On Saturday, I set off on a long, exhausting jaunt into the Punjabi countryside. Fitting myself and all my companions for the day, Sameena, Zaid, Haroon Sahib, Rubab, Amon, Saman, Annam into the small hire car was a squeeze. (Thankfully, four of us are only half-sized). As our car pulled away with Haroon Sahib at the wheel, me in the relative comfort of the front seat with a four year old on my lap and with five people in the back, I felt shamefully adrift from British safe driving principles - seat belts, child car seats, children not standing up in the car etc. But then the art of existing in Pakistan is accepting the unacceptable.
Our destination, Faisalabad, is about three hours' drive from Lahore and was reportedly 52 degrees centigrade that day. The hottest day of the year and a good three degrees hotter than the already unbearably hot Lahore. As I told friends about my planned trip to meet the family of Sameena and Zaid, who I've been living with for the past 3 months, their reaction was uniformly unimpressed. What on earth are you doing that for? You are mad. You'll get really sick. You have no idea how these people live, trust me this is the last place you want to go. And finally, my boss: "You will get so ill if you go. In fact, I won't allow you to go.” When she conceded that it wasn't really within her remit to forbid me, she said: "Well at least promise me you won't eat or drink anything at their houses". I'll try not to, I answered. Inshallah.
My reason for not following the advice I'm given here is that when I do it invariably ends in disaster. My (possibly flawed) judgment of the situation was that, ever since I had suggested it four days ago, Sameena had been preparing for our trip. The children had been made new clothes. Family members had been informed. Non-spicy food had been ordered. Everybody was excited. Cancelling the plan due to the minor issue of 52 degree heat was going to cause more sadness and disappointment than can easily be imagined by people who have holidays and cars and regular day trips.
And so, armed with water and rehydration salts, we set off. All four children stood up, fighting with their siblings to get the best view from the car windows. Having never been in a car before, they refused to sit down for much of the journey there and were almost completely silent in their fascination.
I had been expecting to visit three houses of family members. Of course, ten houses later, I realised this was not to be.
Perhaps the most interesting home to me was that of Sameena and her family, being by far the most rural of the families we visited. As we started to get near, the roads became mud trails. The village itself was a mixture of old huts made from all different types of material, and newer tiny brick houses. Chickens, cows and goats seemingly roamed freely. As we approached the right house, heads popped out and then whole bodies, until the road in front of was full of them, all out to great us.
We were ushered inside through the small yard area into the only room of the house, where a small generator, which had been bought solely for my visit, powered a fan. I was placed in front of the one fan and provided with bottled water, like a delicate foreign flower that might wilt and die in the heat. Huge numbers of people swarmed in, one after the other. A tiny baby was placed protesting into my arms and I was introduced to everybody from great-grandparents to nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles. I found myself strangely unable to find anything to say. Although Haroon Sahib was there to translate for me, I didn't know who to address as everyone was waiting silently for me to speak. Each time I thought of something, a new person came in to meet me. Eventually I decided to focus my attention on Sameena's mother and try as hard as possible to ignore everyone else.
Given my preconceptions of poverty, the biggest surprise was how healthy everyone looked. A long way from the downtrodden, skeletal poor of Lahore, the family looked well; the women were beautiful and the men handsome.
I quickly reneged on my promise not to eat anything, as large quantities of food had been prepared just for me. Sameena had forbidden spicy cooking and requested raw vegetables, just the way I like them. I tried not to eat the raw food, but in the end, I thought to hell with it, I'll take my chances.
And food was a common theme of the day. Pakoras, chicken and mutton dishes, rich dahl, biryani, mangoes, ice cream, parathas. There was no end to the eating and the hospitality. I was given flowers, material to make a shalwar kameez, hair clips, glitter and bangles.
