A Slice of Pakistani Politics

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After-work crowd out on the streets. After a shower the air cleansed, puddles not especially treacherous. Yesterday Lia reported a three hour wait for her bus out to Puturaya where she puts up. At the stops on Jalan Ipoh and around on Raja Laut the frequency seems much better. In this quarter only minor signs of sprucing in the office crowd.
         The striking candling of a segment of the left Petronas tower from the outdoor seat in front of Restoran Mehran. Unending cricket on the large screen, possibly Chappell the elder commentating in that light patter in tempo with the action. A long way from the MCG and the Boxing Day Test. Some tags indicated India and Pakistan fighting out another round of another Championship Trophy, though that didn't tally with the white contingent in one of the teams.
         Guess about right: Mehran and Ras Balouch down the road a short way divide on a regional basis, what else. The latter caters for the Hyderabad crowd; here Karachi. The waiters are unable to provide much for detailing the distinction; as everywhere else in Chow Kit, minimal English. Karachi is the largest city, if not the capital from memory; Hyderabad the textile Manchester (that was) of England, according to a man of that city waiting on tables down in Singapore.
         The broadcast abruptly terminated; it had attracted little interest in any case. Pakistan could not have been playing. Replaced after a few minutes on the screen by an exceedingly fresh-faced young man at a podium before another large gathering, another political rally. A few nights before there had been a similar broadcast on the large screens at Mehran. (How long is it since there has been a real political gathering back home? What there has been the last couple of decades have been minor, single issue affairs. Kennett brought out the largest crowd of recent times—an age ago now.)
         Black-shirted fellow. Camera on a crane drawing waves from the crowd in its passes.
         The dough lad beside the earthen-ware oven wearing long-sleeves under his tee against the heat. Sticky enough in the pavement chair watching him from a distance. Over the road at the bus-stop the crowd has thinned, the better dressed portion particularly. A servo on the near corner; Chow Kit LRT station elevated on the other side. Behind the Shell trannies wait for customers at the laneway corners, catching the lights of the cruising traffic, with a full moon tonight no doubt adding benefit to the trade in the time-honoured way.
         The young speaker could only be a twenty-something, showing cheeks that had known the lightest of razors. In the crowd red, black and green verticals on the flags hold a central, yellow sun. It took quite a while for the wide-winged bullet-proof screen to appear—in the first five or ten minutes the TV cameras' penetration had given no indication.
         — Ahha!... A large picture of Bhutto on a hoarding behind him in her fetching scarf that must have been terribly torn and spattered when she had been gunned down. That is the answer. Finally the penny slowly dropping.  The lad's mother. Those of the region of course recognized the young man instantly, discerned the reassuring mimicry that provides the illusory comfort of eternity. To an outsider, put this young man on the screen in the crowd at Mehran you would never pick him.... These dynastic democracies throughout the region, throughout the world. Clan groupings and special interests; a clash of interests before anything else. Foucault the teacher here as much as Marx. Gandhi, Bhutto, Najib (Razak), Lee, Park in a quick, no-need-to-think take—scions of assassinated elders and murderous tyrants the same. Entrenched power on our side is able to perpetuate itself without necessarily needing direct hands on the levers of government. Plush red carpet to the side for the dignitaries here—valueless targets self-evidently, with no precautions necessary for them.
         The Bangladeshi man behind could identify the young man, but not the city hosting the rally. Along the bottom of the screen the Urdu was incomprehensible to him. Former East Pakistan a long distance off; the reason for the split in the first place.
         Clear mention of his mum eventually. Not a mantra of any kind; simple passing mention: Benazir Bhutto. Perhaps not carrying a great deal of currency these number of years later. Five years a long time in these matters now.
         Almost not a single skull-cap; a relatively affluent middle-class business party, reflected by the crowd shots. Women un-scarved too. A population deeply riven. The men at Mehran, mostly cheap foreign labour, are without exception traditionalists.
         Twenty minutes of little fits and starts back and forth at the microphone in a nervous bustle, with notes unapparent. A young colt that has newly taken to the field, yet to get his line and length right. Nonetheless, one needs to hand it to the lad; something for the future in the debut. A relatively minor degree of interest on the street here in this corner of the diaspora that matches the mostly unenthusiastic crowd on the screen. Nothing like the energy of the other night when the fire-brand mufti of Islamabad took to the stage. An old, robed man, well into his seventies, crowned with a white Arabic songkok. Quite a magnificent little figure—one could tell the short stature—the passion and urgency something to behold. Thirty or forty men at the Restoran Mehran tables sat watching reverently, heads up-tilted, soundlessly absorbing it all. Completely transfixed and motionless. Passers-by on the street stopped to watch. Initially the mufti spoke in very good English, the denigration of nation one of his chief topics. The poor duped and confounded; a loss of identity. The foulness and vileness which had overtaken the country could be sounded from the man's vehemence. One could not fail to be taken by the stirring passion of the venerable old man waving his arms above the microphone, pointing his finger, swinging in his seat to address the flanks. A true lion. Imran Khan another night earlier in the week in a couch studio interview was not a patch on this mufti. It was Imran from memory who had tried to claim the tag of the Lion—perhaps foisted upon him by the PR people. Fat chance beside this competitor's almost Hitlerian command and power.
         Lahore lad from the lunch place turned up shortly after at the end of his shift (twelve hours, seven days a week), telling of being unable to buy himself a single fag. The wallet pockets displayed held nothing but paper scraps. For his room above Restoran Mehran the chap maintains he pays RM600; more than a third of his monthly wage. End of month blues perhaps. (Lia pays 250, but that is out in the sticks somewhere an hour and more from KLCC.)
         PAKISTAN
         LAHORE
         Even with all the documentary preparation, the young buck failed to recognize either the name of his country, or city in English script. Both would appear in his passport. In the case of his name he could write the five letters: AMJAD, the second syllable short, the "d" almost unheard.


NB. It turned out the fifth anniversary of Benazir Bhutto's assassination yesterday, chosen for the launch of the son's entry into the political arena. Five years later no-one yet charged over the killing.
        Official statistics put the number of Pakistanis in Malaysia at something between fifty and one hundred thousand. Indonesians this morning in the newspaper estimated at two million, officially.