, Dad!’
The government gives the custodians of the shrine 3,000 rupees (£40) a
year for the urs, a pittance considering how much is extracted in monthly
hot-spring rent. It is an amount designed to placate the powerful bloc of
Baloch and Sindhi voters across the city. ‘We can’t even buy one goat for
that amount,’ Akbar tells me. ‘There are many other groups, religious or
community or jo bhi [whatever], who get lakhs’ and lakhs’ worth of
financial support. We only get pity.’

This is a community set in a wasteland. The nearest school is a town away

and does not teach in the languages – Sindhi and Balochi – spoken by the
majority of Sheedi. There is no transport to ferry the children to the school,
no buses or cars to return them home. Without an education, this generation
of Sheedi is stuck. There is a hospital but it has no ambulances. As I walk
with Akbar, the locals gather to talk to me and soon it seems we are moving
in a procession. Women grab at my sleeve; they speak over each other and
interrupt my questions with answers they know by heart. They see me as a
messenger who will tell their troubles to someone I happen to be related to;
they don’t particularly care so long as the word gets out. They are thinking,
I know, of my grandfather Zulfikar. He was killed in 1979, but ghosts live
long in Pakistan.
As we walk through the narrow alleyways, we are hurried towards an
empty plot. Farida’s house has just burned to the ground; she stands in front
of debris that looks like much of the disorder one sees everywhere in Sheedi
Goth. ‘I was at work,’ she says, clutching her dupatta in a closed fist. She is
a young woman, but looks worn. Along with much of Sheedi Goth’s
working population, she works miles away from home, travelling two hours
each way, when the traffic cooperates, longer when there are transport
strikes or VIPs clogging up the roads. ‘My children were alone – there is no
one to look after them – and they are very young so they cannot tell us how
the fire started.’ I ask if it could have been a gas leak. ‘I had no gas
connection,’ Farida replies, stone-faced. She has the clothes on her back,
her dupatta, creased from her clenched hands and dirty from days of wear.
Farida is living with neighbours who have taken her family in. Mercifully,
her small children were unhurt by the blaze. ‘Who was there to call? There
is no fire department here. No one from the city government to come and
help me build a new house. No one.’ Farida continues to stand in front of
the charred remains of her home; several minutes pass like this in silence.
I had come to talk about the long-ago journey that brought the ancestors
of the Sheedi from their home to this place. I wanted to ask about the
famous urs, where women sing in a language that is part Swahili and part
Balochi, and about the dhammal and its relation to traditional East African
ngoma drum music, which is awfully similar, but I can’t. My quest for
Sheedi lore and legend remains unspoken as the residents gather to tell me a
different sort of story, the kind that won’t eventually end up on the front of
a foreign newspaper with a heart-warming photo and amusing caption to go
along with it.
At the shrine, our prayers offered and received, Akbar and I walk down the
small hill towards the crocodiles. Along the short distance to the pool there
are small, simple, whitewashed graves marking the terrain – the final
resting places of Muhammad bin Qasim’s followers. We walk silently
between the graves and Akbar breaks our awkward solemnity by telling me
that there are ‘two hundred crocodiles here, takreeban’. Approximately.
The crocodiles are mostly middle-aged, the elders somewhere between
forty to sixty years old. ‘They live here like a family,’ says Akbar. The head
of the family – they are Pakistani crocodiles after all – is named ‘Mor’ and
he is the reason people come to offer bags of bloody meat to the creatures.
He is the head avatar, the alpha incarnate. ‘What happens when Mor dies?’ I
ask, not sure how far the lifespan of a Sufi crocodile goes. Haji Akbar
shrugs. ‘When one Mor dies, another takes his place and becomes the new
Mor.’ I don’t dare ask how the process of dynastic crocodile succession is
carried out.
The less brave (or less faithful?) can climb some well-placed rocks and
peek from a safe distance, but those who mean business walk through a
small corrugated-iron gate and into the crocodiles’ lair. I count fourteen of
them. Mor, his thick scaly neck garlanded with roses, sits in the shade of a
gazebo built for his comfort. He barely moves to acknowledge our arrival
and Akbar tells me he’s a very calm beast, takreeban in his fifties although
he looks younger.
‘There are no facilities for our devotees,’ Akbar complains, pointing
around him. ‘The Sheedi come from across Sindh and Balochistan in the
thousands during our urs, but there is no help given to us by the
government. We arrange everything ourselves, even though during the urs
we have a dhammal and traditions so unique that the world media comes to
film and photograph us, we have no assistance. We provide the water, the
food, the lodging, everything.’ It is hard not to remark on the fact that I am
the only non-Sheedi at the shrine that afternoon, difficult not to leap to
conclusions as to why the state has no interest in funding and supporting
Mangho Pir’s shrine.

For eight hundred years, chashmas (hot sulphur springs) have run
underground filling the pools at Mangho Pir’s shrine. This is the one part of
the holy site that is frequented by Sheedi and non-Sheedi alike. Men and
women line up with old gasoline canisters that will carry the magical waters
of the spring back home with them. But first they fill up with the water and
retreat into small stalls to shower privately and pray for whatever cure they
seek. The water, Akbar whispers, cures kharish – skin diseases ranging
from scabies to eczema – purifies your kidneys if you drink it, softens your
skin and inspires full body rehabilitation if you are regular in your visits.
The most famous spring, the Mamma Baths, is bedecked in light blue
porcelain tiles and, save for the large pool of scalding water in the middle of
the room, resembles a Middle Eastern hammam. The area is administered
by an aged Sheedi woman named Fatima who stands outside the doors of
the Baths collecting the fees – eight rupees, or ten pence, for fifteen
minutes. Ladies have their time, then filter out so that the men may come in
and have theirs, and on it goes. Fatima is a round old lady, pear-shaped, and
she moves cumbersomely, shifting her weight on to each foot as if she must
tread carefully to avoid veering off in the wrong direction. I ask where her
family came from, if they travelled in the footsteps of the saint. ‘From
here,’ she answers, stomping the ground. ‘Before?’ I ask, trying to place
Fatima within a migration of warriors or slaves. ‘Before?’ She looks at me
as if I make no sense whatsoever. ‘Sindh. Always Sindh,’ she says,
stomping her foot again emphatically.
The water in the Mamma Baths, swirling around in a porcelain mini-
pool, is takreeban 100°F. Abdul Malik Rind, whose local expertise and
range of influence covers the Mamma Baths, has appeared between the two
Fatimas, the Baths’ bouncer and me, and beckons me towards the large bath
in the middle of the room; I slip out of my sandals and walk towards the
water. He takes a plastic flask and fills it with water and asks me to hold out
my hands. I do so, and hot water is poured over me. I stifle a yelp but notice
that in fact my hands do feel instantly softer and smoother. Feeling braver, I
step closer to inspect the pool and slip, almost plunging head first into the
frightening hot waters. Fatima catches me by the elbow, pats me on the
back and snickers. She’s been on duty here for the last forty years and –
desperate to move on from my near gaffe – I ask her what those years have
been like. She tells me that they’ve never run out of chashma water here,
nor out of visitors.
Here, Rind jumps in to the conversation and adds that people from all
over the world have come to the shrine to be healed and blessed by its
spiritual powers. ‘What kind of people?’ I ask. ‘Oh, American women come
with boils on their chests,’ he answers, puffing out his own chest with pride.
‘They come here to be cured and after a few days of visiting the Mamma
Baths then they are fully fine. No boils, no marks, nothing.’ Rind wipes his
hands together, illustrating the impressive healing potential of the springs.
‘They are Republicans,’ he adds, throwing in a worldly smile.

