A Strike Against Strike

One sees symbols of “progress” and they at once remind us of the “progressive” and constructive legacy of the leaders who build them.

Germany’s autobahn reflects Hitler’s ambitions, the Tiananmen Square speaks of Mao’s larger than life persona, and the great dams of the United States stand testament to Roosevelt’s gigantic social and economic undertakings during his New Deal years. The list goes on.

Even in Pakistan, you look at things like Karachi’s Steel Mill and it reflects Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s ideals behind his (albeit vague) “Islamic Socialism.” You look at the Lahore-Islamabad motorway and Nawaz Sharif comes to mind. You look at the Karachi underpass and you are reminded of Musharraf.

However, what is one reminded of when he or she sees things like unattended garbage dumps, blackened billboards, burning buses and broken windowpanes? Things more frequently witnessed during strikes.

The MMA and assorted mullah parties spring to mind. This is going to be their legacy. Not the building of roads, factories, schools or hospitals.

My take on it is, they are totally incapable of even thinking about progress and nation building on these terms.

So, last Friday, I sat in an half empty office riding out the mullah alliance’s latest strike call. I lit myself a cigarette and looked around. My roving eyes suddenly stopped at a colleague’s computer screen. He had Osama’s face as a screensaver. I walked towards him and smiled:” You know, that face on your screensaver reminds me of that awfully big pimple I once got as a teenager.”

He didn’t look amused. “A pimple?”

“Yes, a pimple. His face is like a pimple. And sometimes when he appears on all those Al-Queda videos, he starts to look like a very painful boil,” I added.

Finally, my colleague managed to break a smile and shook his head as if saying he had no hope for me. In fact, he said so.

My reply was quick: “What were you hoping for, my friend?” I asked. “That Nadeem will one day finally see the light; rediscover God, repent and then start admiring a mass murderer whose face reminds him of a terrible pimple he got when he was a teen?”

He shot back as rapidly: “He’s not a terrorist! Just because the Americans say he is one does not mean he is one. What does Bush remind you of?” He asked.

“You really don’t want to know,” I replied. “You see, even though I’m not much of a believer in conspiracy theories, even if Mr. Painful Pimple here wasn’t involved in the 9/11 episode, his thinking, his talk, all about destruction, death and all, even this should make him hateful. I mean I fail to understand how can an intelligent man like you admire a boil like him?”

“Whom am I supposed to admire then.” He said. “Musharraf?”

“Not necessarily. I mean, why do you have to admire anyone at all? Is it a must?” I inquired.

He chuckled: “Today’s strike seems to be really bothering you.”

“And it really seems to be amusing you,” I said. “Do you know how many Pakistanis will not be able to earn a living today?”

“For a good cause!” he shot up, with great conviction.

“A good cause?” I asked. “Your wife’s a teacher, isn’t she?

“Yes.”

“And a woman, I presume?”

He at once returned to his I-am-not-amused disposition: “What do you mean? What has my wife got to do with this?”

“Everything,” I said. “The strike is about the MMA and assorted pimple admirers being so ticked off about the changes that have taken place in the Hudood Ordinance. It’s all about women. Your wife included. Do you think being a woman she really agreed with that obnoxious Ordinance?”

“The law is according to the Sharia,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks.”

“Ah, of course,” said I. “It doesn’t matter what women say or think. All that matters is what men say. Especially about what is Islamic and what is not. I pity wives, daughters, sisters and wives of pimple-fans like you!”

“Why are you being so personal about it?” He asked. “You have a picture of Karl Marx on your soft-board; did I ask what your wife thinks of him? Did I ever say to you he looks like a … like a …”

“Like an animal whose name you can’t take?”

“Yes!”

“But the other day you were saying how much your kids love Bugs Bunny?” I said.

“So?”

“Ever heard of Porky Pig?’

“Who?”

“He’s a major character in the Bugs Bunny cartoon series.”

He shook his head again: “You think you have an answer for everything, don’t you? I think you should go home.”

“What?” I shot back. “Going home would mean I am endorsing this strike! Which reminds me, why are you here? You should be at home, since you do agree with the MMA. How come you’re not on strike? Mr. Pimple there would be mighty disappointed in you. What sort of a mujahid are you!”

“MMA have nothing to do with Osama!” he said.

“Of course they don’t,” I said. “Just like Mr. Painful Pimple here has nothing to do with terrorism! But my question really is what does Mr. Pimple got to do with Islam?”

“What do you mean?” He asked, looking genuinely astonished.

“Ah, that question again. What do you mean? I always took you as a pretty intelligent chap. I expect you to know what I mean!” Said I.

“Osama is a Muslim,” he explained, in earnest. “He’s fighting for our cause.”

“And our cause being?” I asked.

“Exploitation of the Muslims by western powers!” He said.

“Really?” I said. “I thought our cause was to get more and more people educated in good schools and colleges, give them the most modern medical facilities, and give them a fair justice system and good, clean cities to live in, jobs, security …? I mean just can’t see how Mr. Painful Pimple’s death threats from a cave or MMA’s strike calls can ever achieve these?”

He thought for a while and then nodded: “I agree with you, but you see, the West will never let us have all this!”

“The West?” I asked. “We ourselves wont let us have all this as long as we keep treating everything from a cricket match to a strike call as a jihad against the infidels and as long as our religious leaders keep thinking more about a woman’s rightful place in the society instead of other more important issues …”

“How come you have become such a supporter of the West?” He interrupted.

“Ah, that’s a nice way of evading questions. But tell me, isn’t your elder brother working somewhere in the United States?” I asked.

“Yes. So?”

“You know he was with me at the University?”

“Yes, I do.”

“He was an activist of the student wing of the Jammat-e-Islami.”

“Yes, I know, and you were a member of that Marxist organization …”

“Yes, National Students Federation,” said I. “Do you know he and other Jammat bullies used to try to beat us up whenever we tried to burn an American flag or shout slogans against Zia-ul-Haq?”

“What’s your point? That he shouldn’t have gone to the States?” He asked.

“No,” said I. “This contradiction is too obvious even for a slow Pimple-fan like you. He was doing that because you people were getting planeloads of dollars for that Afghan jihad of yours. Does he hate the West as much as you do?”

“That’s his business!” He said.

“Exactly!” Said I. “How tolerant and understanding of you. Now show the same tolerance and understanding for the religious and ideological beliefs of people who are not related to you. At least show some concern for their aesthetic sensibilities!”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, that question again. It’s simple, my friend. Get that ugly picture of a painful looking pimple off your computer screen, will you!”

“Wha ….”

“Naaa!” I interrupted. Don’t you ask me that question again. You know what I mean.

Saying this I returned to my seat, shaking my head and remembering yes, how truly awful and painful that pimple I got as a teen really was.