Before I got here, there were many ways in which I had no idea what to expect, or what I would spend my free time doing. Watching Polo, however, if it had been on my radar at all, would have been on my list of 'absolutely not' activities.
I'm ludicrously soft about animals. I already have a secret feeding routine with the various battered cats that frequent the garden, feel quite affectionate towards my pet gecko that lives in my room and spent an hour a few days ago trying to get a photo of a very pretty stripy (and uncooperative) squirrel. But horses leave me cold.
You may wonder, then, how I found my way to a polo ground last week. Well, my British colleague, Ellen, mentioned that she was planning on taking polo lessons here. To say this surprised me is an understatement; "Polo?....In Lahore?” She seemed to find my surprise strange so I followed it up with: "I just would never have thought that Polo was a game people play here," and then slightly more reluctantly, "I mean, only the very, very rich play polo even in the UK.” To this I was assured that lots of people play polo here, and, indeed, invited to come and see for myself.
It was the early evening rush hour when we make the short drive to the polo ground. The air was thick with fumes and heat, and the usual crazy driving ensued. And yet next to the main road, set behind row upon row of trees, lay acres of green, lush polo field. One thing Lahoris seem to be excellent at doing is building enclaves of peace in this mad city. That, and hiding from view things that they'd rather forget.
Three very important looking men sat inside the reception area, with whom Ellen bravely began the following battle:
"So I called and arranged a Polo lesson for this evening."
"You want a riding lesson?"
"No, a Polo lesson, I called earlier to arrange. The teacher is Iggy Saab. He said to come here at 6.”
"You can't have a Polo lesson until you have riding lessons."
"But I can already ride. I'm here for a Polo lesson..."
"We can arrange a riding lesson for you here...that will be 500 rupees".
"But I want a Polo lesson, I can already ride..."
"500 rupees for your riding lesson please."
The conversation went on in this vein for about 10 minutes. If it was me, at this point, I would have handed over my 500 rupees, gratefully taken the riding lesson and forgotten that I had ever planned on learning Polo. However, Ellen is not me, and so she very assertively said: "Look, I am here to learn polo. I have a lesson with Iggy Saab. Iggy Saab. IGGY SAAB. Please just call Iggy Saab.”
At which, one of the men looked a bit put out:"Ok, ok, ma'am, why did you not say ma'am, Iggy Saab will meet you across the field in 5 minutes."
The horses were beautiful, huge and immaculately groomed. The mothers who had brought their children for riding lessons here would not have looked out of place on Kensington High Street, and the polo players were all men. When I mention this fact to Ellen, she just says, "yeah but luckily you can get away with a hell of a lot by being a crazy white woman." And true enough, with our feet on the ground, we were definitely women. Strangely behaved women granted, but the attention and politeness definitely indicated we were considered female. However, the moment Ellen got on that horse she was effectively a man. Iggy Saab yelled at her as she cantered/galloped around the field after the ball. He referred to her merely as "chap" throughout.
Iggy Saab's name is not his only eccentric characteristic. He is an excellent teacher (I'm told) and apparently is a bit of an institution among polo-playing Lahoris. He has a very fat/pregnant ugly bald dog which follows him everywhere he goes looking exhausted. He shouts at everyone and does not see the need for pleasantries. When Ellen asked when her next lesson would be, he walked off yelling behind him, "You come here tomorrow at 6, if I'm free, we have lesson." I wondered whether polo lessons are like this wherever in the world you take them.
I very much doubt that I will find this out. A country that never fails to surprise - I think my first and only ever experience of Polo is likely to be in Pakistan.
Wednesday 25 April 2012
Thursday 19 April 2012
Inside a police station
A few days ago, I ended up at a police station on the outskirts of Lahore. I was with 2 colleagues, Arshad and Zahid, and we were on our way to an appointment in a village outside of the city. Arshad and Zahid do a lot of unpaid work in the community, mediating people's disputes in an attempt to keep police involvement to a minimum.
They wanted to stop on the way to our appointment, to 'help out' with one of these family disputes. I thought it would only be a small diversion and was interested to see inside a police station, so agreed. An argument over a marriage had led to one family lodging a complaint against a young man for kidnap of their daughter. At this point the daughter and the young man were nowhere to be found. Wisely, it turned out.