In one house, I was shown a picture of a relative and his American wife, who he had met through internet dating and now lived with in America. The matriarch of the house (by this point I'd lost track of who was related to whom) chuckled heartily as she told me, and showed me with hand gestures, how fat this poor woman was. She then said to Sameena, accompanied by great laughter, "We were so excited when she (the American woman) came to visit but then when she got here, she was sooooo fat, and we thought that all goris must be that fat. But now you've gone and brought us a slim gori." Later, in the car on the way home, Sameena reiterated this proudly, saying "My gori is a slim one."
It was a day filled with new faces, colours and sounds - most of which I didn't understand - that will stay with me forever. Although, I have to say that as I got in the car after out last visit, I heaved a huge sigh of relief to be away from the curiosity of a thousand eyes.
Our journey home was punctuated by an unplanned stop at a Sikh Temple, and the birth place of Guru Nanak. We sat for a long time, in the serenity within the walls, dipping our feet in their large marble pool used for washing by Sikh visitors. It was surprisingly cool, and as we all sipped tea, I don't think any of us wanted to return to the craziness of Lahore.
Sameena, who had not known about any religions besides Christianity and Islam, took a great interest in the temple and asked lots of questions about Sikhism. After obviously giving it a lot of thought, she asked in the car; "But if there are all these religions and all these Gods, how are we meant to know which is the right one?"
People are fascinating. People who don't know that others worhip different Gods. People who cannot read, who don't know where Europe is and have never seen the sea. People who have never ridden in a car, who can't tell the time and who think all white people are obese, can still be some of the most interesting and multi-faceted people I've ever met. Discovering this makes me smile and yet leaves a knot of sadness somewhere deep inside.
Friday 29 June 2012
Tuesday 19 June 2012
The Lahori Summer
I have resisted writing about the weather so far, mainly because I know that it is a much mocked and dull 'English' pastime.
However, after three months, I can no longer avoid it. For a few weeks now, the rising heat has been the most central aspect to my life. Well the heat and its trusted companion: load shedding, ie the many hours of the day when there is no electricity.
Lahoris with the means are experts at dealing with load shedding. In our office we have a complex web of battery powered UPSs which are connected to the most essential apparatus, such as fans and computers. We even have a tiny generator for emergencies. As Lahore gets hotter and hotter, electricity fails for more hours each day. The cruel load shedding joke: the more desperate for air conditioning and fans your become, the less they work. Our UPSs make these ominous boooooooop booooooop booooooop sounds when they are just about to die, usually after about 30 minutes. Always accompanied by shouts in the office of, "save your work, save your work, save your work - the UPS is about to die."
My working day is planned around the electricity dying. When I first got here, I swore and kicked my computer when it died five times a day. Now, I'm like a savvy Lahori. I know when it's coming. I know at precisely 10.28am and I have almost 4 minutes to frantically finish my email and press 'send' before my screen goes black and I relax for 25 minutes until we get electricity back. Even unexpected power failures do not reduce me to tears any more. Every two words I press save.
At night, I know I will not have air conditioning in my room between 10pm and midnight. So if I'm really tired, I must sleep before 10pm or I won't sleep before midnight. Huh, bloody load shedding, you are not going to catch me out. A good deal of my life is spent planning around the electricity going, exactly so that a good deal of my time is not spent crying over the electricity going.
But still, inconveniences and annoyances aside, it wasn't until three weeks ago that I experienced heat that could truly be termed unbearable. Up until then, it had hovered around 42 to 43 degrees celcius and I quite smugly noted that, apart from at night, I didn't need air con. And then it happened. The temperature soared a mighty 6-7 degrees to 47-48. Now, when I sit at my desk, I feel sweat drip-dropping down my skin. I grow accustomed to my permanently sweaty forehead. I do everything slowly. I do not even dare to type fast, as I just can't afford to use the extra energy. Eating is only done as an absolute necessity. And no matter how much water I drink, it's never enough to keep hydrated. I complained to a colleague about feeling permanently weak and she responded "of course you're weak - its's 50 degrees right now. We're all weak and we're used to it!"