It is five thirty in the evening and the doors of the Sindh Government
Hospital in Sheedi Goth are padlocked. A young man who asks not to be
named, wearing a black-and-white keffiyeh around his neck, has
accompanied me here. He runs his finger along the lock and it is soon caked
in dust. The lock hasn’t been opened in a while. There are other gates and
windows, all sealed.
Behind the hospital are bungalows built for absent doctors. Khadim, a
gatekeeper who has worked here for the last twenty years, tells me as we
walk to his quarters behind the neat bungalows that the local doctors and
persistently abbreviated bureaucratic medical support staff – EDOs, MLOs,
MOs (executive district officers, medical legal officers, medical officers) –
all eat the hospital’s budget. There’s nothing left for the actual facility or its
patients. The bungalows were built from funds meant for the upkeep of the
hospital, the refurbishment merely an ornamental indication that the facility
was an up-and-running operation, and that’s it, nothing has been spent on
medical equipment, lodging for the ill or medicines. My guide tells me that
the police officers next door have a small-time drug-running business here,
hence the padlocked doors. They sell chars – heroin-laced marijuana – to
supplement their meagre salaries.
Khadim, who has eight children, takes me to his home. He has a nine-
year-old daughter with one blind eye, her socket pinched shut. His eldest
daughter, Naheed, who is my age, has polio and lies on a mattress on the
floor. She tells me she’s just recently had an operation. So the hospital does
work? No, Naheed corrects me, she went to Jinnah Hospital in central
Karachi.
This is the rot. The oppressive poverty that is the story of the Sheedis in
Pakistan, more a part of their lore than the exploits of bin Qasim’s warriors,
clearer than their confused Ethiopian-Tanzanian-Kenyan-Zanzibarian
heritage, and just as easily ignored as they are.
 I have made arrangements to visit another Sheedi neighbourhood where
in a week’s time there will be a mela, a festival celebrating their distinct
culture. This will be strictly a community affair, not open to outsiders. The
men, from Akbar to all the young boys I meet at Sheedi Goth, insist I also
visit their boxing grounds, where the greatest train for matches held at
midnight in hidden porticos around Karachi. I make arrangements to visit
them later in the week. As I drive out of Mangho Pir, my car is stopped by a
spontaneous riot. Sheedi and the Pathans living in townships near the
shrine, in a rare show of solidarity, have set fire to tyres and closed the
roads out of the area in protest over the lack of water in the neighbourhood.
Traffic is at a standstill. Men on motorcycles, some sitting three to a
vehicle, pull their shirts up to cover their noses and mouths. I notice them
first, before I see the smoke. I see them bracing themselves for the
obligatory burning that comes with any protest riot. There are no TV
cameras here, no press vans or state officials in their standard heavy
motorcades, there is no one to witness the riot who can do anything about it.
This is a demonstration of anger, grief and frustration, pure and simple.

Three days after my trip to Mangho Pir, I meet Maulabux in a garden and
he brings three friends. One of them, Habib, is in his early to mid-twenties;
he is soft-spoken and polite. A police officer serving in Lyari, where he and
his family have always lived, he is at pains to explain the recent violence
and police incursions in his neighbourhood – an area known for its radical
politics, secular history and multi-ethnic population. Life is always
interrupted – festival dates, school exams, Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays
– by this sort of warfare. State v. community, Sindhi v. Baloch, Sheedi v.
everyone else.
‘There are very few Sheedi in the police force,’ Habib says when I ask if
he feels safe in his posting. ‘People don’t like to be confronted by us in
positions of authority. Where did they come from? Who are they? They
don’t see us as being part of their communities.’ In 2009, Habib was part of
a police team that arrested a member of the powerful Muttahida Quami
Movement (MQM), a quasi-ethnofascist political party known for its
militant tactics, catering to the muhajir, Urdu speakers who migrated from
India during partition. ‘They gave a press conference against me
afterwards,’ Habib says. Only he was mentioned in the MQM’s media
attack – not other members of the squad who carried out the arrest. ‘I’m a
local, I’m not corrupt, I know the people I serve,’ he says. ‘Maybe that’s
what made me threatening.’
Maulabux’s two other friends are Ghulam Hussain, a heavy-set professor,
and Sabir, a banker turned sociologist. Professor Hussain is the eldest of the
four men; he wears a crisply starched shalwar kameez and carries a set of
pens in his breast pocket. ‘One fellow in our community, his son – born in
1986 – had an FIR [police First Information Report] cut against him for
dacoit activities when he was three years old. In 1989.’
‘Let me tell you a story,’ Maulabux begins. ‘A friend studying at Karachi
University was asked by some classmates how on earth he had made it into
the university, coming as he did from Lyari and being a blackie. And he
replied, “First I got off my slave ship, then I got on a camel, then I came to
the big city …” and they believed him! It’s like people who stop us on the
roads in Lyari and ask how to get to Lyari. “You’re here,” I tell them and
they don’t believe me because we’re standing on wide roads, people are out
shopping, there are grocers selling fruit on the streets. They expect only
horror from us.’
Maulabux is a born storyteller; he laughs and jokes his way through the
most disturbing tales, even when he speaks of racism and a policy of
exclusion that confines us to a private garden on a day when we ought to be
on the streets enjoying a festival.
‘People see us, black with ghungaroo baal, curly corkscrew hair, and
they hear we are from places like Lyari or Mangho Pir – out of eighteen
districts in this city we are only in four! It’s not like we’ve overrun the place
– and they feel like a zulm, an injury, has been done to them, like they’re
insulted by us.’
One of the Prophet Muhammad’s earliest companions was a freed slave
named Bilal, afforded the respectful honorific Hazrat on his death.
Professor Hussain sees this religious heritage as a duty upon Muslims to
ignore caste, creed and race. ‘In front of Allah,’ he intones, ‘we all say the
same kalma, the same prayers – there’s no difference between dark or light,
rich or poor.’
‘There is no room for us to progress,’ Maulabux continues, changing
tack. ‘Maybe we get postings here and there, but that’s just for show. Where
is the way up? People say, “Oh, these kalas, they’re everywhere in sports –
in boxing, in football.” Yes, we are! Lekin, jidd-o-jehad hai. But it’s a
struggle. Pakistan has only ever won one gold medal in anything’ – at this
everyone laughs; knowing nothing of our sporting history, I’m impressed
we have any medals at all – ‘in boxing. And it was a Sheedi who won it.
But people still pretend we don’t exist. Watch people’s eyes when they
think you’re an African foreigner in their country. Their eyes widen. You
can see the yellows, the pinks and the white corners of their eyes.’
Habib interjects, ‘You know, in Sheedi communities you see the young
idolizing Muhammad Ali, the Brazilian football team, the West Indies
cricket team. These are our role models.’ ‘Bob Marley too,’ adds Maulabux
nodding seriously. ‘Oh, and we were very, very upset when Michael
Jackson died.’ Professor Hussain solemnly bows his head as he remembers
the king of pop, a reference that is pointedly ignored by the others.
They tell me that the only time there was hope among the Sheedi was in
the 1970s. Lyari, the largest of the four Sheedi districts, was spruced up.
Hospitals, schools, sports stadiums were built and scholarships encouraged.
‘All our local heroes made their names then,’ Maulabux says. ‘Abbass, a
famous traditional dancer, Asghar Baloch, a sports champ, the poet Noon
Meem Danish [whose first name translates simply into the letters N and M],
Malang Charlie and Zahoor Azad, two other great dancers. Azad didn’t
think he’d ever get out of Karachi and see Mirpur Khas, let alone the rest of
the world. He was sent to the United States on cultural tours.’
But all that changed. In 1977, General Zia ul-Haq overthrew the
democratically elected government and ruled for the next ten years with an
authoritarian Islamist creed, one that didn’t look kindly upon male dancers,
or dancers of any sort. Karachi’s Sheedi community was at the forefront of
resistance to the dictator and paid for their protests and campaigns with jail
sentences and public torture. Hundreds were arrested, Maulabux and his
comrades included, for defying martial law regulations and censorship, and
speaking and acting against the government, whether by supporting
lawyers’ movements, political rallies or student uprisings. Maulabux tells
me how he and several other men put up posters of Nelson Mandela, at the
height of South Africa’s apartheid, in Karachi’s central Regal chowk, or
roundabout. ‘People here were shocked that this man of colour was fighting
the whites in South Africa, they had no idea it was possible. Imagine,
forgetting so quickly the lessons of partition …’
What about Obama? I ask Maulabux. Will his posters be put up on
roundabouts? He looks sideways at me, a tug forming at the corner of his
lips. ‘That’s politics. He’s American, they’re killing our people. White,
black, it makes no difference in the White House.’
Habib, the police officer, isn’t bothered about Obama or Mandela or
about the state that consigns the Sheedi to the periphery, simultaneously
fighting them through police violence and ignoring them by depriving them
of a stake in their country. ‘At the end of the day,’ he says, ‘we Sheedi are a
community. If one person is in trouble, he has twenty people around him.
That’s what we are, what we do. We take care of each other.’
 Elements of Verbal/Linguistic/Alphabetic Analysis

AUTHOR, AUDIENCE, PURPOSE

Author
Who is he/she?
-professional/educational background?
-personal involvement with the issue at hand?
-expertise in the topic he/she is discussing?
This information can give the reader more insight into the credibility of the author. Can we rely
on what he/she says? Can he/she possibly be biased? Is the author an authority in such a topic?
Does his/her area of expertise and experience lend to this authority?
Audience
Who is the author targeting in writing this text? (There is usually a specific audience in mind
depending on the purpose of the text)
Purpose (the reason behind writing this text/ what the author is hoping to achieve through
his/her text)
To entertain? To inform? To create awareness about the subject being discussed? To criticize?
To analyze a certain situation? To push for change? To introduce a new perspective to a certain
issue? To speculate?
Note: the purpose can help readers identify the audience
Context
The time, the place, the public conversations surrounding the text during its publication.