The man being detained was the uncle of the suspected kidnapper. First, my colleagues attempted, in the courtyard of the police station, to reason with the family who had lodged the complaint. Policemen and prisoners behind bars looked on. I stood around with the sun in my eyes, not helping or even understanding much of what was being said.
We went from one policeman's 'office' to another. I was given prime position in each room, and a chair was always found for me, even if all the men stood. This was a poor area, which was clear from the police, family and prisoners and I was the only woman to seen.
We went to one last office. Here the young man’s uncle, who had been arrested, stood in front of a desk. I was told that the man behind the desk was the chief investigator in the case. He spent a lot of time looking importantly through the documents in front of him, asking the occasional question. The uncle looked afraid and his eyes were bloodshot. He had no shoes and he stood in dirty ripped clothes. I thought, he’s upset about the situation and worried about his nephew.
Next to the chief investigator, another man sat sprawled across the chair and a desk. He was huge in every sense of the word. He held a large knife, the length from my elbow to my fingertip, which he used to clean his fingernails. It went through my mind that this must be the man who tortures the prisoners when darkness falls and the police station is empty. I'd read about the torture. I knew that it is widespread. This man looked like the most stereotypical torturer imaginable. And yet this thought in no way prepared me for what happened next.
The huge man stood up and stretched. He moved forward and I moved my legs aside as I thought he wanted to get past. But instead he launched himself at the uncle. The uncle cried and pleaded. He hit him over the head again and again, from every angle. The uncle tried to cower from the blows, but he could not and so fell to the floor by my feet. The policeman kicked him, once or maybe twice. The uncle merely pleaded for it to stop. I had stood up and was gasping for breath. And yet I did nothing to intervene.
No-one else moved from their seats. My two colleagues looked worried but calm. The other policemen laughed, as the uncle was dragged from the room by the huge policeman. They thought that my reaction was funny and talked about the English seeing police interrogation. Even I understood that.
And so I stayed in the room almost glued to the spot. I could not meet their eyes. And then I heard the screams. Screams pierced the air, accompanied by the sound of blows with something heavy. In shock, I managed to walk out in to the courtyard at this point.
The men outside were pacing. Smiling slightly, but in a resigned not happy way. When I asked what was going on, Arshad said only "this is the police ways". I almost managed to smoke a cigarette. Through the screams, I lit my cigarette and smoked half of it before I felt I would retch. I don't know how long it went on for. I had no sense of time.
Then I was being led into a large room, with Arshad saying, "you're about to see a real torture room," as if this were a joke, not a nightmare. There were beds on the floor and half a dozen men - I can only assume prisoners - sat around. The uncle was lying on the floor, blue and sobbing uncontrollably. Zahid sat me down and helped the uncle into a sitting position, patting him on the shoulder and trying to comfort him.
Arshad brought water for the uncle and for me. How bizarre that my well-being was as much of a concern as that of the man who had been tortured. Through sobs, the uncle read numbers out from a few crumpled sheets of paper, that he held in his shaking hands. Zahid rang a few, whilst telling me that he was trying to locate the nephew.
On one number, he got through and was talking, when the huge torturer came back. He stood over us for a minute, so close I could smell him. I felt afraid and vulnerable. I was suddenly fearful for my own safety. Then he swooped in, causing me to jump back, and snatched the phone away. He ended the call, saying that he would do this their way. I realised then that he was enjoying it. He wanted to show us that this was his domain and that we were as powerless as the cowering uncle. We may not be being tortured, but that was a matter of his choosing not ours.
With a few loud words, he stalked off, leaving Zahid to hold the uncle's hand, pat his shoulder and tell me that we were leaving. I wanted to get out of there. The stench was overpowering, and the suffering was too much to bear. I didn't understand enough of what was happening to be sure, so I extended hopefulness to believing that the matter was now solved. This middle-aged uncle would be allowed to go home to his family and try to recover from all this.
This was not to be. Zahid told me that the family wouldn't compromise, the uncle wouldn't reveal his nephew's whereabouts and the police would not allow us to be involved. There was nothing more we could do. "The police give him trouble now," Arshad sighed. To comfort me, he then said, don't worry the man will live, he'll get through it. God will get him through.