And then about a week ago, the air con in my room completely stopped working. As I heard the nice comforting whirring sound it makes grind to a halt and not recommence after an hour or two, I knew I was in for a long night. I tried to find a comfortable way to lie but it wasn't possible. The fan swirled the hot air around me, pushing it against me but not cooling me in any way. As the night went on, and insanity crept in, I had shower after shower, the cool water providing temporary relief. I thought I would grow used to it in time, and be able to sleep. But I don't think you can ever really adapt to this heat properly. Even the most accustomed Lahoris suffer if they can't afford air conditioning.
There have been lots of times recently when I have been sure I would get ill, but my body has surprised me with its stalwart steadfastnedness. Despite low level stomach upsets and insomnia, I manage on. The colleague who has been living with me at the office has not been so lucky. After a nasty bout of gastroentitis, she has been unable to get well since. Each time she thought she was maybe improving and ventured back to the office for an hour or two (she moved out, sensibly, to a house with air conditioning that worked) she would leave again. Faint and sick. Finally after a month of this, she has had enough and is returning to the UK next week.
Last week, I went to visit a client in Karachi central jail. We were led to a private visiting room that was even hotter than the usual: so hot that I thought I might suffocate. Instead of focusing on what my client was saying, I just concentrated on breathing in and out, in and out, in and out. I didn't care about my client, in that moment, i just wanted to be free. When we left, my colleague bundled me, embarrassed and laughing, into our car. My white shalwar kameez was completely see through and, as she put it, "you're giving the whole prison a great show of your pink gori flesh".
As with almost everything in Lahore, I have noticed that rather than uniting people, the overwhelming, all-consuming heat divides. Those who have air conditioning and generators and those who do not. (Even load shedding is worse in poor areas.) Those who escape Lahore in May/June to the fresh Pakistani mountain air and those who have no means of escape. Those who are able to remove themselves from the heat, and those for whom it becomes a norm, a way of life and existence. I, in part, have joined the latter group, although I recognise the very considerable limits to this: choice, short duration, escapes to air conditioned restaurants, cafes etc. But watching how others, and even myself, cope, I have seen how much discomfort, and even suffering, people can endure, and even laugh about. I wondered how the man I visited in prison did not die from the heat. But people do not die from these these things it seems; they may not ever adapt, but they manage on.
However, after three months, I can no longer avoid it. For a few weeks now, the rising heat has been the most central aspect to my life. Well the heat and its trusted companion: load shedding, ie the many hours of the day when there is no electricity.
Lahoris with the means are experts at dealing with load shedding. In our office we have a complex web of battery powered UPSs which are connected to the most essential apparatus, such as fans and computers. We even have a tiny generator for emergencies. As Lahore gets hotter and hotter, electricity fails for more hours each day. The cruel load shedding joke: the more desperate for air conditioning and fans your become, the less they work. Our UPSs make these ominous boooooooop booooooop booooooop sounds when they are just about to die, usually after about 30 minutes. Always accompanied by shouts in the office of, "save your work, save your work, save your work - the UPS is about to die."
My working day is planned around the electricity dying. When I first got here, I swore and kicked my computer when it died five times a day. Now, I'm like a savvy Lahori. I know when it's coming. I know at precisely 10.28am and I have almost 4 minutes to frantically finish my email and press 'send' before my screen goes black and I relax for 25 minutes until we get electricity back. Even unexpected power failures do not reduce me to tears any more. Every two words I press save.
At night, I know I will not have air conditioning in my room between 10pm and midnight. So if I'm really tired, I must sleep before 10pm or I won't sleep before midnight. Huh, bloody load shedding, you are not going to catch me out. A good deal of my life is spent planning around the electricity going, exactly so that a good deal of my time is not spent crying over the electricity going.
But still, inconveniences and annoyances aside, it wasn't until three weeks ago that I experienced heat that could truly be termed unbearable. Up until then, it had hovered around 42 to 43 degrees celcius and I quite smugly noted that, apart from at night, I didn't need air con. And then it happened. The temperature soared a mighty 6-7 degrees to 47-48. Now, when I sit at my desk, I feel sweat drip-dropping down my skin. I grow accustomed to my permanently sweaty forehead. I do everything slowly. I do not even dare to type fast, as I just can't afford to use the extra energy. Eating is only done as an absolute necessity. And no matter how much water I drink, it's never enough to keep hydrated. I complained to a colleague about feeling permanently weak and she responded "of course you're weak - its's 50 degrees right now. We're all weak and we're used to it!"
