Paradise Lost
By Abbas Hussain
Lahore, Pakistan
One of my earliest memories is of visiting the Lawrence Gardens in Lahore with my father and brother. The sight of beautifully manicured, lush green lawns fashioned with majestic fountains whose foaming water sparkled in the warm afternoon sunlight will forever be etched in my memory. Many of the people we encountered in the park were regulars, and it was customary for my father to acknowledge them with a swift greeting while walking on the granite path lined with century-old trees. I remember too the dazzling variety of flowers which we as children found mesmerizing but were pointedly forbidden from plucking. The water dancing out of the fountains, the rustling leaves and the chirping birds all seemed to be in a surreal state of harmony, as did the variety of people who came to walk and sit and play in the park. That sense of compatibility, of being able to share a beautiful place without conflict, embodied my country for me.
But today I live in a tattered land, a place riddled with intolerance, smudged with the blood of countless innocent people who have fallen prey to religious extremism in one way or another. There are times when I am numbed by disbelief. But then my body quivers, knots form in my stomach, and my heart sinks.
It was only a few years ago that, having obtained a bachelor’s degree from England, I came back to Pakistan, full of optimism and nostalgia for a place I had sorely missed. I was all charged up; I felt I wanted to make a contribution to the future of my country. I felt I owed it to Pakistan. After all, it had given me so much and made me who I was.
But soon after my return I noticed ominous signs of a polarized and fracturing society. One day, while en-route from Lahore to Islamabad on the popular Daewoo bus, I found myself sitting next to an elderly and dignified-looking man. He randomly struck up a conversation with me, voicing his displeasure at Hindus and lamenting the plight of Muslim minorities in India. When I suggested that our country was no different in that respect, quoting the recent killings of Shias, he looked at me with a straight face and told me that the victims had asked for it, given that their ideology was warped and bigoted.
A few months later I came across a woman, the mother of a candidate for admission at the school I run. I was describing to this woman the facilities the school had to offer when she interrupted me with a query regarding my "sect". I explained that I didn't believe in such groupings and that it was a very personal question. ''How is that even relevant?'' I asked.
"It is," said the woman sitting across the table. "You have a Shia name you see. I don't want my son to study in a 'Shia school', nor do I wish for him to have Shia friends as they tend to coerce their peers into following their school of thought.''
I recall these conversations when I hear about the escalated killing of Shias in Pakistan. Am I being warned? Have I been warned? It's a thought one can disregard, especially when the murdered are far removed from one's lived experience, as the hapless Hazaras of Balochistan are from my privileged life in Lahore.
But when a well-known and well-off doctor and his twelve year-old son are pumped with bullets not far from your house, and just for belonging to same "sect" as you, it is no longer possible to feel secure in your own city. The danger, I now feel, is real and near.
My family feels it too. The front of my house had a plaque with my late grandfather's Shia name on it. It also indicated that my grandfather was a doctor, which appears to be the prime targeted profession of sectarian terrorist groups. When a group of police officers entered my house one day and asked about my family's "Shia lineage", we made a collective decision to remove the plaque so that we would steer clear of "trouble".
It's not just policemen, bigoted old men or over-inquisitive women one fears. It's not just the armed men on motorbikes. This is more and more a country ravaged by hysterical mobs that form at a moment's notice and joyously torch a neighborhood in the name of their religion.
A part of me wants to run away from this madness. But how far can I run? This is my home and I belong here, and yet it seems so unfamiliar to me today. This is a paradox I find hard to resolve.
But one thing is for sure: the place that once embodied hope and harmony for me is a memory and nothing more. Sometimes I wonder if I just dreamed it all up. Where did that good and beautiful place go? I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye.
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