We drove on to our next appointment. Zahid and Arshad were subdued but not surprised. I asked if they expected it. Yes, they said, it could have been expected. Along the road, we saw some cattle being led by iron rods. Zahid said, "see, there is torture everywhere, even for the cows," and Arshad replied, as the car fell into a pot hole, "even the roads are torture," and they both laughed with great gusto at the joke. Even I laughed, despite myself, and the normality of it felt a relief.
They do this work every day, dedicatedly working to help ordinary people in their very ordinary disputes. I suppose they are used to days like this one, and cannot dwell on not being able to help one man, because tomorrow they will have to do this again, for someone else.
For me this day was different. Afterwards, I understood more the meaning of being in shock - I couldn't eat or sleep. I have reflected again and again on what I could have done differently. The truth is that I did not fully understand what was happening. The language was wrong. The laws unfamiliar and the events so unexpected. But even if I had known, the system is such that I'm not sure what I could have done.
More than anything, I have been confronted with how far removed legal work is from the lives of ordinary people. The two exist in different worlds. How they can be reconciled, I don't know.
For now, I must just be content with the news I heard today that the families have compromised, the uncle has been released and the couple will not be pursued. For today, one family must be enough.
They wanted to stop on the way to our appointment, to 'help out' with one of these family disputes. I thought it would only be a small diversion and was interested to see inside a police station, so agreed. An argument over a marriage had led to one family lodging a complaint against a young man for kidnap of their daughter. At this point the daughter and the young man were nowhere to be found. Wisely, it turned out.
The man being detained was the uncle of the suspected kidnapper. First, my colleagues attempted, in the courtyard of the police station, to reason with the family who had lodged the complaint. Policemen and prisoners behind bars looked on. I stood around with the sun in my eyes, not helping or even understanding much of what was being said.
We went from one policeman's 'office' to another. I was given prime position in each room, and a chair was always found for me, even if all the men stood. This was a poor area, which was clear from the police, family and prisoners and I was the only woman to seen.
We went to one last office. Here the young man’s uncle, who had been arrested, stood in front of a desk. I was told that the man behind the desk was the chief investigator in the case. He spent a lot of time looking importantly through the documents in front of him, asking the occasional question. The uncle looked afraid and his eyes were bloodshot. He had no shoes and he stood in dirty ripped clothes. I thought, he’s upset about the situation and worried about his nephew.
Next to the chief investigator, another man sat sprawled across the chair and a desk. He was huge in every sense of the word. He held a large knife, the length from my elbow to my fingertip, which he used to clean his fingernails. It went through my mind that this must be the man who tortures the prisoners when darkness falls and the police station is empty. I'd read about the torture. I knew that it is widespread. This man looked like the most stereotypical torturer imaginable. And yet this thought in no way prepared me for what happened next.
The huge man stood up and stretched. He moved forward and I moved my legs aside as I thought he wanted to get past. But instead he launched himself at the uncle. The uncle cried and pleaded. He hit him over the head again and again, from every angle. The uncle tried to cower from the blows, but he could not and so fell to the floor by my feet. The policeman kicked him, once or maybe twice. The uncle merely pleaded for it to stop. I had stood up and was gasping for breath. And yet I did nothing to intervene.
No-one else moved from their seats. My two colleagues looked worried but calm. The other policemen laughed, as the uncle was dragged from the room by the huge policeman. They thought that my reaction was funny and talked about the English seeing police interrogation. Even I understood that.
And so I stayed in the room almost glued to the spot. I could not meet their eyes. And then I heard the screams. Screams pierced the air, accompanied by the sound of blows with something heavy. In shock, I managed to walk out in to the courtyard at this point.
The men outside were pacing. Smiling slightly, but in a resigned not happy way. When I asked what was going on, Arshad said only "this is the police ways". I almost managed to smoke a cigarette. Through the screams, I lit my cigarette and smoked half of it before I felt I would retch. I don't know how long it went on for. I had no sense of time.
Then I was being led into a large room, with Arshad saying, "you're about to see a real torture room," as if this were a joke, not a nightmare. There were beds on the floor and half a dozen men - I can only assume prisoners - sat around. The uncle was lying on the floor, blue and sobbing uncontrollably. Zahid sat me down and helped the uncle into a sitting position, patting him on the shoulder and trying to comfort him.