RHETORICAL APPEALS
Logos
Appeal to Logic. Does the author make use of facts and figures, the testimony of witnesses or
experts, or some other logic-based argument?

Ethos
Appeal to Ethics (Author’s Credibility). Is the author someone who knows his or her stuff? Does
she/he associate herself/himself in some way with other authorities on the subject? Does the
author have some authority in her/his own right? How does the author turn that authority into
an advantage?

Pathos
 Appeal to Emotion. What appeals does the author use? Does the author use examples or
language that is designed to stir up feelings of compassion, fear, anger, etc. in the audience?
Consider whether this type of persuasion is fair and also whether it’s effective. This can be
achieved by playing on emotions of pity, empathy, sorrow, admiration, gratitude, anger, lust,
hatred [enmity], hunger, humor, happiness, loneliness, regret, guilt, shock, remorse,
redemption, relaxation, humility, self-worth, dignity, fear, confidence, love, envy, indignation,
contempt, shame, benevolence etc.

Reliability can be evaluated considering the following, as it relates to the rhetorical appeals
above:
Evidence (studies, statistics, expert opinions, real-life examples….)
-Is there sufficient and well-rounded or varied evidence? Does the author cover a range of
different sources of evidence? Does she present enough evidence to convince you?
-Are the sources the author uses credible?

Logic
-Does the author use sound logic?
-Does he commit any logical fallacies? Logical fallacies in a text usually compromise the
credibility of this text?
-Is the author being too emotional? (This can sometimes compromise an author’s logic and or
credibility)

Author
As mentioned above, the author’s background can help readers evaluate whether he is a
reliable source to discuss the issue at hand and or whether there can be a personal interest
behind the way she writes and argues.

(This relates to the rhetorical appeals, Logos, Ethos, and Pathos. Ethos appeals to author
credibility, Logos relates to uses of evidence [case studies, statistics, etc.] and logical
argumentation, and Pathos relates to appeals for emotion or imagination.)

STYLE
In order to decide whether or not the writer is effective in establishing his/her purpose the
following stylistic elements can be considered:

Language (word choice)

Consider the following in evaluating the nature of the language and then decide whether or not
the language used by the author is appropriate for the audience he/she is targeting
Sophisticated/simple Academic Scientific Formal/informal
Figurative (metaphors, similes…) Technical

Tone (the attitude behind the word choice)

The tone also plays an important role in how effectively the purpose is achieved. The tone of a
written text can allow readers to feel angry or empathetic about an unjust situation, for
example. If this is the case, then the author intending such a reaction has achieved his purpose.
Examples of tone:
Angry, critical
Praising, motivational, inspirational
Urgent or warning
Empathetic (feeling emotionally involved with), sympathetic (feeling for)
Humorous, serious
Hopeful, hopeless
Passionate, enthusiastic

Structure
The structure of a written piece is the way it is organized
-Is it clear and easy to follow?
-Are there subtitles for example? What effect do these have on the clarity of the text?
-Is the text coherent and cohesive? Do ideas flow nicely and clearly?
 Structure of Rhetorical (Verbal/Linguistic/Alphabetic) Analysis

You will write the analysis using the following outline.

I. Introduction and Summary:

A. Include an overview sentence that introduces the text being critiqued. Include
the title of the essay, author’s name, the date of publication, source and the
main idea.
B. Summary: State the author’s overall purpose and summarize the main ideas.
C. Provide background information to help your readers understand the relevance
or appeal of the text. This may include one or more of the following: an
explanation of why the subject is of interest; a reference to possible controversy
surrounding the subject or text itself; biographical information of the author;
reference to the source; an account of the circumstances under which the text
was written; a reference to the intended audience of the text.

D. Your thesis statement is a critique of the text. It should highlight your argument
about the effectiveness of the text and a reference to the analytical lenses you
will be covering.

II. Analysis of author’s ability to achieve purpose/ communicate with audience:

The body of your essay should be a minimum of three paragraphs. You can evaluate
one element per paragraph or more if there is an overlap. (You can include more
than one element in a paragraph if they work towards the same purpose, for
example, tone and language in relation to the audience). Sometimes one element
can have two different critiques and those critiques can take up a paragraph each.
You need to give examples from the text when relevant to support your analysis.
 Your evaluation should be separate from your opinion of the topic; in other words,
your analysis of the writing elements should take precedence over the content.
III. Conclusion
 General Structure of Analytical Essays

The structure of the analytical essay is held together by the following:

• A clear, concise, and defined thesis statement that occurs in the first paragraph of the
essay.

It is essential that this thesis statement be appropriately narrowed to follow the guidelines
set forth in the assignment.

• Clear and logical transitions between the introduction, body, and conclusion.

Transitions are the mortar that holds the foundation of the essay together. Without logical
progression of thought, the reader is unable to follow the essay’s argument, and the structure
will collapse.

• Body paragraphs that include evidential support.

Each paragraph should be limited to the exposition of one general idea. This will allow for
clarity and direction throughout the essay. What is more, such conciseness creates an ease of
readability for one’s audience. It is important to note that each paragraph in the body of the
essay must have some logical connection to the thesis statement in the opening paragraph.

• Textual evidence

Provide evidence from the text and submit it to a close reading.

• A bit of creativity!

Though creativity and artfulness are not always associated with essay writing, it is an art
form nonetheless. Try not to get stuck on the formulaic nature of analytical writing at the
expense of writing something interesting.

• A conclusion that does not simply restate the thesis, but readdresses it in light of the
evidence provided.

. This is the portion of the essay that will leave the most immediate impression on the mind
of the reader. Therefore, it must be effective and logical. Synthesize what you have discussed
and come to a conclusion concerning the information presented in the body of the essay.
 Elements of Spatial Rhetorical Analysis

Purpose

What do you think was the original intent of the designer of the space in question? How was
the site to be used? Does the intent [of this place's design, its purpose] align with what it
actually says?

Space users

How is the site used? Who uses it? Does the users’ identity, cultural, national, ethnic, gender,
sexual, influence the experience of the place?

Context

Where is the site located? When was it created/built? Are there current public conversations
surrounding it? Is the site a point of conflict? Does the site have spaces of conflict?

Style

What colors are used? Does it distinguish itself with a particular design style, whether interior
or exterior? Minimalist or maximalist? Traditional or modern or contemporary? Eastern or
western? Cozy or sleek? Gothic or colonial or art-deco architecture? Are there intended or
unintended smells? What are they? Are there any particular sounds to be heard? Are there
artifacts or imagery there? Are they significant in any way and why?

Organization (structure) and Accessibility

What is the layout of your site? Is it open and easy to navigate? Or is it closed, crowded with
obstacles, etc.? Is it fairly easy to access or are there physical, material, or social impediments?

Lastly, in ascertaining all these elements, do you think the place in question poses any
problems, contradictions, unintended consequences? For example: Does the intent [of this
place's design, its purpose] align with what it actually says? If not, what is the significance of
that dissonance? Does it contribute to social, political, and economic inequality? Is there
another approach to the space that would be better? Would it lessen aforementioned social,
political, and economic inequality?
 Structure of Spatial Rhetorical Analysis

You can write the analysis using the following outline.

I. Introduction:

A. You can introduce the place being critiqued. (What site are you describing? What
is it trying to persuade you or argue?).
B. You can state the purpose of the place. (What do you think was the original
intent of the designer of the space in question? How was the site to be used
when planned?)
C. You can provide background information about the place. (Where is it located?
When was it created/built? Does it have a complicated history? Are there
current public conversations surrounding it?)
D. Your thesis statement is a one- to three-sentence posing an argument about the
place you are critiquing. It should highlight your main argument about the place
(whether it focuses on its contradictions, its problems, its effectiveness, or lack
thereof). For example: Does the intent [of this place's design, its purpose] align
with what it actually says? If not, what is the significance of that dissonance?
Does it contribute to social, political, and economic inequality? Is there another
approach to the space that would be better? Would it lessen aforementioned
social, political, and economic inequality? And it should refer to the analytical
elements you will be covering: style, organization, purpose is one set of
rhetorical elements (from Elements of Spatial Analysis sheet).

