A celebration of nothing, really

In West London, the sun is setting on what is left of the British Empire. Time zones ahead, Pakistan is preparing to live the eve of its inception for the 60th time.

In Islamabad, the city of my birth, young boys are trying to tie large Pakistani flags –made by a Chinese, sold by an Afghan, what loving neighbours we have –to the hoods of their family Toyota Corollas. Tonight, the streets of Islamabad, usually so empty that bored teenagers organise road races during rush hour, will be teeming with people and vehicles. You will see pick-up trucks carrying entire neighbourhoods. You will see motorcycles carrying families of five: the husband at the helm, the 4-year old and the 3-year old behind him, and, behind them, the pregnant wife, sitting side-saddled, trying to keep the chador on her head and the infant in her lap from flying away. You will not see any BMWs: their owners are staying home tonight, complaining about the deafeningly unpleasant noise outside.

This noise, the cacophony of unrestrained laughter and joyous cheers, will make its way along the roads of Islamabad* to the Parliament. The Parliament, the symbol of the collective will of the people in most countries, serves as the venue of the annual Finally-A-Non-Religious-Holiday/Independence Day celebrations in Pakistan. It is cleaned and it is groomed: the grass is trimmed, and the spider webs, I hope, removed. It is, along with all the other major buildings in the capital, heavily decorated: flowers, flags, multi-coloured electric lights, portraits of Jinnah thanking him for the gift of freedom. Tonight, people will gather around it, singing songs (patriotic, romantic, whatever comes really), dancing on the roofs of their cars (men only), and setting off fireworks. The celebrations will last late into the night, for midnight is when it begins.

------------------------

All of the above, of course, is how I remember growing up in Islamabad. It may be very different now, as I have not been present for an Independence Day since I left for the US five years ago. Islamabad today is a very different city, and the capital of a very different country.**

In 2002, we were about to hold our first elections under Musharraf, and there were still a few people around who, deluded by his slogans of Enlightened Moderation and Sab Sey Pehlay Pakistan (Pakistan Before All Else), trusted his intentions and ability. We had just found ourselves on the right side of a mad war of revenge, and were quite content to be earning dollars for our support. There was idealistic talk of resolving lingering issues of provincial autonomy, and the government seemed committed to stamping out regionalism and religious extremism. It appeared that Pakistan, at 55, might just figure out who she really was and where she wanted to go.

What a laugh, then, the past five years have been. We are no nearer to a real democracy than we were in 2002, the regime having side-stepped due processes as it saw fit. The war of revenge that we were so gladly profiting from has come back to bite everyone involved in their posteriors. Regionalism and religious extremism have flourished thanks to the military government’s trigger-happy approach to conflict resolution. At 60, Pakistan is less sure of its identity, and its direction, than it was ever before.

------------------------

It is around midnight in London, the city where you were named, and, some would argue, conceived. So, happy birthday to you, dear Pakistan: may you have many more.

Those who love you will continue to love you, unconditionally, as we always have. But this love has gone unreciprocated for too long, some of us are beginning to complain a little. You love the Americans, and you love the Chinese, and you love the entire Muslim Ummah, but do you love us, those who have loved you without reason or gain? If only we knew what it is that we were doing wrong, we’d change. Just let us know what you want from us, and from yourself: it really is about time. For now, we will go on the streets and celebrate nothing.

------------------------

* Given that Islamabad was meticulously planned, these roads must have been named by someone with a sadistic sense of humour: King Faisal Avenue runs parallel to Ataturk Avenue, and Constitution Avenue is the best-maintained of all the roads in the city. My personal favourite, Shahrah-e-Jumhuriat (Democracy Avenue), remains, quite aptly, the only road in the city whose name is not translated for the benefit of those who cannot read Urdu: the architects and planners of Islamabad, it seems, were well aware from the beginning that our American friends wouldn’t really notice the absence of such a word in our national capital.

**During my last visit, there was a bomb blast near the city centre. A bomb blast!? My friends exclaimed, In Islamabad?! How is that possible? It is, obviously, possible, but the idea of a city, where theft and homicide were unheard of until recently, facing a violent insurgency is, understandably, a tough one to grasp. Silver lining: may be we are a real Pakistani city finally? What say you, Lahore and Karachi?