Arshad brought water for the uncle and for me. How bizarre that my well-being was as much of a concern as that of the man who had been tortured. Through sobs, the uncle read numbers out from a few crumpled sheets of paper, that he held in his shaking hands. Zahid rang a few, whilst telling me that he was trying to locate the nephew.
On one number, he got through and was talking, when the huge torturer came back. He stood over us for a minute, so close I could smell him. I felt afraid and vulnerable. I was suddenly fearful for my own safety. Then he swooped in, causing me to jump back, and snatched the phone away. He ended the call, saying that he would do this their way. I realised then that he was enjoying it. He wanted to show us that this was his domain and that we were as powerless as the cowering uncle. We may not be being tortured, but that was a matter of his choosing not ours.
With a few loud words, he stalked off, leaving Zahid to hold the uncle's hand, pat his shoulder and tell me that we were leaving. I wanted to get out of there. The stench was overpowering, and the suffering was too much to bear. I didn't understand enough of what was happening to be sure, so I extended hopefulness to believing that the matter was now solved. This middle-aged uncle would be allowed to go home to his family and try to recover from all this.
This was not to be. Zahid told me that the family wouldn't compromise, the uncle wouldn't reveal his nephew's whereabouts and the police would not allow us to be involved. There was nothing more we could do. "The police give him trouble now," Arshad sighed. To comfort me, he then said, don't worry the man will live, he'll get through it. God will get him through.
We drove on to our next appointment. Zahid and Arshad were subdued but not surprised. I asked if they expected it. Yes, they said, it could have been expected. Along the road, we saw some cattle being led by iron rods. Zahid said, "see, there is torture everywhere, even for the cows," and Arshad replied, as the car fell into a pot hole, "even the roads are torture," and they both laughed with great gusto at the joke. Even I laughed, despite myself, and the normality of it felt a relief.
They do this work every day, dedicatedly working to help ordinary people in their very ordinary disputes. I suppose they are used to days like this one, and cannot dwell on not being able to help one man, because tomorrow they will have to do this again, for someone else.
For me this day was different. Afterwards, I understood more the meaning of being in shock - I couldn't eat or sleep. I have reflected again and again on what I could have done differently. The truth is that I did not fully understand what was happening. The language was wrong. The laws unfamiliar and the events so unexpected. But even if I had known, the system is such that I'm not sure what I could have done.
More than anything, I have been confronted with how far removed legal work is from the lives of ordinary people. The two exist in different worlds. How they can be reconciled, I don't know.
For now, I must just be content with the news I heard today that the families have compromised, the uncle has been released and the couple will not be pursued. For today, one family must be enough.
Wednesday 11 April 2012
The family that lives in the garden shed
Last week, I moved in to the office. The office is like a small bungalow that is attempting to be an office, so this is not as bad as it sounds. It is in a fairly quiet area, with a green garden, where birds, cats and squirrels roam.
I am living with a colleague and there have been many discussions within the office about the need for us to have a guard and a cook. I have repeatedly said that I am happy to cook for myself, an idea which is met with confusion, mirth or deep concern. "But what would you cook?" I'm asked. I mumble about pasta with cheese and rice with curry. They look at me sceptically, and glance at the cupboards full of crisps and chocolate, which we bought on our shopping trip. As we filled the trolley full of junk food, it seemed like a brilliant idea, you know, in case of emergency. But now I see it does not make us look like competent self-sufficient people who know how to cook for ourselves.
So as soon as I'd arrived with all my stuff, I was told that a family had also moved in. There was much excitement about this solution. The father would be our guard, the mother would cook and clean for us. Oh and there's a few children too, I'm told. How many? I ask. Maybe around 4. 4 kids, I don't understand, where will they all live? Oh, there's a shed in the garden they'll stay in. I wonder how a family of 6 can live in a garden shed. The answer I get is simple; they will have come from worse and they're lucky to have a shed.