II. Body:
The body of your essay can be between two to three paragraphs. Each paragraph
should take on one argument that supports your thesis. At the top of each
 General Structure of Analytical Essays

The structure of the analytical essay is held together by the following:

• A clear, concise, and defined thesis statement that occurs in the first paragraph of the
essay.

It is essential that this thesis statement be appropriately narrowed to follow the guidelines
set forth in the assignment.

• Clear and logical transitions between the introduction, body, and conclusion.

Transitions are the mortar that holds the foundation of the essay together. Without logical
progression of thought, the reader is unable to follow the essay’s argument, and the structure
will collapse.

• Body paragraphs that include evidential support.

Each paragraph should be limited to the exposition of one general idea. This will allow for
clarity and direction throughout the essay. What is more, such conciseness creates an ease of
readability for one’s audience. It is important to note that each paragraph in the body of the
essay must have some logical connection to the thesis statement in the opening paragraph.

• Textual evidence

Provide evidence from the text and submit it to a close reading.

• A bit of creativity!

Though creativity and artfulness are not always associated with essay writing, it is an art
form nonetheless. Try not to get stuck on the formulaic nature of analytical writing at the
expense of writing something interesting.

• A conclusion that does not simply restate the thesis, but readdresses it in light of the
evidence provided.

. This is the portion of the essay that will leave the most immediate impression on the mind
of the reader. Therefore, it must be effective and logical. Synthesize what you have discussed
and come to a conclusion concerning the information presented in the body of the essay.
 What Is a Research Proposal?

Choose an issue or problem that interests you (related to Karachi), research the issue, and
eventually create an argument related to some aspect of that issue. The first step of inquiry is
choosing what you will study. In your proposal, you will describe your plans for research—what
you want to learn about, why you want to study it/ why it is important/necessary to study, and
how you will perform this research (what, how, why).

Choose a topic that you can eventually write an issue analysis essay about— that is, a topic with
multiple stakeholders. Your project also must be something that you can write about with
published sources, rather than through conducting your own primary research. Choose a
topic/debate/issue/controversy that is broad enough to find enough research but specialized
enough to allow you to write about it in-depth within the confines of an approximately 1500-
word essay (for example, the enforceability of the Paris Climate Change Agreement in the
Global South, rather than global warming as a whole).

Explain the topic you want to study

Explain why you want to study this particular topic
Put forth a plan for research.
Include the annotated bibliography
 Narrowing a Topic and Developing a Research Question
Narrowing a Topic Reference Sources
You may not know right away what your research question is. Gather Reference sources are a great place to
information on the broader topic to explore new possibilities and to help begin your research. They provide:
narrow your topic. • a way to identify potential research
topics.
• Choose an interesting topic. If you’re interested in your topic, chances • a starting point to gather information
are that others will be, too. Plus researching will be a lot more fun! on your topic.
• an introduction to major works and key
• Gather background information. issues related to your topic.
• For a general overview, reference sources may be useful. • key authors in your area of research.
• The database OneSearch@IU is also a good place to start narrowing
your focus and finding resources (libraries.iub.edu/onsearch). General Reference Sources
Dictionaries and encyclopedias provide
• Ask yourself: general information about a variety of
- What subtopics relate to the broader topic? subjects. They also include definitions
that may help you break down and better
- What questions do these sources raise? understand your topic. They are gener-
- What do you find interesting about the topic? ally not cited, since they mainly give an
overview of a topic.
• Consider your audience. Who would be interested in the issue?

From Topic to Research Question

After choosing a topic and gathering background information, add focus with a research question.
• Explore questions.
- Ask open-ended “how” and “why” questions about your general topic.
- Consider the “so what” of your topic. Why does this topic matter to you? Why should it matter to others?
- Reflect on the questions you have considered. Identify one or two questions you find engaging and which
could be explored further through research.
• Determine and evaluate your research question.
- What aspect of the more general topic you will explore?
- Is your research question clear?
- Is your research question focused?
(Research questions must be specific enough to be well covered in the space available.)
- Is your research question complex?
(Questions shouldn’t have a simple yes/no answer and should require research and analysis.)
• Hypothesize. After you’ve come up with a question, consider the path your answer might take.
- If you are making an argument, what will you say?
- Why does your argument matter?
- How might others challenge your argument?
- What kind of sources will you need to support your argument?

Sample Research Questions

Clarity Focused Simple vs. Complex
Unclear: Why are social networking sites Unfocused: What is the effect on the envi- Too simple: How are doctors addressing
harmful? ronment from global warming? diabetes in the U.S.?
Clear: How are online users experiencing or Focused: How is glacial melting affecting Appropriately complex: What are common
addressing privacy issues on social network- penguins in Antarctica? traits of those suffering from diabetes in
ing sites like MySpace and Facebook? America, and how can these commonalities
be used to aid the medical community in
Adapted from: George Mason University Writing Center. (2008). How to write a research question.
prevention of the disease?
Retrieved from http://writingcenter.gmu.edu/?p=307
 What Is an Annotated Bibliography?

An annotated bibliography is a list of citations for research sources. Each citation is

followed by an annotation, a brief descriptive and evaluative paragraph about the
source. The purpose of the annotation is to inform the reader of the relevance,
accuracy, and quality of the sources cited.

Some things your annotation should include:

1. Evaluation of the source for relevance to your topic,
2. Evaluation of the source for possible bias,
3. If possible, an evaluation the authority, background, and education of the author(s),
4. Commentary on the intended audience. For whom was it written (general public/any
reader, subject specialists, college students)? What skill level or education level must
the reader have?
5. Comparison or contrast between this work and another you have cited.

Example of a Citation and Annotation, using the APA reference style:

London, H. (1982). Five myths of the television age. Television Quarterly, 10(1), 81-89.

Herbert London, the Dean of Journalism at New York University and author of
several books and articles, explains how television contradicts five commonly
believed ideas. He uses specific examples of events seen on television, such as the
assassination of John Kennedy, to illustrate his points. His examples have been
selected to contradict such truisms as: "seeing is believing"; "a picture is worth a
thousand words"; and "satisfaction is its own reward." London uses logical
arguments to support his ideas which are his personal opinion. He doesn't refer to
any previous works on the topic; however, for a different point of view, one should
refer to Joseph Patterson's, "Television is Truth" (The Journal of Television 45 (6)
November/December 1995: 120-135). London's style and vocabulary would make
the article of interest to any reader. The article clearly illustrates London's points,
but does not explore their implications, leaving the reader with many unanswered
questions.

At least 100 words per bibliographic item. The items in the bibliography must be in
alphabetical order.
 APA Referencing
THIS IS A QUICK GUIDE TO THE APA REFERENCING STYLE (6TH EDITION)
See Library APA Online Guide for more examples at http://www.waikato.ac.nz/library/study/referencing/styles/apa/examples
 The American Psychological Association reference style uses the Author-Date format.
 Refer to the Publication Manual of the American Psychological Association (6th ed.) for more information.
 When quoting directly or indirectly from a source, the source must be acknowledged in the text by author
name and year of publication.
IN-TEXT
To cite information directly or indirectly, there are two ways to acknowledge citations:
1) Make it a part of a sentence or 2) put it in parentheses at the end of the sentence.
Direct quotation – use quotation marks around the quote and include page numbers
1) Cohen and Lotan (2014) argue that "many different kinds of abilities are essential for any profession"
(p.151).
2) “Many different kinds of abilities are essential for any profession" (Cohen & Lotan, 2014, p.151).
N.B. See the Library’s APA webpage for a quotation of 40 or more words.

Indirect quotation/paraphrasing/summarising – no quotation marks

1) Professional knowledge alone does not make someone a very capable professional (Cohen & Lotan, 2014).
2) According to Cohen and Lotan (2014), professional knowledge alone does not make someone a very
capable professional.
N.B. Page numbers are optional when paraphrasing, although it is useful to include them (Publication Manual, p. 171).

