Rebranding CAA

For those who travel frequently (by air), CAA is a well-recognized name. However, in the light of recent events, I feel obliged to suggest some new names for this acronym. Civil Atrocious Authority, perhaps? Or maybe, Civil Aristocratic Authority? Either will work as you read what I have to tell. However, before I recount my narrative, let me remind you that neither this post, nor the author (aka me), is in any way affiliated to, or is a beneficiary of, any parties mentioned hereunder.

Working abroad is never easy; you constantly miss the loved ones back home, and even though you can visit, your trips always feel short and hurried, no matter how long you stay. So when I left for airport on 26th September after an 8-day Eid vacation, my spirits were already low. Arriving at the airport early (as is my custom), I was surprised to see that the departure time of my flight was different from the one written on my ticket (5:20pm according to CAA board, and 4:45pm according to my AirBlue ticket). Reasoning with myself that since the airport is operated by CAA and not AirBlue, I put stock in 5:20pm departure announcement, and chose to spend those extra few minutes with my parents. A few minutes before 4pm, I entered the checking area where the guard scrutinized my ticket before letting me in. After the luggage checking, I headed towards AirBlue counter to get a boarding pass, only to be informed that the boarding had been closed now. Fuming, I headed towards their office and complained to the staff about this bizarre turn of events which had caused a delay in my departure (probably paving way for troubles at my office as well. That, I will find out when I reach there). The staff was surprisingly calm and polite, asking me details about my departure and then requesting me to wait while they arrange an alternative for me. During this time, I found out that CAA had been informed about change in flight departure time, but they chose to conveniently ignore it.

For quite some time, all of us have been noticing a steady decline in the performance of government-run departments (a trend pioneered by PIA), which is slowly reaching its apex. It feels as if all these government's not-so-subtle hints for us to leave and never return.

Coming back to the actual discussion, I waited for a little over 20 minutes when the AirBlue staff, politely offered me a new ticket for the next day. To say that I was surprised would be an understatement. Such courtesy is a rarity in our country, and being on the receiving end of it made me feel like home all over again, where care and manners surpass everything else.

As I write this, I'm getting ready for leaving again, but with a smile on my face this time around, hoping that a great journey lies ahead.

For Whom The Bells Toll

He was flying, but he couldn't see what was carrying him, making him soar upwards like an eagle. Most teenagers would have been terrified by just imagining this: the probability to plummet any second to his death. Only the unseen harness supported him, but he was used to believing in the unseen, for he was a Muslim. His faith was strong like a bar of steel. He knew he won't fall to his death, no matter what happened. However, he still found it surreal that he was dead, and the part of him flying was just his soul.

As he flew, he could clearly see the gaping holes in the social fabric of the country he hailed from. A nation with the conviction of madmen, and belief of angels; who could have grown to be the greatest nation, had its ego not created barriers amongst them, separating them, causing them to waste their energy on pointless grudges against each other. And that was the biggest irony: his people were the only ones on this planet who believed they're stronger when divided.

He could see his schoolmates being decimated like vermin; the attackers being as sympathetic as a lump of coal. He could hear the wails of his mother, clinging to his lifeless body and kissing his forehead like he was merely asleep, and not dead.

The attackers were all dead now, but they had done the damage they intended to do. He could see the politicians now, back with their hollow promises of justice. He remembered the same words from the time his uncle was killed in a drone strike. The officials had promised justice back then too, but that's all it had been: a promise. He and his friends had vowed to use their education for bringing a change when they grew up, but now, for the better or worse, they were all gone.

He was in the clouds now; the mortal world hidden from his view just as he was concealed from theirs. He could hear laughter above him, and he knew he was almost to his destination. Even then, he couldn't stop thinking about the ones he had left behind. He hoped his family would find courage to make it through without swelling the ranks of the miscreants who attracted followers by promising them vengeance. He hoped his people would unite and change the system of their country, bringing the luxuries like food, shelter and hopes for future to everyone, instead of restricting these for the rich. He hoped the media would not let the people forget the price he and his friends have paid to wake the nation up. He hoped they grow out of their short-term memories and keep remembring their goals. He hoped the religious scholars would finally stand up to draw a unanimous line between jihaad and terrorism. He hoped to see all of his people someday, at the place he was headed towards...

Is 'Naya' Pakistan Possible With 'Purana' Mindsets?

It was almost 1:30pm, and I was idling at the Seasons’ Chowk Lahore, waiting for the signal to turn green so that I could pick my mom up from P.U., when I noticed a transgender beggar asking the car driver in front of me for money. I started to look away, knowing this was a common sight on the roads of Pakistan, when I saw the driver snatch the beggar’s “dupatta”. Now that was something I’ve never seen before. However, before my mind could process it all, the driver got out, and in quick succession, slapped the beggar and delivered a hard kick to the groin. After that, all that happened is a blur, but I do remember being the only person who got out (or off) his vehicle to break the fight. The driver took off as soon as I freed the beggar’s hair from his fists, and left the poor victim to sink on the floor and sob while a crowd looked on.

If you were expecting something more dramatic, dear reader, then I’m sorry to have disappointed you, for I’m only hoping to shed some light on how apathetic we’ve become. We began as a nation which stuck to its roots, and now we’ve become a bunch of people who, in order to show our ‘modern’ spirit, and bent upon defying everything our culture and religion expects from us. We term our culture suffocating, but what has following others brought us besides a (now embedded) inferiority complex?