And so we all begin to settle in to our life at the office. Sameena, who is our cook and maid, tries to pre-empt my tea making and tries to wash all my clothes every day unless I manage to intervene. The children seem happy playing in the garden. Their home/shed is just outside my bedroom window, so I cannot easily escape their lives. When I try to sleep, I know that all 6 are bedding down in their shed, smaller than my (pretty small) room. But it's strange how we're built to adjust. I start to feel used to their lives next to mine.
A few days ago I bought some plastic balls and colouring books, which cost about 600 rupees (less that a fiver) for the children. Confusion, confusion, confusion for a few seconds. Then, Aroon took charge. The eldest, at the grand old age of 7, quickly realised that the bright pink ball he clutched to his chest was something he could keep. Shouting to the others, he ran as fast as he could throwing the ball in the air.
The children shriek around the garden. I join in. It's much more fun than law. Then a few people in the office express concern about the noise. They say it will have to stop. Our bosses are back next week and the children cannot play during the day and definitely must not come inside. They'll only get in trouble if we don't stop it now.
With all my British sensibilities, this makes me angry. It's their home, after all. "If anyone shouts at those children I'll leave,” I say. My colleague is now annoyed: "This is an office. You wouldn't let English kids play around an office either, you're only saying that because it's Pakistan." In England this would never happen - I counter - because people are paid enough to not live in the garden sheds of offices.
In this moment, I miss home. The minimum wage. Benefits. Kids who all go to school. I miss being able to go out without being haunted by poverty. I miss children being children, no matter how poor they may be.
Later, once my anger has mellowed a bit, I am aware of my ethnocentricity in all this. I know I have no right to impose my cultural sensibilities on people here. I am criticising things which I can't possibly understand after 2 weeks. People keep saying to me: "it's good to employ people, you give people jobs, you take them off the street.” I suppose this is right, but I just want the children to be allowed to play.
Now they are quiet and stay out of sight all day. If I do see them, they're carrying their balls around in plastic bags. Late in the evening and at night, they play. Often, their laughing and shouting stops me sleeping, but I'd rather not sleep than them never play.
As the days pass, and the children seem to adapt to the new arrangements, I too start to accept it. Each time I see them, the feeling of unfairness in the pit of my stomach is a little less painful.
For better or for worse, we are built to adapt.
I am living with a colleague and there have been many discussions within the office about the need for us to have a guard and a cook. I have repeatedly said that I am happy to cook for myself, an idea which is met with confusion, mirth or deep concern. "But what would you cook?" I'm asked. I mumble about pasta with cheese and rice with curry. They look at me sceptically, and glance at the cupboards full of crisps and chocolate, which we bought on our shopping trip. As we filled the trolley full of junk food, it seemed like a brilliant idea, you know, in case of emergency. But now I see it does not make us look like competent self-sufficient people who know how to cook for ourselves.
So as soon as I'd arrived with all my stuff, I was told that a family had also moved in. There was much excitement about this solution. The father would be our guard, the mother would cook and clean for us. Oh and there's a few children too, I'm told. How many? I ask. Maybe around 4. 4 kids, I don't understand, where will they all live? Oh, there's a shed in the garden they'll stay in. I wonder how a family of 6 can live in a garden shed. The answer I get is simple; they will have come from worse and they're lucky to have a shed.
And so we all begin to settle in to our life at the office. Sameena, who is our cook and maid, tries to pre-empt my tea making and tries to wash all my clothes every day unless I manage to intervene. The children seem happy playing in the garden. Their home/shed is just outside my bedroom window, so I cannot easily escape their lives. When I try to sleep, I know that all 6 are bedding down in their shed, smaller than my (pretty small) room. But it's strange how we're built to adjust. I start to feel used to their lives next to mine.
A few days ago I bought some plastic balls and colouring books, which cost about 600 rupees (less that a fiver) for the children. Confusion, confusion, confusion for a few seconds. Then, Aroon took charge. The eldest, at the grand old age of 7, quickly realised that the bright pink ball he clutched to his chest was something he could keep. Shouting to the others, he ran as fast as he could throwing the ball in the air.
The children shriek around the garden. I join in. It's much more fun than law. Then a few people in the office express concern about the noise. They say it will have to stop. Our bosses are back next week and the children cannot play during the day and definitely must not come inside. They'll only get in trouble if we don't stop it now.