And then about a week ago, the air con in my room completely stopped working. As I heard the nice comforting whirring sound it makes grind to a halt and not recommence after an hour or two, I knew I was in for a long night. I tried to find a comfortable way to lie but it wasn't possible. The fan swirled the hot air around me, pushing it against me but not cooling me in any way. As the night went on, and insanity crept in, I had shower after shower, the cool water providing temporary relief. I thought I would grow used to it in time, and be able to sleep. But I don't think you can ever really adapt to this heat properly. Even the most accustomed Lahoris suffer if they can't afford air conditioning.
There have been lots of times recently when I have been sure I would get ill, but my body has surprised me with its stalwart steadfastnedness. Despite low level stomach upsets and insomnia, I manage on. The colleague who has been living with me at the office has not been so lucky. After a nasty bout of gastroentitis, she has been unable to get well since. Each time she thought she was maybe improving and ventured back to the office for an hour or two (she moved out, sensibly, to a house with air conditioning that worked) she would leave again. Faint and sick. Finally after a month of this, she has had enough and is returning to the UK next week.
Last week, I went to visit a client in Karachi central jail. We were led to a private visiting room that was even hotter than the usual: so hot that I thought I might suffocate. Instead of focusing on what my client was saying, I just concentrated on breathing in and out, in and out, in and out. I didn't care about my client, in that moment, i just wanted to be free. When we left, my colleague bundled me, embarrassed and laughing, into our car. My white shalwar kameez was completely see through and, as she put it, "you're giving the whole prison a great show of your pink gori flesh".
As with almost everything in Lahore, I have noticed that rather than uniting people, the overwhelming, all-consuming heat divides. Those who have air conditioning and generators and those who do not. (Even load shedding is worse in poor areas.) Those who escape Lahore in May/June to the fresh Pakistani mountain air and those who have no means of escape. Those who are able to remove themselves from the heat, and those for whom it becomes a norm, a way of life and existence. I, in part, have joined the latter group, although I recognise the very considerable limits to this: choice, short duration, escapes to air conditioned restaurants, cafes etc. But watching how others, and even myself, cope, I have seen how much discomfort, and even suffering, people can endure, and even laugh about. I wondered how the man I visited in prison did not die from the heat. But people do not die from these these things it seems; they may not ever adapt, but they manage on.
Sunday 10 June 2012
Feminist lawyers and illiterate women
Contrary to expectations, I have not found inequality between men and women to be high up on my agenda of problems to worry about - most of the time at least. The office I work in is run by strong, powerful women, who all benefit from an excellent education, supportive families, ambition and, naturally, lots of money.
These young women think, with good reason, that they will be able to achieve as much as their male counterparts. I would even go so far as to say that career-wise some things are actually easier for these women than they would be in London. My boss, for example, has a pampered toddler who lives just around the corner from the office. The toddler has a live-in nanny. The toddler and nanny have a driver, who brings them in to the office at least once a day to see mummy. Mummy holds office meetings with toddler on her lap. Such a scenario is hard to imagine in London. If expense and distance between home and work didn't make it impossible, unaccommodating views about children in the office certainly would.
My female colleagues still always seem to feel that they must fight the cultural bias towards men. They are competitive towards male lawyers and some treat the men who work beneath them with a fair amount of contempt. Shouting at the office is a daily occurrence, and one that is rarely challenged.
