'Can I ever return home?'

[Jango]

Here in Oman, people wait for the azaan through the loudspeaker , it is very rhythmic , so you dont poke into others matters, especially of you dont know nuts about their religion !

 

[notsuperstitious]

The day we invent one that can rattle your head in India .. you complain about it.
Commenting on stuff you can never have an idea about.. borders on the line between oversmart.. and overly stupid.

They have invented one that rattles my head in India, its right next to my house in India.

Everyone who is bothered by it has a right to complain and express opinions on it and a death threat or some other hypersensitive abusive reaction is exactly the kind of response one gets.

Its neither oversmart nor stupid, its sad.

 

[SQ8]

They have invented one that rattles my head in India, its right next to my house in India.

Everyone who is bothered by it has a right to complain and express opinions on it and a death threat or some other hypersensitive abusive reaction is exactly the kind of response one gets.

Its neither oversmart nor stupid, its sad.

Its your nation.. go ahead and do it.
But please stick to complaining in India.
I have one that goes off with a azan that sounds like a cat is being squeezing at 4 am .. but I dont mind it since it signals time for my prayers.
prayers which are important to Muslims... and therefore most of us have no problem.
and if we have no problem on THIS side of the border.. please do not tell us that it is a problem for us.

 

[notsuperstitious]

Its your nation.. go ahead and do it.
But please stick to complaining in India.
I have one that goes off with a azan that sounds like a cat is being squeezing at 4 am .. but I dont mind it since it signals time for my prayers.
prayers which are important to Muslims... and therefore most of us have no problem.
and if we have no problem on THIS side of the border.. please do not tell us that it is a problem for us.

When did I say it is a problem for YOU? That the OP said. The debate was generic as the debate with loudspeakers started with a Bangladeshi's comment, so it seemed to be a generic one about loudspeakers and their nuisance value.

I did not realise a Bangladeshi could comment on matters 'that side' of the border as long as the comments followed the mob line!

 

[VCheng]

I have followed this debate with some interest.

Please note that I am not questioning the needs for a public Azan, but with so many mosques, it takes a long time for all the moulvies to complete their azans, one after the other usually, sometimes for over ten or fifteen minutes.

A centrally disseminating azan communicated through all the speakers at the same time would make for a much more effective and short message, don't you think?

 

[John Doe]

The day people can shoot a goddamn langoor monkey freely in India because it hurt their child.. is the day you can make a comment.

This is not a good example because of course you can shoot a monkey in India if it is a serious menace. There is no religious issue here, practically speaking.

 

[Aslan]

I have followed this debate with some interest.

Please note that I am not questioning the needs for a public Azan, but with so many mosques, it takes a long time for all the moulvies to complete their azans, one after the other usually, sometimes for over ten or fifteen minutes.

A centrally disseminating azan communicated through all the speakers at the same time would make for a much more effective and short message, don't you think?

Something that is done in many places, one that comes to mind is Abu Dhabi where the Mosques are all connected to the Sheikh Zaid mosque. But not possible in Pakistan. But the point still stays the loud speaker will be used.

 

[untitled]

@fateh71
Do you have problems with Church bells too ? They Ring every hour .... more than the Azan.

That Lady in the article seems definitely biased .... In the UK you can hear Church bells but cant publicly call the Azaan.
She did not complain about the Big Ben either even though she lives in London

 

[VCheng]

Something that is done in many places, one that comes to mind is Abu Dhabi where the Mosques are all connected to the Sheikh Zaid mosque. But not possible in Pakistan. But the point still stays the loud speaker will be used.

I was restricting my comments to Pakistan, since that is what the original article speaks about.

One short azan is much different than a loud incomprehensible cacophony spread over several minutes.

 

[Aslan]

I was restricting my comments to Pakistan, since that is what the original article speaks about.

One short azan is much different than a loud incomprehensible cacophony spread over several minutes.

I didnt get what you mean by a short Azan, it is what it is and cant be edited.

 

[VCheng]

I didnt get what you mean by a short Azan, it is what it is and cant be edited.

One azan does not take very long, and is pleasing to hear.

Lots of azans starting and finishing at various times for the same namaz is a loud disjointed chorus.

 

[Farooq]

I'm puzzled by the responses -- What exactly is she saying that you take exception to ??

the responses indicate a total rejection of the secular parasites in Pakistan

 

[muse]

While the article is about the constant threat of violence in Pakistan and how that has effected a family, for the Pakistani respondents, it's really about what their definitions of Islam are -- Awwal au Ahir, the beginning and the end of all propositions in Pakistan is the divisive quality of Islamist ideology.