With all my British sensibilities, this makes me angry. It's their home, after all. "If anyone shouts at those children I'll leave,” I say. My colleague is now annoyed: "This is an office. You wouldn't let English kids play around an office either, you're only saying that because it's Pakistan." In England this would never happen - I counter - because people are paid enough to not live in the garden sheds of offices.
In this moment, I miss home. The minimum wage. Benefits. Kids who all go to school. I miss being able to go out without being haunted by poverty. I miss children being children, no matter how poor they may be.
Later, once my anger has mellowed a bit, I am aware of my ethnocentricity in all this. I know I have no right to impose my cultural sensibilities on people here. I am criticising things which I can't possibly understand after 2 weeks. People keep saying to me: "it's good to employ people, you give people jobs, you take them off the street.” I suppose this is right, but I just want the children to be allowed to play.
Now they are quiet and stay out of sight all day. If I do see them, they're carrying their balls around in plastic bags. Late in the evening and at night, they play. Often, their laughing and shouting stops me sleeping, but I'd rather not sleep than them never play.
As the days pass, and the children seem to adapt to the new arrangements, I too start to accept it. Each time I see them, the feeling of unfairness in the pit of my stomach is a little less painful.
For better or for worse, we are built to adapt.
Friday 6 April 2012
10 million people in a day
10 million people live in Lahore. In London, there are around 7 million, so this doesn't seem like such a huge number. I've always found London crowded but bearable. Like any Londoner, I have spent too many mornings and evenings, with my head pressed up against somebody's smelly armpit on the tube, not being able to breathe or move.
Or so I thought, until I came to Lahore. A couple of days ago, I was able to visit central Lahore for the first time. Before this, I had been confined to the leafy suburbs, where space exists between the buildings and the traffic is only half crazy.
The purpose of my city centre trip was to see Badshahi mosque, which is on the edge of the ancient walled city of Lahore, referred to as the 'old city'. I'd been told by lots of people here how beautiful it was and I wanted to see it for myself.
As we reached the centre of the city, the traffic departed from its previous 'half-crazy' state and entered full-on mania. In Lahore, cars, motorbikes, rickshaws, donkey karts, men leading horses and sometimes even men leading monkeys, share the road. And when I say share, I mean all go as fast as they can and, as far as I can tell, do not adhere to any rules at all. Apart from perhaps that every single manoeuvre is fine, providing the horn is beeped at the same time. A friend said to me that the only way to drive here is 'as though you are part of a shoal of fish'. And I can think of no better explanation. At crossroads or junctions, people carry straight on into the moving traffic. And somehow, miraculously, with great screeching of brakes and hooting of horns, they become swallowed up in the new shoal.
One of my favourite things to see is couples travelling by motorbike. The man always drives, whilst the woman always rides 'side-saddle' on the back. Driving down a road in Lahore is like driving amidst a rainbow of billowing colourful sheets, as the women's beautiful shalwar kameez are blown in the wind.
Of course, motorcycle travel is not restricted to couples. Whole families also use this mode of transport. So far, the largest number of people I've counted on a single motorbike is 6. Up front is the biggest child, then the father driving, then come two more middle-sized children, and then the mother, clutching the smallest child and somehow still staying on. The skill involved is remarkable. I feel I am witnessing some great feat of humankind.
So, it wasn't until we were in the heart of the city that I became fully aware of the people. At first they were just at the side of road, and then they started to become more thick and fast, walking freely among the cars. As the cars hooted and revved, all I could see was people. My host and guide said that we couldn't get out and walk, as I was the only white person in sight (in fact I have not seen a single other white person all day) and that I would be mobbed. Not necessarily in a hostile way, but in a friendly, over-enthusiastic way. I imagined being swallowed up by this immense sea of over-enthusiasm and I was inclined reluctantly to agree with him. So we inched forward in the car, beeping, naturally, and trying not to kill people.
It took about an hour of inching to cover the distance of about 100 metres to the mosque. A mist hung in the air, which seemed to be caused by a combination of people, pollution and the penetrating heat. To add to the complexity of Lahore, once inside the main gate of the mosque, the atmosphere was serene and peaceful. I was still an oddity and an attraction, but children were hit around the head for looking at me too long.