Citations from a secondary source

1) Gould’s (1981) research “raises fundamental doubts as to whether we can continue to think of intelligence
as unidimensional” (as cited in Cohen & Lotan, 2014, pp. 151-152).
2) Intelligence cannot be believed to consist of one single entity any more (Gould, 1981, as cited in Cohen &
Lotan, 2014).
N.B. To cite a source you found in another source, you must acknowledge all the authors.
 The author(s) of the source referred to i.e. Gould, 1981
 The author(s) of the work which contains the original source i.e. Cohen & Lotan, 2014
In the reference list, only the book by Cohen & Lotan should be acknowledged. Do not list Gould.

 At the end of your assignment, you are required to provide the full bibliographic information for each source.
References must be listed in alphabetical order by author.
EXAMPLES OF REFERENCES BY TYPE
In a reference list In-text citation
1. Book with one author
King, M. (2000). Wrestling with the angel: A life of Janet Frame. Auckland, New (King, 2000) or
Zealand: Viking. King (2000) compares Frame ...
N.B. The first letter of the first word of the main title, subtitle and all proper nouns have
capital letters.
2. Book with two authors
Dancey, C. P., & Reidy, J. (2004). Statistics without maths for psychology: Using (Dancey & Reidy, 2004) or
SPSS for Windows (3rd ed.). Harlow, England: Pearson/Prentice Hall. Dancey and Reidy (2004) said…
N.B. Before “&” between authors, do not forget to put a comma. When paraphrasing in text, use
and, not &.
3. Book with three to five authors (see Library APA referencing webpage for six or more authors)
Krause, K.-L., Bochner, S., & Duchesne, S. (2006). Educational psychology for (Krause, Bochner, & Duchesne,
learning and teaching (2nd ed.). Melbourne, Australia: Thomson. 2006)
N.B. Use & between authors’ names, except when paraphrasing in text. When a work then
has three, four or five authors, cite all authors the first time, and in subsequent (Krause et al., 2006)
citations include only the first author followed by et al.
4. Book or report by a corporate author e.g. organisation, association, government department
International Labour Organization. (2007). Equality at work: Tackling the challenges (International Labour
(International Labour Conference report). Geneva, Switzerland: Author. Organization, 2007) or
N.B. When the author and the publisher are the same, use Author in the publisher field. In (International Labour
text, some group authors may be abbreviated in subsequent citations if they are Organization [ILO], 2007), then
readily recognisable (ILO, 2007)
5. Book chapter in edited book
Kestly, T. (2010). Group sandplay in elementary schools. In A. A. Drewes & C. E. (Kestly, 2010) or
Shaefer (Eds.), School-based play therapy (2nd ed., pp. 257-282). Hoboken,
NJ: John Wileys & Sons. Kestly (2010) compares
N.B. Include the page numbers of the chapter after the book title. educational settings of ...
6. Electronic book (eBook)
Nydegger, R. (2018). Clocking in: The psychology of work. Retrieved from (Nydegger, 2018) or
https://ebookcentral.proquest.com
N.B. Use the URL of the eBook's homepage or the DOI (Digital Object identifier). Nydegger (2018) examines...
7. Course handout/Lecture notes (electronic version)
Archard, S., Merry, R., & Nicholson, C. (2011). Karakia and waiata [Powerpoint (Archard, Merry, & Nicholson,
slides]. Retrieved from TEPS757-11B (NET): Communities of Learners 2011)
website: http://elearn.waikato.ac.nz/mod/resource/view.php?id=174650 then subsequently, if 3-5 authors
N.B. Put format in square brackets - e.g. [Lecture notes] [Panopto video]. This (Archard et al., 2011)
referencing format should be used only for your assignments.
8. Video (e.g. YouTube)
University of Waikato Library. (2017, September 18). APA referencing [Video file]. (University of Waikato Library,
Retrieved from 2017) or
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8nhWZ_RumSE&list=PLV6rcj47rsw8LffYhAwlL University of Waikato Library
v37MQDArYFNw (2014) demonstrates…
N.B. Use the uploader’s name as the author.
9. Journal article (academic/scholarly) with DOI
Cavenagh, N., & Ramadurai, R. (2017). On the distances between Latin squares (Cavenagh & Ramadurai, 2017)
and the smallest defining set size. Journal of Combinatorial Designs, 25(4), or
147–158. https://doi.org/10.1002/jcd.21529 Cavenagh and Ramadurai
N.B. DOI (Digital Object Identifier) is a unique code assigned to a scholarly/academic (2017) recommend…
publication, which links to the article online. Note: Many journals in Psychology and
other disciplines use continuous pagination, so the issue number is not required
9a. Journal article with no DOI
Germann, F., Ebbes, P., & Grewal, R. (2015). The chief marketing officer matters! Germann, Ebbes, and Grewal
Journal of Marketing, 79(3), 1-22. (2015) claim that “there have
N.B. Retain original punctuation of titles. A capital letter is used for key words in the been …” (p. 19).
journal title. The journal title and volume number are italicised, followed by the issue then subsequently, if 3-5 authors
number in brackets (not italicised). Germann et al. (2015) argue …
10. Magazine – popular/trade/general interest
Goodwin, D. K. (2002, February 4). How I caused that story. Time, 159(5), 69. (Goodwin, 2002) or
N.B. Full date is used if published weekly; month and year if monthly. Goodwin (2002) defends ...
11. Newspaper article
Coster, D. (2017, June 12). Driver who caused man's death is placed into (Coster, 2017) or
dementia care. Stuff. Retrieved from http://www.stuff.co.nz/ Coster (2017) reports ...
N.B Use the URL of the newspaper’s homepage, as a direct link to an online article in a
newspaper website is not a persistent link.
12. Personal Communication
N.B. Information such as Letters, telephone conversations, emails, interviews, and (W. Bush, personal
private social networking is called “Personal Communication”, and no reference list communication, March 19,
entry is required 2017)
13. Reference book – dictionary or encyclopedia entry
Cerveny, R. S., & Haines-Young, R. (2016). Climate change. In D. S. G. Thomas & (Cerveny & Haines-Young,
A. Goudie (Eds.), The dictionary of physical geography (4th ed.). Oxford, 2016) or
United Kingdom: Blackwell. Cerveny and Haines-Young
N.B. If no author stated, the entry’s title takes the author position. For online dictionaries (2016) state ...
and encyclopedias, a retrieval statement takes the place of publisher location / name
14. Webpage
New Zealand Trade and Enterprise. (n.d.). Agribusiness. Retrieved from (New Zealand Trade and
https://www.nzte.govt.nz Enterprise, n.d., para. 1)
For direct quote, cite the
N.B. (n.d.) = no date. The basic format is: (1) Author (could be organisation). (2) Date
paragraph number in text
(either date of publication or latest update). (3) Title. (4) URL.
http://www.waikato.ac.nz/library/study/referencing/styles/apa/examples APA Group Aug 2018
 What Is an Issue Analysis?

Opportunities for analyzing issues, problems or situations are found in every discipline,
workplace and real-life situations. If you are an engineer, a business person, a scientist, a
writer or just a voting citizen, you will be called upon to think about, closely examine and
often to write documents that analyze in order to understand complicated issues in our
professions or our lives. Every day there are complicated issues in current or past events,
whether it is to understand the use of drones in modern warfare or the issue of prescription
drug abuse on campus, which occupy our minds.

The Assignment
For this essay, you will write a well-researched analytical essay that examines, explains and
analyzes an issue that has with multiple, possibly conflicting perspectives.

Your essay will include background information that readers need to understand the issue as
well as analysis of the opinions of various stakeholders* and subtopics of the larger issue. Your
goal is to write a coherent, sophisticated analysis of the issue that will engage and inform your
readers.

*Stakeholder: a group of people that is affected by an issue, whether they are potentially
harmed by it, stand to gain from it, or their lives or those of people close to them are in some
way touched by it

Synthesis/Thesis Statement:

Your thesis statement should be a sentence that predicts what your paper is about. Your
thesis should address the various stakeholders and perspectives in this issue and be clear,
specific and focused. You will want to synthesize in your thesis all the moves you make as a
writer who teases out the various components of this problem and analyzes how the various
articles you research are arguing about how to solve the problem or why there is a problem.

The thesis will synthesize the various sub-issues or perspectives covered in the paper.

Analysis of Multiple Perspectives, Sub-Issues, and/or Stakeholders (the body paragraphs):

In your research, you would need to find articles (both scholarly and mainstream press) that
support any claim you make and build a framework in your essay that not only analyzes the
views of various stakeholders or perspectives or sub- issues within the larger issue but also
examines the justifications made by these groups. Notice how the various groups argue. Can
you analyze the arguments rhetorically?