While the central theme of the article is the prevalence of religious inspired violence, to most respondents, the fact that the author is successful, lives overseas, is not defensiveness and can speak truthfully about the source of the violence ion Pakistani society, are unacceptable. Afterall, not all can be taxi drivers, mercenaries or slaves in Arabia.

 

[VCheng]

While the article is about the constant threat of violence in Pakistan and how that has effected a family, for the Pakistani respondents, it's really about what their definitions of Islam are -- Awwal au Ahir, the beginning and the end of all propositions in Pakistan is the divisive quality of Islamist ideology.

While the central theme of the article is the prevalence of religious inspired violence, to most respondents, the fact that the author is successful, lives overseas, is not defensiveness and can speak truthfully about the source of the violence ion Pakistani society, are unacceptable. Afterall, not all can be taxi drivers, mercenaries or slaves in Arabia.

Great points, and I will add that the propensity to take a very simple side-issue like azan and convert it into a mess in practice while trying to demonize voices of reason is also very typical.

 

[fd24]

'Can I ever return home?'

Pakistan has changed radically since Moni Mohsin left for London 15 years ago. While part of her yearns to go back, she's appalled by the everyday violence, intolerance and corruption. And she fears for the family she left there

Earlier this year, while in Pakistan, I visited my village where I share a house with my sister. Built nearly 300 years ago by an ancestor, it's a traditional courtyard house with fountains, frescoes and wooden balconies. It's also next door to a mosque mounted with powerful loudspeakers. Since we were staying the night, I sent a polite request to the mosque's imam. Would he, just this once, just for the dawn prayer, in line with age-old tradition, call the faithful to prayer in his own voice, instead of using the loudspeaker? He obliged. Two days later someone sent an anonymous note to the house. Before you make any such demands again, it read, remember what happened to Salman Taseer.

Taseer, governor of Punjab, Pakistan's most populous province, was assassinated in January by a fanatical member of his own security guard for proposing a review of Pakistan's contentious blasphemy laws. Taseer was a flamboyant figure who made no secret of his liberal views and lifestyle. Ecstatic lawyers showered his murderer with rose petals and mullahs led thousands in street demonstrations in support of the blasphemy law. Some Pakistanis who live in the west and enjoy every one of its hard-won liberties, set up Facebook pages lauding Taseer's murderer as a hero. Middle-class kids, who salivate over Angelina Jolie and dream of a green card, condoned the murder of "an immoral, westernised liberal". Taseer's murder and its aftermath marked a turning point in my relationship with my homeland.

I live in London. I moved here 15 years ago from Lahore, when I married a London-based Pakistani. My London life is full and varied. I have good friends, engrossing work and live in a nice part of town. My children go to good schools, my husband's work is prospering. We live with security and the rule of law. I have a deep affection for Britain because I spent my late teens and university years here. Much of what I am, I owe to my UK education.

Yet a part of me yearns every day for Pakistan. For that is where my siblings and parents live, where my childhood friends are, where I was born and raised, where I got my first job, where I married. It is also the place that fuels my literary imagination. When I inherited the courtyard house, I thought it would be my retirement home.

For the first seven or eight years of our marriage, my husband shared my enthusiasm for Pakistan. Security, though rocky in Karachi, seemed under control elsewhere. The energy crisis hadn't surfaced. The economy was strong and foreign investors considered the country an emerging market. If you earned in sterling or dollars, buying into Pakistan seemed seductive. Today the economy is flailing. There is rampant inflation, unbridled capital flight and virtually no foreign investment. An acute energy shortfall causing interminable power outages has bankrupted thousands of small businesses.

But it's not the economic uncertainty that has dimmed my enthusiasm for my country; it's the violence fuelled by religious extremism. More than 35,000 Pakistanis have died since 9/11 in assassinations, targeted attacks and suicide bombings. Virulent anti-Americanism – stoked last May by the humiliating raid on Osama bin Laden's compound – is radicalising moderate citizens. Xenophobic chat show hosts spread fear and loathing of the west. Murderous fatwas are passed against anyone who dares to question religious laws. The ISI (Pakistan army's feared intelligence wing) threatens journalists who reveal its links with jihadist outfits. Last month, the battered body of Saleem Shahzad, a journalist who was investigating al-Qaida's penetration of the navy, was fished out of a canal. He was the 37th journalist murdered in the past 10 years. Protests by the journalistic community were met by anger from the ISI and a cowed silence from the government.