One particularly hardworking and affable colleague is employed as an investigator, and is excellent at his job. However, his English is only just passable and his IT skills are pretty shocking. (English seems to be an almost perfect indicator of class - the better someone's English is, the higher up the social scale they sit.) Recently, half way through a long and complex meeting, I saw the look of panic cross his face when he was told to take minutes. He spent the whole of the following Sunday typing up the minutes, at a rate of a half-a-word-a-minute, until I couldn't take it anymore and offered to do the typing. He later received a ten-minute dressing down in front of the whole office for saving the document in the wrong format and was called 'stupid', 'lazy' and 'useless'. When I brought up this treatment with my boss, I was merely told they had no choice but to be tough with the men or they wouldn't respect the authority of the women in charge. And, although I'm sure there is more than a grain of truth in this, I suspect there are, in fact, other, more substantial reasons for this treatment: status and social hierarchy.
An aspect of 'feminism', which strikes me as ill thought through (at best) is rich Pakistani women judging poorer women for veiling. It seems to be lost on some people that in Pakistan it's a hell of a lot easier to wear tight jeans and a tank top when jumping in and out of your posh car, with a driver at its wheel, than when you have to walk the streets or ride public transport.
However, despite these initial observations, a recent visit to a prison with my boss made me to see my female colleagues' assertiveness/ agressiveness in a difference light. Whilst we were treated kindly on arrival at the prison - allowed to wait in an office and given tea and biscuits - this was actually a pretext for patronising and making everything difficult for us. We were told there was no way we could be allowed to do what we'd come to do. Faced with lots of official-looking men telling me no, my instinct was to retreat and eventually accept defeat. But luckily my colleague took an infinitely tougher stance and fought them every step of the way. Every time they refused us something, she grew more determined. She cited law, journalism and politics. She teased, cajoled, raised her voice. And she did not back down. I was so impressed that rather than coming out of the prison, feeling the size of a Borrower, she came out (admittedly hours later) with everything she came for. It gave me a glimpse of how hard she fights to be taken seriously as a female lawyer, and that I shouldn't take her achievements or the achievements of those like her lightly.
For poorer women, of course, things can be difficult on a very different scale. I have been teaching our cook, Sameena, English. She was very keen to learn, but, as she's illiterate I thought it was easier and more useful to stick to spoken English. However, during our first lesson, she woefully picked up an exercise book from my desk and mimicked writing. She was so happy when i started teaching her the alphabet that it suddenly struck me, like never before, how strange and difficult life must be if you can’t read a single letter. The English I'm teaching her will not be any significant use, but she gets to join, to a very small extent, the exclusive club of words, which means the world to her.
It quickly became evident that she's very bright, and unfortunately much brighter than her husband, who I've also been teaching. I decided to separate their lessons, as he was getting angry and frustrated by her picking things up more quickly than him. One day, I made the mistake of saying, "you are both very intelligent", to which Javad, who is usually a well mannered and kind man, replied, "I'm intelligent and Sameena is stupid," with such force and anger that I was quite taken aback.
Don't get me wrong. Illiteracy in Pakistan is a hardship faced by men and women. But, whilst the overall literacy rate in Pakistan hovers at about 46% (a shocking figure in itself), the literacy rate among women is only 16%. This figure gives some idea of how unusual my experiences have been and how different the picture is for ordinary women. Particularly in rural areas, it is not uncommon for girls to receive no education at all. Sameena, having never spent a day in a classrom, is the absolute norm.
Women get a tough deal in Pakistan. Especially poor women. But then all poor people get a tough deal in Pakistan. Someone said to me: " I just don't understand why these women don't want to fight for their rights." But how can a woman who can't read be expected to care about her rights? And how can a man who can't afford to feed his family be expected to care about his wife's rights?
These young women think, with good reason, that they will be able to achieve as much as their male counterparts. I would even go so far as to say that career-wise some things are actually easier for these women than they would be in London. My boss, for example, has a pampered toddler who lives just around the corner from the office. The toddler has a live-in nanny. The toddler and nanny have a driver, who brings them in to the office at least once a day to see mummy. Mummy holds office meetings with toddler on her lap. Such a scenario is hard to imagine in London. If expense and distance between home and work didn't make it impossible, unaccommodating views about children in the office certainly would.