Ideally, your analysis will be sophisticated, in that it does not just see two sides of an
issue, but sees multiple parts of a larger situation, while carefully examining or analyzing
each part.
 Research, Support or Evidence:

You will need to back up each claim you make within the analysis. You will use your sources
to build credibility and gain authority to speak as a writer on a particular topic. Your aim is to
persuade your audience of your deeper understanding of this issue, thus you must use
credible sources to back up everything you say. You can use your knowledge of ethical,
emotional or logical appeals to analyze what various groups write about their role in the
problem. You will use both direct quotes and paraphrases and will cite all your sources
correctly in the text as well as prepare a Works Cited page to accompany the essay.

Your sources should be credible and at least three to four should be scholarly ones.
You should use respected sources like The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, or
academic journals and books.

Selected information should always be relevant and quoted or paraphrased correctly to

support each claim. Quotes should be contextualized and integrated into paragraphs and
not just be dropped in. This means each quote or paraphrase should support your
analysis.

*A handout from Christie Lauder

 Issue Analysis Matrix

Topic/Debate/Controversy/Issue:

Research Question: …?
Article 1 Article 2 Article 3 Article 4 Article 5 Article 6 Article 7

Author(s):____ Author(s):___ Author(s):___ Author(s):________ Author(s):_____ Author(s):_____ Author(s):_____

_ _ _ _ _

Article Article
Article title:_______ title:_______ Article title:_______ Article Article Article
title:_______ title:_______ title:_______ title:_______

Year of publ. Year of publ. Year of publ. _____

Year of publ. _____ _____ Year of publ. Year of publ. Year of publ.
_____ _____ _____ _____
Source________
Source_______ Source_______
Source_______ _ _ Source________ Source________ Source________
_

Mai
n
idea
1
Mai
n
idea
2

Mai
n
idea
3

Mai
n
idea
4
 APA Referencing
THIS IS A QUICK GUIDE TO THE APA REFERENCING STYLE (6TH EDITION)
See Library APA Online Guide for more examples at http://www.waikato.ac.nz/library/study/referencing/styles/apa/examples
 The American Psychological Association reference style uses the Author-Date format.
 Refer to the Publication Manual of the American Psychological Association (6th ed.) for more information.
 When quoting directly or indirectly from a source, the source must be acknowledged in the text by author
name and year of publication.
IN-TEXT
To cite information directly or indirectly, there are two ways to acknowledge citations:
1) Make it a part of a sentence or 2) put it in parentheses at the end of the sentence.
Direct quotation – use quotation marks around the quote and include page numbers
1) Cohen and Lotan (2014) argue that "many different kinds of abilities are essential for any profession"
(p.151).
2) “Many different kinds of abilities are essential for any profession" (Cohen & Lotan, 2014, p.151).
N.B. See the Library’s APA webpage for a quotation of 40 or more words.

Indirect quotation/paraphrasing/summarising – no quotation marks

1) Professional knowledge alone does not make someone a very capable professional (Cohen & Lotan, 2014).
2) According to Cohen and Lotan (2014), professional knowledge alone does not make someone a very
capable professional.
N.B. Page numbers are optional when paraphrasing, although it is useful to include them (Publication Manual, p. 171).

Citations from a secondary source

1) Gould’s (1981) research “raises fundamental doubts as to whether we can continue to think of intelligence
as unidimensional” (as cited in Cohen & Lotan, 2014, pp. 151-152).
2) Intelligence cannot be believed to consist of one single entity any more (Gould, 1981, as cited in Cohen &
Lotan, 2014).
N.B. To cite a source you found in another source, you must acknowledge all the authors.
 The author(s) of the source referred to i.e. Gould, 1981
 The author(s) of the work which contains the original source i.e. Cohen & Lotan, 2014
In the reference list, only the book by Cohen & Lotan should be acknowledged. Do not list Gould.

 At the end of your assignment, you are required to provide the full bibliographic information for each source.
References must be listed in alphabetical order by author.
EXAMPLES OF REFERENCES BY TYPE
In a reference list In-text citation
1. Book with one author
King, M. (2000). Wrestling with the angel: A life of Janet Frame. Auckland, New (King, 2000) or
Zealand: Viking. King (2000) compares Frame ...
N.B. The first letter of the first word of the main title, subtitle and all proper nouns have
capital letters.
2. Book with two authors
Dancey, C. P., & Reidy, J. (2004). Statistics without maths for psychology: Using (Dancey & Reidy, 2004) or
SPSS for Windows (3rd ed.). Harlow, England: Pearson/Prentice Hall. Dancey and Reidy (2004) said…
N.B. Before “&” between authors, do not forget to put a comma. When paraphrasing in text, use
and, not &.
3. Book with three to five authors (see Library APA referencing webpage for six or more authors)
Krause, K.-L., Bochner, S., & Duchesne, S. (2006). Educational psychology for (Krause, Bochner, & Duchesne,
learning and teaching (2nd ed.). Melbourne, Australia: Thomson. 2006)
N.B. Use & between authors’ names, except when paraphrasing in text. When a work then
has three, four or five authors, cite all authors the first time, and in subsequent (Krause et al., 2006)
citations include only the first author followed by et al.
4. Book or report by a corporate author e.g. organisation, association, government department
International Labour Organization. (2007). Equality at work: Tackling the challenges (International Labour
(International Labour Conference report). Geneva, Switzerland: Author. Organization, 2007) or
N.B. When the author and the publisher are the same, use Author in the publisher field. In (International Labour
text, some group authors may be abbreviated in subsequent citations if they are Organization [ILO], 2007), then
readily recognisable (ILO, 2007)
5. Book chapter in edited book
Kestly, T. (2010). Group sandplay in elementary schools. In A. A. Drewes & C. E. (Kestly, 2010) or
Shaefer (Eds.), School-based play therapy (2nd ed., pp. 257-282). Hoboken,
NJ: John Wileys & Sons. Kestly (2010) compares
N.B. Include the page numbers of the chapter after the book title. educational settings of ...
6. Electronic book (eBook)
Nydegger, R. (2018). Clocking in: The psychology of work. Retrieved from (Nydegger, 2018) or
https://ebookcentral.proquest.com
N.B. Use the URL of the eBook's homepage or the DOI (Digital Object identifier). Nydegger (2018) examines...
7. Course handout/Lecture notes (electronic version)
Archard, S., Merry, R., & Nicholson, C. (2011). Karakia and waiata [Powerpoint (Archard, Merry, & Nicholson,
slides]. Retrieved from TEPS757-11B (NET): Communities of Learners 2011)
website: http://elearn.waikato.ac.nz/mod/resource/view.php?id=174650 then subsequently, if 3-5 authors
N.B. Put format in square brackets - e.g. [Lecture notes] [Panopto video]. This (Archard et al., 2011)
referencing format should be used only for your assignments.
8. Video (e.g. YouTube)
University of Waikato Library. (2017, September 18). APA referencing [Video file]. (University of Waikato Library,
Retrieved from 2017) or
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8nhWZ_RumSE&list=PLV6rcj47rsw8LffYhAwlL University of Waikato Library
v37MQDArYFNw (2014) demonstrates…
N.B. Use the uploader’s name as the author.
9. Journal article (academic/scholarly) with DOI
Cavenagh, N., & Ramadurai, R. (2017). On the distances between Latin squares (Cavenagh & Ramadurai, 2017)
and the smallest defining set size. Journal of Combinatorial Designs, 25(4), or
147–158. https://doi.org/10.1002/jcd.21529 Cavenagh and Ramadurai
N.B. DOI (Digital Object Identifier) is a unique code assigned to a scholarly/academic (2017) recommend…
publication, which links to the article online. Note: Many journals in Psychology and
other disciplines use continuous pagination, so the issue number is not required
9a. Journal article with no DOI
Germann, F., Ebbes, P., & Grewal, R. (2015). The chief marketing officer matters! Germann, Ebbes, and Grewal
Journal of Marketing, 79(3), 1-22. (2015) claim that “there have
N.B. Retain original punctuation of titles. A capital letter is used for key words in the been …” (p. 19).
journal title. The journal title and volume number are italicised, followed by the issue then subsequently, if 3-5 authors
number in brackets (not italicised). Germann et al. (2015) argue …
10. Magazine – popular/trade/general interest
Goodwin, D. K. (2002, February 4). How I caused that story. Time, 159(5), 69. (Goodwin, 2002) or
N.B. Full date is used if published weekly; month and year if monthly. Goodwin (2002) defends ...
11. Newspaper article
Coster, D. (2017, June 12). Driver who caused man's death is placed into (Coster, 2017) or
dementia care. Stuff. Retrieved from http://www.stuff.co.nz/ Coster (2017) reports ...
N.B Use the URL of the newspaper’s homepage, as a direct link to an online article in a
newspaper website is not a persistent link.
12. Personal Communication
N.B. Information such as Letters, telephone conversations, emails, interviews, and (W. Bush, personal
private social networking is called “Personal Communication”, and no reference list communication, March 19,
entry is required 2017)
13. Reference book – dictionary or encyclopedia entry
Cerveny, R. S., & Haines-Young, R. (2016). Climate change. In D. S. G. Thomas & (Cerveny & Haines-Young,
A. Goudie (Eds.), The dictionary of physical geography (4th ed.). Oxford, 2016) or
United Kingdom: Blackwell. Cerveny and Haines-Young
N.B. If no author stated, the entry’s title takes the author position. For online dictionaries (2016) state ...
and encyclopedias, a retrieval statement takes the place of publisher location / name
14. Webpage
New Zealand Trade and Enterprise. (n.d.). Agribusiness. Retrieved from (New Zealand Trade and
https://www.nzte.govt.nz Enterprise, n.d., para. 1)
For direct quote, cite the
N.B. (n.d.) = no date. The basic format is: (1) Author (could be organisation). (2) Date
paragraph number in text
(either date of publication or latest update). (3) Title. (4) URL.
http://www.waikato.ac.nz/library/study/referencing/styles/apa/examples APA Group Aug 2018
 LASTNAME 1