This is not the Pakistan I grew up in. When I was a child, mullahs were figures of fun. Notorious for their greed, they were the butt of jokes. Now they are powerful figures running vast madrasas that churn out hate-filled, brainwashed terrorists. Backed by the army, and with massive street power, these new mullahs hold the government to ransom. The Pakistan of my childhood was safe and calm. Other than the old Lee Enfield carried by the guard who snoozed outside the local bank, I hadn't seen a gun. Now Kalashnikovs are as ubiquitous as fridges. Our night watchman carried a stick. Now anyone who can afford them has armed guards. In our neighbourhood, where gates were never closed, ordinary middle-class families live behind high walls.

Kidnappings, violent burglaries and car thefts are depressingly common. At any social gathering, say a dinner or a child's birthday, everyone has a story to tell. A friend recounted how her elderly parents were shot in the legs in separate incidents – one in a car theft and another in a burglary. During my last visit to Karachi, I, too, experienced the city's lawlessness. A couple of boys on a motorcycle cruised up to our car as we were turning into a friend's house and tapped on the window. Thinking they wanted directions, I was about to roll down the window when I noticed the handgun the pillion rider was pointing at me. Fortunately, the friend who was driving our car managed to speed off. Like all my friends who have had such experiences, I did not report it because no one trusts the police.

And yet, until Taseer's murder, I had hoped to return. Lots of countries in the developing world, I told myself, had high crime rates. Pakistan, too, would learn to cope. So although I knew we were ruled by venal generals and corrupt politicians, and though we were terrorised by a fringe of hardliners, I clung to the belief that ordinary Pakistanis were decent moderates, who yearned for economic opportunity and the rule of law. That's why I remained emotionally, financially and intellectually invested in Pakistan. I wrote in its newspapers, owned property there and served on charitable trusts. That's why, despite the bombs, the kidnappings, the fatwas I took my children back every year. So they could feel at home there.

Now 12 and nine, my children do love Pakistan. For them, it is indulgent grandparents, cousins, swimming, pets, gardens and badminton. But they are acutely aware of the darker under currents. They avoid crowded places and, accustomed to taking the tube to school and playing in the large local park in London, find their constant supervision restrictive. My daughter gets irritated by my frequent reminders to cover her legs and do up all her buttons. They worry about my sister and brother-in-law, high-profile journalists and critics of the generals and their proxy jihadists. They know their lives are under threat. They question me about militants. Why do they kill? Why can't they let us be? Why do the police never catch them? I answer as best as I can, but they are not satisfied. Meanwhile, I comfort myself with the thought that in every free, fair election since the formation of Pakistan, religious hardliners have been trounced at the ballot box.

But in the wake of Taseer's murder, I realised that it is we liberals who have been marginalised. Thirty years of state-sponsored Islamism inserted into the curriculum and broadcast on the media has produced a new mindset. Whatever the economic aspirations of ordinary Pakistanis, they now articulate their cultural and national identity in religious terms. Nationalism and religious fervour are fused into one. Even mainstream political parties scramble to prove their religious credentials.

The views and loyalties of secular liberals, particularly if they are westernised, are suspect. A recent article by my niece, identifying Pakistan's army as the chief obstacle to peace, received furious criticism in cyberspace. Outraged commentators questioned her patriotism, accused her of being an American agent and suggested that if she found present-day realities in Pakistan unpalatable, she should "pack her bags and leave". It is this culture of intolerance and intimidation that depresses me most.

The few liberals who dare to take on the mullahs live endangered lives. My sister and brother-in-law live under 24-hour protection. Even when my sister does the groceries, an armed guard accompanies her. My parents live next door. When I stay there with my children, I'm uneasy. When we board the plane for London I'm torn between regret at leaving my family behind and relief at getting away unharmed. Safe in London, I fear for my family's security. Every time the phone rings late at night, I panic. As violence and intolerance mount every passing week, I think of the courtyard house and ask myself if I can ever return for good.

But then I remind myself that freedom is not a gift. It has to be fought for. I will return, perhaps even my children will. Not to the country of my childhood, but to another more grownup place, where mistakes have been made but lessons learned.

Moni Mohsin's latest novel Tender Hooks, is published this month by Chatto & Windus

'Can I ever return home?' | Life and style | The Guardian

Guys if you live in the real world you will realize this is simply written to sell books. I think its fake!!