The dilemma, my fellow countrymen, is that on one hand, we scream for change. We highlight the irregularities in our governing bodies and vehemently demand a ‘naya Pakistan’, and on the other hand, we turn to zombies whenever we face the mirror of our conscience that demands we change ourselves first. We, my dear readers, have become the epitome of hypocrisy. Take me, for example. Here I am, preaching about the faults in our character, but come tomorrow, I’ll be out on the roads, violating traffic signals just to show my friends how cool I am.

“Why write this article then?”, some of you might ask. A fair question, but then again, the only thing we are good at these days, is raising questions. So while you’re at it, go ahead and ask yourself something too. Ask yourself if your life exists beyond your favourite food and shopping haunts. Ask yourself if your sympathies are aroused for anyone other than your immediate family or friends. Ask yourself if your money has ever found a way out of your pocket for any cause which had nothing to offer you in return (except maybe prayers). And when that familiar face in the mirror answers you in negative for all these queries, don’t despair. Do not try, in vain, to search your conscience amidst the debris you have accumulated inside yourself. Do not attempt to wipe the ego off your eyes, for the world beyond is very bleak. Do not pluck out the weeds of hatred and self-righteousness from your heart, for my dear reader, you are not alone. You are surrounded by a country full of people just like yourself. Accept your destiny, and let the country run. Follow the footsteps of that old man who stepped out of his car only when I had stopped his driver (presumably his son) from beating and abusing a defenceless transgender. Be like him: obnoxious and haughty, untouched by any worldly law as he drove away after that heinous deed. Be the same, because to be different is to be condemned by the society. But if you feel a stirring inside you, a hand of hope reaching for the light, don’t crush it. Nurture and guide it, for if we want this country to be a place worth living in, we have to be the change we want to see around us.

And this, my faithful reader, is where you laugh inwardly at my optimism and open your Facebook to plan the next holiday with your friends.

Your Canvas, My Country

It is a privilege, Mr. Media, to address you directly, and even though I have achieved a lot, this is humbling; for in any society, you have the ultimate influence. You, who have the power of words, who can morph unrelated images to create fancy tales, who can use eloquence to stir people’s emotions at just the right instant, are surely awe-inspiring. I am aware that after I’m through speaking today, a mere flick of your finger can either grant my wish or label me as a heretic. Even so, I intend to stand my ground, if only once.

To be honest, I was a nerd till my O’ Levels, taking little interest in social happenings. I watched little TV (which was evolving to be the most followed form of media), and then too, only Pakistani channels. One can argue that I had little exposure of the world, but I do remember that morning shows were educational and motivating; the cartoons didn’t have vulgarity; tourism and traditional cuisines were promoted; drama serials were either patriotic or had some tangible moral message; news were to inform us, not to frighten us; and anchors everywhere didn’t mutilate their mother tongue. Why has all that changed, Mr. Media?

I wholeheartedly accept that we’re inherently quite impressionable, but turning to other cultures for inspiration won’t help us; neither in the short run where we would appear to be copycats, nor in the long run where our next generations will never know our true identity and ideology. I admit that we have a long-lasting, if not everlasting, inferiority complex, but does it run so deep that we cannot make do with our own culture and religion? Do we always have to start our day with a mediocre morning show where the host has nothing constructive to say? Your disciples, Mr. Media, are always praising the way the Jews raise their children by educating them about anything and everything, by strengthening their beliefs and ethics. They laud the Japanese, who plant miniature speakers underneath their infants’ pillows to soothingly whisper ideologies in their ears, making them better citizens. And what do we do besides distracting ours with displays of magic and planting ideas of rebellion in their minds? Regretfully, that is not how a Pakistani should be.

I also accept that norms of journalism have changed in the 21st Century, and giving the front row to education and religion isn’t widely acceptable. All that is not necessary too, to groom a nation into becoming what its forefathers wanted. We portray the West (and our Eastern neighbour) in our entertainment programmes. How longer do you think it would take before our youth forgets the important place parents hold in social decisions? Or they forget how their culture expects them to behave in public? Has our entertainment industry lost all Anwar Maqsoods and Bushra Ansaris and Shakeels and Saba Hameeds that we have to play dramas like “Ishq-e-Mamnu” and “Mera Sultan”? Have all Alamgirs and Sajjad Alis left us that our music talent shows are being judged by the likes of Ali Azmat who do not even know how to react to the audience? And surely, the drones haven’t blown up all our Northern beauty that we cannot produce a richer, more vibrant “Travel Guide of Pakistan”. You, sir, show blood and gore on-screen, use sensationalism, and claim you’re only showing what is happening. Why don’t you, now too, take inspiration from the West and your neighbours, who only showcase their positive aspects on-screen? Our nation already knows what we are going through. Displaying it again and again is only making us immune to others’ suffering, while discouraging potential investors and tourists. Oh, and haven’t we all studied enough Urdu to at least speak it properly? Your anchors, sir, sound like some hybrids our neighbour countries have created with the West’s collaboration. Please tell them these fake accents and meagre stock of vocabulary only depreciates their already-limited capacity of talking sense.

My country, Mr. Media, isn’t grim and desolate at all. Nor are my people backwards and desperate. We might not love that our elders are evolving too slowly to adapt to a rapidly changing global environment, but we do not appreciate an open invitation to vices we’re taught to stay away from. Your brushstrokes, sir, define us. Paint us in our true colours. Bring back patriotism and dedication, honesty and righteousness, and help raise a generation without mental shackles. Believe me sir, only you and your canvas have the power to do so.