She is a Pakistani Christian. And on Wednesday, I saw her weep.
She was staring at a TV set. It was reporting the assassination of Shahbaz Bhatti, Pakistan’s federal minister for minorities, a Roman Catholic. “What’s going to happen to Christians in this country?” she asked me.
I had no answer. But her question is searingly important. A country should be judged by how it treats its minorities. To the extent it protects them, it stands for the ennobling values of empathy and compassion, for justice rooted, not in might, but in human equality, and for civilization instead of savagery.
Pakistan ought to be exemplary in this regard. After all, ours is a nation of minorities: a patchwork of cultures, ethnicities, languages, and sects. Since independence, we’ve tried to use Islam to bind us together, to undo our inherent and pervasive minority-ness. After the country split in 1971, these appeals to religion expanded under Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and reached previously unimaginable extents under Zia-ul-Haq. They have continued to intensify ever since.
One problem with this approach, of course, has been that our religious minorities, a twentieth of our population, have been left out of our grand national narratives. Five percent may seem like a small proportion, but in absolute numbers it includes almost ten million Pakistanis, which equals everyone in Tunisia, or one and a half times all of Libya. If Pakistan’s religious minorities were a country, they would be more populous than half the members of the UN.
So how have they been treated by Pakistan? Shamefully. They are looked down upon, discriminated against, physically threatened, and not infrequently killed. They are second-class citizens in every sense. Nor has our state offered them much support. Indeed, our state has been actively involved in their oppression.
None of this is new, of course. So, for those fortunate enough to belong to the religious majority, does it even matter?
Yes. Desperately. Minority relations are a microcosm of society. Each individual human being is, after all, a minority of one. And, as Pakistan becomes a country at war with its minorities, it is becoming a country at war with its individuals, with itself, with you and with me, with the human desire to be allowed to believe what we believe. In this direction lies Orwellian Newspeak, an inability to say what we mean, a condition of external dishonesty that inevitably leads to internal dishonesty. Orwell imagined the result of this to be something he called doublethink: people holding “simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of them.”
I find it difficult to imagine a better description of many of our TV talk show hosts — or much of our public discourse — today.
There are three main political positions we hear over and over in Pakistan, and all three are suffused with doublethink. There is the national security position: “America is our enemy; America should give us more aid.” The privileged liberal position: “There should be equal rights for all; I should not have to share my riches with the poor.” And the (remarkably similar) ambitious cleric position: “Religion makes us all equal; only I decide what religion says.”
It is unsurprising that the privileged liberal position is the one most often associated with attempts to protect the rights of religious minorities in our country. It is also unsurprising that it has been largely unpersuasive.
The good news, from a religious minority standpoint, is that the other positions are equally incoherent. (The bad news is that they are much more willing to resort to violence in support of their arguments.)
What Pakistan’s religious minorities need, therefore, is a new position, a position that champions equality while, and this is the tricky part, also championing equality. In other words, a position that dispenses with the illusion that equality can be enhanced in a society prostrate before either its rich or its clerics.
Such a position would also be to the benefit of the country’s economic majority, its poor. For they, too, are looked down upon, discriminated against, physically threatened, and not infrequently killed. They, too, are second-class citizens. They, too, have been actively oppressed by our state.
At its heart, our country’s toxic treatment of its religious minorities is intertwined with its toxic treatment of its impoverished majority. Both groups suffer from the denial of our common humanity. And that, paradoxically, offers great hope. For we can reject false dichotomies between our clerical and our liberal positions, between our minorities and our majority. We can begin the search for common ground that has eluded us as a nation thus far.
We might, for example, shift from disputes over blasphemy laws to actually delivering due process of law, from arguments over curbing radical madrassas to actually building a high-quality state education system, from alternately buying off and fighting tribal chieftains to actually empowering local tribespeople.
Our problems are not insurmountable. Pakistan is, simply put, a land that mistreats its minorities and its majority. It is ripe for a revolution, except that it already has many trappings of democracy: elected assemblies, free media, independent judges. A revolution in our thinking and behavior, brought about by sustained pressure from below, is what is really called for.
Let us be clear: the messy but effective compromises we require can only come about through the dramatically improved functioning of our democracy. But a better-functioning democracy is feared by many with vested interests who benefit from the impaired system we currently have. They must be convinced otherwise.
Above all, we must convince our powerful national security state. Rationally, it is clear that under our current policies, Pakistan is becoming ever less secure. The stability and growth that a well-functioning democracy could bring is our country’s best chance of escaping from its “eagerly-dependent-on-enemy-America” strategic incoherence. Unless, that is, our national security doublethink really boils down to this: “I will protect you; you are the threat.”
For the sake of our vulnerable, which is to say, in different ways, just about all of us, I hope this is not the case. Too much Pakistani blood has already been shed and too many Pakistanis have already gone to bed hungry.
(2011)
Osama bin Laden’s Death
AS NEWS OF terrorist leader Osama bin Laden’s death reverberates in Pakistan, embassies here are shutting down, hotels are ramping up security, restaurants are reporting canceled reservations, and public gatherings like plays, concerts, and lectures are being postponed. The feeling in Lahore is familiar: it is like the dread that lingers over the city in the days after it has suffered a massive terrorist attack.
This time, though, the attack has not yet happened, and the dread spans the entire country. Pakistanis know they may pay a blood price for Bin Laden’s killing. A purported mirror has been broken. Bad luck is to be expected.
Yet as I speak to friends and visit the market there is resignation as well. After a decade of slaughter, many here feel that terrorists are already striking Pakistan as hard as they can, and moreover that al-Qaeda is no longer as powerful as other militant groups. The most common sentiment I hear is that nothing much will change.
That depends, of course, on how the US responds. Barack Obama noted in his speech that “counterterrorism cooperation with Pakistan helped lead us to Bin Laden and the compound where he was hiding.” But he also said that “a small team of Americans carried out the operation” itself. Between these two assertions is a gap open to a horde of questions.