Sample Issue Analysis

Carefully review the instructions for the Issue Analysis assignment. Then, quickly read the

following student paper once to understand its trajectory. Read the paper again, this time

noting what the writer is doing in each paragraph. Where is the thesis statement? What is their

evidence? How well does the author follow the assignment? What could they do better? What

do they do well? Is the paper well organized? Do they stay neutral on the issue? How well do

they synthesize their sources?

Full-Body Scanners: A Post September 11th Reality

Following the wake of the first attack on American soil in over one hundred years,

America’s airline security measures were put in the crosshairs. Air travel security underwent a

major overhaul in the way passengers and baggage were to be screened at major air terminals

across the country. Scrutiny of airline security and new advance imaging technologies gave rise Commented [1]:
sets up historical context
to the full-body scanner. Full-body scanners are machines that use certain wavelengths of Commented [2]:
establishes the connection between the historical
context and his topic
energy to see through clothing and reveal foreign objects being carried on a person (Mullins).
Commented [3]:
Defines his topic
Using full-body scanners, TSA officials can screen passengers in a very thorough manor.

Transversely, the images produced can also expose the passenger in great detail. Some

machines produce images that are very anatomical. Boston Columnist, Michele McPhee feels

that some of these images could be “sold [this] on the internet as soft pornography” (qtd. In

Copeland n.p.). Despite some individuals concerns and protest, the TSA declared that this new
 LASTNAME 2

body scanning technology is here to stay. Though privacy and health controversies shroud the Commented [4]:
Lays out the perspectives he will discuss in his paper in
the order he will discuss them.
full-body scanners conception, the American public is overwhelmingly accepting to the new

imaging technology. Commented [5]:

Provides a thesis statement that succinctly establishes
the agenda of his paper
Until the attacks on the world trade center and pentagon, the American airline industry

had never been used to spread terror on such a massive scale. After the September 11 th

attacks, American airport security underwent a major change. According to Blalock, Kadiyali and

Simon, professors of economics at Cornell University, “On November 19th, 2001 President Bush

signed into law the Aviation and Transportation Security Act” (Blalock, Kadiyali and Simon 2). By

doing this President Bush federalized all passenger security screening at major airports

throughout the nation. The restructuring of America’s airport security was no doubt intended

to restore confidence in the nation’s air transportation industry. The TSA or Transportation

Security Administration was established to run new airport security screening operations. Commented [6]:
Provides detailed description of history leading up to
his topic. Expands on the first 2 sentences of his
With federalization of airport security also came federal funding. With this funding the
introduction.

newly established TSA was able to invest in new technologies such as the advanced imaging

full-body scanners that would promote national safety. In March of 2010, 11 American airports

saw the first implication of advance imaging technology (Barber). To further promote full-body

screenings the administration has asked for $215 million to fund the deployment of more units

(Harwood). The administration currently has 486 units in operation at 78 airports across the

country and plans on activating hundreds of more units within the next year (TSA). According to

TSA Administrator John Pistole, the administration “plans[s] to have deployed approximately

1,000 units” (Pistole). Commented [7]:

Provides more details about how the scanners came
into being. An expansion of the 3rd sentence of his
introduction.
 LASTNAME 3

With an increased number of full-body scanners being used at airports across the

country, more passenger volume will inevitably come into contact with the units. The

complication of airport security screening has become a common trend in American airports. In

a recent survey, 63 percent of air travelers say airport security has become a hassle (Ballock

Kadiyali and Simon 1). And airport hassles could potentially cause travelers to utilize other

means of long distance transportation such as driving or rail. This would further contribute to

the decline in air travel following the wake of September 11 th. Commented [8]:
Introduces Perspective 1: Passenger perspective. An
expansion of the 4th sentence in his introduction.

One of the main reasons people tend to oppose the units is because of their invasive

nature, showing passengers in full detail. Due to the revealing nature of the machines, some

people have become concerned for their personal safety; it is, after all, only human to be

reluctant about being seen in the nude. According to the TSA’s website, a number of means are

in place to insure passenger’s privacy. The TSA claims passengers privacy is their primary

concern and protective measures ranging from blurring faces and genitals to separated

screeners and image viewers have been instituted (TSA). However some people remain

skeptical. Commented [9]:

Expands on passenger’s concerns about privacy (- for
body scanners)
Proponents of full body imaging place their concerns in the “fear of being exposed”

(Copeland n.p.). Exposing what’s underneath is exactly what full-body scanners are developed

to do. The TSA’s body scanners also have the ability to save and print images of scanned

passengers (Mullins). This fact in itself is a bit unnerving to the traveling public, though the TSA

claims that this can only be done while their machines are in test mode. When it was found that
 LASTNAME 4

the U.S. Marshall’s had archived over 35,000 images taken from similar full-body scanners in an

Orland courthouse, the technology came under close public scrutiny and media fire (Rosen n.p). Commented [10]:
Counteracts negative view of privacy (+)
Further legal analysis of full-body scanners may also prove them to be unconstitutional.

Jeffery Rosen, a professor of law at George Washington University, believes that the TSA’s

scanners violate Americans constitutional rights. Rosen claims that virtual strip searches

conducted by the scanners and the alternative enhanced pat-down are not considered routine

and can threaten serious privacy invasions (Rosen n.p.). However, with a changing supreme

court comes changing interpretation of law. And currently, full body scanners are not facing

legal ruling. Commented [11]:

Introduces Perspective 2: Legal concerns. Begins
negative (“may be unconstitutional”) ends somewhat
Another defining short coming associated with the full-body scanner is the potential
positive (“not facing legal ruling”)

health risk associated with x-ray radiation. X-ray radiation is a type of short wave ionizing

energy ray that can potentially cause mutagenic effects on cellular DNA (Martinko et.al. 292).