My female colleagues still always seem to feel that they must fight the cultural bias towards men. They are competitive towards male lawyers and some treat the men who work beneath them with a fair amount of contempt. Shouting at the office is a daily occurrence, and one that is rarely challenged.
One particularly hardworking and affable colleague is employed as an investigator, and is excellent at his job. However, his English is only just passable and his IT skills are pretty shocking. (English seems to be an almost perfect indicator of class - the better someone's English is, the higher up the social scale they sit.) Recently, half way through a long and complex meeting, I saw the look of panic cross his face when he was told to take minutes. He spent the whole of the following Sunday typing up the minutes, at a rate of a half-a-word-a-minute, until I couldn't take it anymore and offered to do the typing. He later received a ten-minute dressing down in front of the whole office for saving the document in the wrong format and was called 'stupid', 'lazy' and 'useless'. When I brought up this treatment with my boss, I was merely told they had no choice but to be tough with the men or they wouldn't respect the authority of the women in charge. And, although I'm sure there is more than a grain of truth in this, I suspect there are, in fact, other, more substantial reasons for this treatment: status and social hierarchy.
An aspect of 'feminism', which strikes me as ill thought through (at best) is rich Pakistani women judging poorer women for veiling. It seems to be lost on some people that in Pakistan it's a hell of a lot easier to wear tight jeans and a tank top when jumping in and out of your posh car, with a driver at its wheel, than when you have to walk the streets or ride public transport.
However, despite these initial observations, a recent visit to a prison with my boss made me to see my female colleagues' assertiveness/ agressiveness in a difference light. Whilst we were treated kindly on arrival at the prison - allowed to wait in an office and given tea and biscuits - this was actually a pretext for patronising and making everything difficult for us. We were told there was no way we could be allowed to do what we'd come to do. Faced with lots of official-looking men telling me no, my instinct was to retreat and eventually accept defeat. But luckily my colleague took an infinitely tougher stance and fought them every step of the way. Every time they refused us something, she grew more determined. She cited law, journalism and politics. She teased, cajoled, raised her voice. And she did not back down. I was so impressed that rather than coming out of the prison, feeling the size of a Borrower, she came out (admittedly hours later) with everything she came for. It gave me a glimpse of how hard she fights to be taken seriously as a female lawyer, and that I shouldn't take her achievements or the achievements of those like her lightly.
For poorer women, of course, things can be difficult on a very different scale. I have been teaching our cook, Sameena, English. She was very keen to learn, but, as she's illiterate I thought it was easier and more useful to stick to spoken English. However, during our first lesson, she woefully picked up an exercise book from my desk and mimicked writing. She was so happy when i started teaching her the alphabet that it suddenly struck me, like never before, how strange and difficult life must be if you can’t read a single letter. The English I'm teaching her will not be any significant use, but she gets to join, to a very small extent, the exclusive club of words, which means the world to her.
It quickly became evident that she's very bright, and unfortunately much brighter than her husband, who I've also been teaching. I decided to separate their lessons, as he was getting angry and frustrated by her picking things up more quickly than him. One day, I made the mistake of saying, "you are both very intelligent", to which Javad, who is usually a well mannered and kind man, replied, "I'm intelligent and Sameena is stupid," with such force and anger that I was quite taken aback.
Don't get me wrong. Illiteracy in Pakistan is a hardship faced by men and women. But, whilst the overall literacy rate in Pakistan hovers at about 46% (a shocking figure in itself), the literacy rate among women is only 16%. This figure gives some idea of how unusual my experiences have been and how different the picture is for ordinary women. Particularly in rural areas, it is not uncommon for girls to receive no education at all. Sameena, having never spent a day in a classrom, is the absolute norm.
Women get a tough deal in Pakistan. Especially poor women. But then all poor people get a tough deal in Pakistan. Someone said to me: " I just don't understand why these women don't want to fight for their rights." But how can a woman who can't read be expected to care about her rights? And how can a man who can't afford to feed his family be expected to care about his wife's rights?
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