Protest March on the 30th of March (no pun intended!)

‘There will be countless blond (read: bleached) aunties there fully made up wearing pink shalwar kameezes with their white Nike sneakers and ofcourse the handbag; Prada or no shall we settle for Louis Vuitton?’
‘Screw you, I’m wearing pink shalwar kameez.’
‘But no, you’re different, you’re sincere. Anyway all that these women are capable of and will eventually ed up doing is looking around and whispering into so-and-so’s ears, “Hai, look at her necklace, I think I should get it copied from Carat, haina?” This will be your anti-war march, these are the sort of people who will be in the forefront.’

So wearing my pink shalwar kameez and brown (not white) sneakers I set out for the march at 3.40pm, on 30th March, Sunday at the Gaddafi Stadium, Lahore. The much-talked about march had been organized by a handful of women to show support for the citizens of Iraq. Initially starting out as a ‘women-and-children-only’ march, it soon transformed into an all-out protest rally. No gender discrimination here please! We’re all marching to show our solidarity for the collective objective of peace.
I picked up some friends on the way, called up a potential-speaker-chap, Jude Heaton, an English journalist working for an upcoming daily newspaper in Pakistan. Luring him with the simple logic of ‘Whether your support falls with Iraq or no Iraq, you’re getting a scoop for your paper.’
‘Mehru, you’ve got lipstick on your forehead,’ Taimur, friend-in-homespun-cloth said.
‘It’s face-paint,’ Mehru replied, voice heavy with superiority showing him the “NO-WAR” sign painted across her forehead.
We reached Gaddafi at ten past four. Carrying our posters while identifying parked cars, we made our way to the march. The march was supposed to begin at 4.00pm sharp, from Gaddafi Stadium upto the Liberty Market carpark. Images of carpark rallies whirled around in my head. Mental visions of revolutionary peaceniks standing up on cars to deliver fiery, rousing speeches rose and sank in my mind, stimulating my imagination that was already functioning overtime.
Fifteen minutes into the march, I was hot and sweaty and my voice was beginning to show signs of strain. Upon entering the gates, I was immediately made aware of the copious amounts of people who had all shown up. Women with banners, children who had painted their faces, men chanting loudly – this is people power, I thought.
We might be speaking out on deaf ears, but atleast we’re speaking. We’re gathering our forces together, assembling ourselves, and unifying the masses. We may not have many weapons at hand, lest of all weapons of mass destruction but don’t underestimate us just as yet. We call ourselves citizens of the world.
‘No blood for oil,’ I shouted. People around me quickly catching on. It was infectious; the atmosphere was suffused with excitement. The sun shone down upon us, we were a group of tired, weary marchers who were yet in high spirits. Rema, (a friend) quickly translated into Urdu. Mass appeal at work. ‘Nahi, nahi, nahi, nahi, khoon keh liyay teel nahi.’ No longer will we remain silent, I thought. The slogan of a peace conference came to mind; we who believe in freedom shall not rest until it comes. ‘Give Bush a push,’ was soon substituted with ‘Bush is bullshit.’
‘Make love, not war,’ Mehru yelled. Taimur quickly altered it to suit his need of the hour, ‘Make wine, not war.’ At once contending and cooperating. We marched on, thirsty and drained of energy but our voices somehow found the will to carry on. The rest of the marchers in silent protest, either joined in or looked on, amused and admiring in turns. ‘Make shade, not war,’ I cried out in protest to the severe sun.
We reached the carpark that had been cleared of cars. So much for my quixotic car-park-rally. A dua (prayer) was said for the welfare of Iraq. All too soon the carefully assembled crowd began to disperse. I went up to a woman speaking on the microphone (she was thanking everyone for coming and informing them that the rally was over), and asked her if there would be any speeches. To my knowledge a rally isn’t a rally without soul-stirring speeches, psyching emotions and setting minds ablaze with the powerful eloquence at command. The woman brushed me away. Added to that she refused to hand over the microphone. Looking at the dwindling crowd, I was stirred into action. Abeera’s (another friend) mother managed to obtain a microphone for me, and I took it upon myself to address the crowd. People began to turn around and come back while others closer to the stage formed a circle around me to be able to catch my words. The acoustics weren’t all that great and I wasn’t very adept at shouting into a microphone. Painfully aware of my inability to address the gathering in Urdu, I soon handed over the microphone to someone more capable. Rema and Mahgul then took over, (we, my friends and I, appeared to have monopolised the microphone system) and in an attempt to inspire the diminishing crowd began to reiterate their protest-chants once more. Jude then came forward to address the crowd, speaking about his experience as an Englishman in Pakistan. He appealed to mass anti-Blair and anti-Bush sentiments, betraying his nationality along the passageway to justice. Applause rang out, everyone appeased that a gora was siding with him or her. Soon everyone was coming and airing their views on the speaker system showing support for Iraq and condemnation for the American foreign policy.
Some time later, I found myself sitting on the steps of the now empty carpark. Exhausted yet exhilarated, I turned my gaze skywards to where the sun was now sinking.

‘Do you really think this made a difference?’
‘Even if it didn’t, it did. You get me?’