What struck me most about the Mughal architecture of the mosque was its perfection. It looked as though it had been built five, not 400, years ago. It's a huge structure, but when you stand close to it, it seems quite elegantly petite. And it's not until you stand back that you realise again the immenseness of it.
The visit was finished off with food on the roof of an old favela building, overlooking the lit-up mosque. As I ate the delicious food and breathed in the fresher air, I felt certain that on this day alone, I had seen the 10 million people of Lahore.
Or so I thought, until I came to Lahore. A couple of days ago, I was able to visit central Lahore for the first time. Before this, I had been confined to the leafy suburbs, where space exists between the buildings and the traffic is only half crazy.
The purpose of my city centre trip was to see Badshahi mosque, which is on the edge of the ancient walled city of Lahore, referred to as the 'old city'. I'd been told by lots of people here how beautiful it was and I wanted to see it for myself.
As we reached the centre of the city, the traffic departed from its previous 'half-crazy' state and entered full-on mania. In Lahore, cars, motorbikes, rickshaws, donkey karts, men leading horses and sometimes even men leading monkeys, share the road. And when I say share, I mean all go as fast as they can and, as far as I can tell, do not adhere to any rules at all. Apart from perhaps that every single manoeuvre is fine, providing the horn is beeped at the same time. A friend said to me that the only way to drive here is 'as though you are part of a shoal of fish'. And I can think of no better explanation. At crossroads or junctions, people carry straight on into the moving traffic. And somehow, miraculously, with great screeching of brakes and hooting of horns, they become swallowed up in the new shoal.
One of my favourite things to see is couples travelling by motorbike. The man always drives, whilst the woman always rides 'side-saddle' on the back. Driving down a road in Lahore is like driving amidst a rainbow of billowing colourful sheets, as the women's beautiful shalwar kameez are blown in the wind.
Of course, motorcycle travel is not restricted to couples. Whole families also use this mode of transport. So far, the largest number of people I've counted on a single motorbike is 6. Up front is the biggest child, then the father driving, then come two more middle-sized children, and then the mother, clutching the smallest child and somehow still staying on. The skill involved is remarkable. I feel I am witnessing some great feat of humankind.
So, it wasn't until we were in the heart of the city that I became fully aware of the people. At first they were just at the side of road, and then they started to become more thick and fast, walking freely among the cars. As the cars hooted and revved, all I could see was people. My host and guide said that we couldn't get out and walk, as I was the only white person in sight (in fact I have not seen a single other white person all day) and that I would be mobbed. Not necessarily in a hostile way, but in a friendly, over-enthusiastic way. I imagined being swallowed up by this immense sea of over-enthusiasm and I was inclined reluctantly to agree with him. So we inched forward in the car, beeping, naturally, and trying not to kill people.
It took about an hour of inching to cover the distance of about 100 metres to the mosque. A mist hung in the air, which seemed to be caused by a combination of people, pollution and the penetrating heat. To add to the complexity of Lahore, once inside the main gate of the mosque, the atmosphere was serene and peaceful. I was still an oddity and an attraction, but children were hit around the head for looking at me too long.
What struck me most about the Mughal architecture of the mosque was its perfection. It looked as though it had been built five, not 400, years ago. It's a huge structure, but when you stand close to it, it seems quite elegantly petite. And it's not until you stand back that you realise again the immenseness of it.
The visit was finished off with food on the roof of an old favela building, overlooking the lit-up mosque. As I ate the delicious food and breathed in the fresher air, I felt certain that on this day alone, I had seen the 10 million people of Lahore.
Sunday 1 April 2012
A different kind of prison
My room has two large windows, through which I watch the world. I'm not sure you can call a few houses, lush green trees and half a dozen servants working outside a world, but for now it is mine. It's the weekend and I have no work so I am confined to this room for today, at least. And I can't really complain, because if confinement is for you, here's as good a place as any for it.
Eldridge Cleaver said: 'those things withheld from and denied to the prisoner become precisely what he wants most of all.' Right now, this particular prisoner would do anything to walk the 500 metres to the local shop to buy a can of coke and a bar of chocolate. Then this prisoner would sit cross legged on the pavement outside, eating and drinking and feeling the oppressive sun on her head.