This in turn can lead to the death of cells or, in extreme cases, the genesis of cancer. If the

purpose of the full-body scanner is to promote the well-being of air travelers, it seems

somewhat contradictory that they could potentially cause harmful side effects. Commented [12]:
Introduces perspective 3 on Health. Negative
consequences for health
It is important to note that not all advance imaging technologies utilize the same

method to acquire body images. Some machines use passive millimeter wave technology,

which does not utilize high energy radiation to produce images (Harwood). The machines that

do use x-rays to produce images have been coined as “backscatter radiation” machines. Though

backscatter machines have undergone rigorous testing by highly qualified agencies, some

notable figures such as Dr. G. Stuart Mendenhall of the University of Pittsburg Medical Center
 LASTNAME 5

felt that backscatter radiation has not been studied enough (Copeland). Backscatter machines

are still in use by the TSA and are not scheduled to be recalled or changed. Commented [13]:
complicates the view that body scanners will harm
health
Because of radiation exposure, the full-body scanners have grabbed the attention of

commercial aviators. Pilots of today’s airliners are naturally exposed to ambient radiation while

flying at cruising altitude. Harmful shortwave radiation that makes it through the upper

atmosphere is filtered out by the earth’s ozonosphere; however, because of the high altitude

achieved by modern aircraft, cruising in the upper ozonosphere yields less radiation protection

(Christopherson 72). Accordingly, the closer pilots get to the top of the ozonosphere, the more

ambient radiation they are exposed to. Some pilots, such as Captain David Bates, feel that they

should not be exposed to any more unnecessary harmful radiation than they already are (Ross

N.p.). Commented [14]:

Specifies health concerns for Pilots. Negative view
TSA has addressed the issue of radiation on their website. They claim that the radiation

energy exposure is thousands times less than that of a cellular device (TSA). Furthermore, the

ANSI (American National Standards Institute) has declared the machines to be safe. To quell

concerns by professional aviators, Valarie Ross of the Popular Mechanics publication claims that

the radiation output of a backscatter machines is 2.4 microrems; this equates to roughly two

minutes of radiation received during flight time (Ross n.p.). Even doctors have evaluated and

approved the radiation dosages produced by backscatter screening. Dr. James Thrall, chair of

the American College of Radiology and chair of radiology at Massachusetts General Hospital,

claims that " [one] would have to take hundreds and hundreds of trips requiring screening to

even reach what would be considered a negligible dose (Harwood).” Commented [15]:
More positive outlook for pilot’s concerns about health
 LASTNAME 6

Despite the concerns to privacy and health, the American public, with the exception of a

small minority, is surprisingly accepting of the TSA’s new full-body scanners. According to TSA

spokeswoman Sterling Payne, over 99 percent of air travelers chose to go through airport

security full-body scanners while a mere 1 percent opt-out (Copeland n.p.). With such solid

numbers one may be lead to reason why so many people, when faced with the potential health

and privacy risks, opt-in to full-body screening. The concern of causing a scene and being

denied the right to fly may plague the mind of a traveler. On the other hand, in a private firm’s

recent poll of over 800 people, it was found that 82 percent of individuals had absolutely no

concerns about the full-body scanners (Dooley). Commented [16]:

Introduces Perspective 4: Acceptance by passengers.
Complicated outlook but mostly positive for body
The TSA also had something to say about the acceptance of their scanners. They claim
scanners

that the full-body scanners are actually preferred over traditional magnetic screening devices

by a certain demographic. The demographic preferring full-body screenings are those with joint

replacements and other medical implantation devices (TSA). This information reveals another

perspective on modern airport security screening. Those with medical implantations were

unintentionally benefited by the advent of advance imaging technologies. In the past, the

materials that medical implants are comprised of were prone to set off magnetic scanning

machines. This adds to the appeal of having TSA scanners in air terminals. Commented [17]:
Enhances view that body scanners are accepted. Some
people really prefer them not just begrudgingly accept
The TSA claims that their devices are supported by 4 out of 5 Americans (TSA). Despite
them.

the unsettling thought of being seen in the nude, exposed to radiation, and having that naked

photo taken, the full-body scanners have meet the American public with surprising support.

Perhaps seeing so many innocent people die changes the public’s opinion of things. As society

evolves, previously sacred institutions, such as the decency of being let alone, change with the
 LASTNAME 7

demands of the human condition. With the advent of new threats from the Middle East, it

appears that American citizens are willing to give up certain privacies in exchange for security. Commented [18]:
Summarizes content of paper in reverse order.
Connects acceptance back to historical context.
As Libby Copeland of the Washington Post put it, “We are more naked, as a nation, than we’ve

ever been.” (Copeland n.p.) Commented [19]:

Ends with a captivating quote that summarizes the
themes of the paper.

Outline of Paper on Body Scanners

I. Introduction

A. Sets up historical context that led to issue

B. Defines Issue

C. Provides an overview of the perspectives to be discussed

D. Provides a thesis statement

II. Detailed History

A. Detail about 9/11

B. Detail about how historical context relates to his topic

III. Passenger Point of View (PoV)

A. Segway from history to Passenger perspective

B. Privacy Concerns (-)

C. Why privacy is not as much of a concern as some people claim (+)

IV. Legal PoV

A. Scanners may violate constitutional rights (-)

 LASTNAME 8

B. Legality has not been determined (+)

V. Health PoV

A. Risks in general (-)

B. More complicated than picture in prior paragraph (+)

C. Pilot’s PoV

a. Radiation (-)

b. Radiation no greater than cell phone (+)

VI. Acceptance

A. Can opt out but many people choose not to, may be because of pressure (~)

B. Better for people with certain disabilities (+)

VII. Concludes by discussing perspectives in reverse order.

 Formatting Titles of Works in Your Essay

Quotation Marks with Titles

Use quotations marks for:

• Titles of short or minor works

• Songs
• Short Stories
• Essays
• Short Poems
• Titles of sections from longer works
• Chapters in books
• Articles in newspapers, magazines, or journals
• Episodes of television and radio series

Italics and Underlining with Titles

Italicize or underline the titles of magazines, books, newspapers, academic journals, films,
television shows, long poems, plays, operas, musical albums, works of art, websites.

• I read an interesting article in Newsweek while I was waiting at the doctor’s office.
• My cousin is reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer for two different classes.
• I have every album from Dave Matthews Band, except for Crash.
 Topic Sentences

-As readers move into a paragraph, they need to know where they are in the whole essay and
what to expect in the sentences to come. So, a good topic sentence is a one-sentence summary
of the paragraph’s main point.

-A good topic sentence acts as a signpost pointing in two directions: backward toward the
thesis of the essay and forward toward the body of the paragraph.

-A good topic sentence should make an argument.

-A good topic sentence should have concise wording.

-Usually the topic sentence comes first in the paragraph.

 Quotations

Short quotations

To indicate short quotations (three typed lines or fewer) in your text, enclose the quotation
within double quotation marks. Provide the author and specific page citation (in the case of
verse, provide line numbers) in the text. Punctuation marks such as periods, commas, and
semicolons should appear after the parenthetical citation. Question marks and exclamation
points should appear within the quotation marks if they are a part of the quoted passage but
after the parenthetical citation if they are a part of your text.

For example, when quoting short passages of prose, use the following examples:

According to some, dreams express "profound aspects of personality" (Foulkes 184), though

others disagree.

According to Foulkes's study, dreams may express "profound aspects of personality" (184).

Is it possible that dreams may express "profound aspects of personality" (Foulkes 184)?

When short (fewer than three lines of verse) quotations from poetry, mark breaks in short
quotations of verse with a slash, ( / ), at the end of each line of verse (a space should precede
and follow the slash).

Cullen concludes, "Of all the things that happened there / That's all I remember" (11-12).

Long quotations

For quotations that are more than three lines, place quotations in a free-standing block of text
and omit quotation marks. Indent and do not set in quotes.

For example, when citing more than three lines of prose, use the following examples:
Nelly Dean treats Heathcliff poorly and dehumanizes him throughout her narration:

They entirely refused to have it in bed with them, or even in their room, and I had no more

sense, so, I put it on the landing of the stairs, hoping it would be gone on the morrow. By

chance, or else attracted by hearing his voice, it crept to Mr. Earnshaw's door, and there he

found it on quitting his chamber. Inquiries were made as to how it got there; I was obliged

to confess, and in recompense for my cowardice and inhumanity was sent out of the

house. (Bronte 78)

When citing long sections (more than three lines) of poetry, keep formatting as close to the
original as possible.

In his poem "My Papa's Waltz," Theodore Roethke explores his childhood with his father:

The whiskey on your breath

Could make a small boy dizzy;

But I hung on like death:

Such waltzing was not easy.

We Romped until the pans

Slid from the kitchen shelf;

My mother's countenance

Could not unfrown itself. (quoted in Shrodes, Finestone, Shugrue 202)

 Titles

Titles help writers prepare readers to understand and believe the paper that is to follow.

First, it predicts content.

Second, it catches the reader's interest.
Third, it reflects the tone or slant of the piece of writing

Here is a sample first page of an essay:

Student Al-Studentani
Professor Al-Mousawi
CORE101, S14
September 20, 2022

“The Local Bazaar: A Bizarre Layout”

The bazaar located at the intersection of …