Such a journey is impossible for me because I'm a woman and because I'm white. It's not the done thing for any woman to walk in the street alone. Less so even for a white woman, who would attract buckets of attention. Meaning possible danger of one form or another.
There is no doubt that part of my imprisonment is a product of politeness to the people who have hosted me. That and my unwillingness to enter into the cultural norm of 'sending your servant' for what you need. If I walked out of the house now on my own, no-one would stop me, but they would be upset and worried about me. Alternatively, I could have my coke and chocolate, but someone would have to go and get them for me, and when I say someone, I mean a servant. And, stupid as I'm sure it is, I just can't bring myself to do that. I also must be truthful and mention the lack of friends. Friends would be able to take me out and show me Lahore, but (only I hope) so far I have very few!
So here I am, as the sun goes down, a window between me and a confusing world. In the most privileged sort of prison there is. One created by people who worry about my safety, and my own choices. My prison of marble floors.
Pakistan is a strange place. No amount of time in a room will help me understand it. And yet I get the sense that I could spend a lifetime here and still only understand a fraction. How can I reconcile the people who have made me so welcome with being told that if I walk on the street alone, I will be in grave danger of harm? How can I reconcile my prison of marble floors with the prisons full of torture, corruption and injustice that others face?
A young boy is arrested for murder. He is tortured for a few weeks before he confesses to the crime. He is told the equivalent of £350 will buy his freedom. But for this boy, the price is too high. With no money to mount a defence, he is sentenced to death. Years later that same man is still on death row. He cries when he is told that someone is going to take on his case. The thought of any degree of human kindness is so alien to him, that he cannot believe it can be true. "Why would anyone do that for someone like me?" Someone like me.
I have a great deal to learn about Pakistan and its legal system. Unsurprisingly, the greatest extremes exist, with everything in between, just perhaps on a grander scale than in the UK.
But as I sit reading about the country in my prison of marble floors, only one thing stops me complaining (too much) about my lack of coke and chocolate:
Someone like me.
Eldridge Cleaver said: 'those things withheld from and denied to the prisoner become precisely what he wants most of all.' Right now, this particular prisoner would do anything to walk the 500 metres to the local shop to buy a can of coke and a bar of chocolate. Then this prisoner would sit cross legged on the pavement outside, eating and drinking and feeling the oppressive sun on her head.
Such a journey is impossible for me because I'm a woman and because I'm white. It's not the done thing for any woman to walk in the street alone. Less so even for a white woman, who would attract buckets of attention. Meaning possible danger of one form or another.
There is no doubt that part of my imprisonment is a product of politeness to the people who have hosted me. That and my unwillingness to enter into the cultural norm of 'sending your servant' for what you need. If I walked out of the house now on my own, no-one would stop me, but they would be upset and worried about me. Alternatively, I could have my coke and chocolate, but someone would have to go and get them for me, and when I say someone, I mean a servant. And, stupid as I'm sure it is, I just can't bring myself to do that. I also must be truthful and mention the lack of friends. Friends would be able to take me out and show me Lahore, but (only I hope) so far I have very few!
So here I am, as the sun goes down, a window between me and a confusing world. In the most privileged sort of prison there is. One created by people who worry about my safety, and my own choices. My prison of marble floors.
Pakistan is a strange place. No amount of time in a room will help me understand it. And yet I get the sense that I could spend a lifetime here and still only understand a fraction. How can I reconcile the people who have made me so welcome with being told that if I walk on the street alone, I will be in grave danger of harm? How can I reconcile my prison of marble floors with the prisons full of torture, corruption and injustice that others face?
A young boy is arrested for murder. He is tortured for a few weeks before he confesses to the crime. He is told the equivalent of £350 will buy his freedom. But for this boy, the price is too high. With no money to mount a defence, he is sentenced to death. Years later that same man is still on death row. He cries when he is told that someone is going to take on his case. The thought of any degree of human kindness is so alien to him, that he cannot believe it can be true. "Why would anyone do that for someone like me?" Someone like me.
I have a great deal to learn about Pakistan and its legal system. Unsurprisingly, the greatest extremes exist, with everything in between, just perhaps on a grander scale than in the UK.
But as I sit reading about the country in my prison of marble floors, only one thing stops me complaining (too much) about my lack of coke and chocolate:
Someone like me.
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