Postcard from Pakistan

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Pakistan postcard part one: Sight​

By Elmira Bayrasli | Published: October 25, 2010

A week ago, I visited what is supposedly one of the most dangerous places in the world: Pakistan. While I do believe the country has serious security concerns, the only threat I came up against was traffic. And that, compared to New York or Istanbul, wasn’t all that bad. Here is the first of my five-part postcard of impressions, through those things that allow us to have them, our senses:

Sight

“Welcome honored donors,” read the banner hanging over the passport control counter at Benazir Bhutto Airport in Islamabad. That, along with hot, musty air, was my greeting to Pakistan, at 3AM two Sundays ago. I had arrived, along with my colleagues Phil Auerswald and Sara Shroff to assess Pakistan’s entrepreneurial landscape.

Not far from the banner, there also hung a framed black and white photo of a gaunt man in a dark textured and triangular hat, similar to the one that Afghan President Hamid Karzai sports. It was Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the revered founder of Pakistan – the land of the pure. Jinnah established the republic in 1947, after gaining independence from the British and breaking from India.jinnah

Jinnah reappeared a half hour later when I entered the lobby of the infamous Marriott Islamabad. He was there again the next day when we visited the Institute of Business Administration in Karachi. Jinnah seemed to be everywhere. The only other place I know of where that happens is… Turkey. The image of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the blue-eyed founder of Turkey, is, like Jinnah’s, ubiquitous throughout Anatolia. Both dominate every government office, school entranceway and public space.

Pakistan and Turkey have a lot in common. As predominately Muslim nations, both have struggled with secularism and Islam. Both have had, as a result, numerous military interventions that have overthrown their respective country’s government. As predominately agrarian societies, Pakistan and Turkey have wrestled with developing their respective economies in order to compete on the global marketplace. For a long time, it was a tough fight. Both countries choked under unemployment, debt, run away inflation and rent seekers. Pakistan still does. Turkey has broken from that cycle.

It broke as a result of the economic liberalization reforms enacted by late Prime Minister Turgut Ozal in the 1980s. With less state-control and relaxed trade and banking laws, Turks embraced entrepreneurship. Overnight, they turned Anatolian cities, more commonly known as “Anatolian tigers,” into textile and manufacturing centers and lifted Turkey’s poor into the middle and upper class. Today, Turkey holds a seat at the G20 and the UN Security Council. Despite being continually rejected by Brussels, it has, by the European Commission’s own account, the fastest (and perhaps only) growing economy. It is an example that beleaguered Pakistan can and should replicate. It should do so with Turkey’s guidance.

One of Islamabad's main roads

Turkey understands Pakistan’s economic struggles because Turkey once endured them as well. “We have common problems and common solutions,” said Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan while visiting Pakistan just last week. Part of Turkey’s solution is taken directly from Washington in the form of aid. *Sigh.* Fortunately, the other part of Turkey’s solution is precisely what Pakistan will help Pakistan develop: investments.

Rather than a money problem, Pakistan suffers from an investment problem. The money that Pakistanis possess is caged. It’s used to cover day-to-day expenses rather than being used as leverage to create new enterprises and, most importantly, jobs. Turkey has discussed opening banks in Pakistan, increasing trade and encouraging its private sector to seek collaboration on construction, infrastructure, engineering, energy, agriculture, telecom and textile opportunities. That is a good start. But more can be done. Here are two suggestions:

* From a historical, religious and cultural perspective, Turkish entrepreneurs and investors are ideal role models and mentors for aspiring Pakistanis with start-up ideas. They can help advise on operating in a Muslim society where entrepreneurship has not traditionally been encouraged or possible, where risk has largely been absent and where failure has always been the kiss of death. Both countries could develop an entrepreneurship exchange and mentoring program where Pakistani entrepreneurs spend time working in Turkey and Turkish entrepreneurs in Pakistan.

* Turkish investors could establish, along with their Pakistani counterparts, a fund, with manageable interest rates and transaction fees, for Pakistani entrepreneurs. It is an idea that American venture capitalists would benefit joining as well. This will help unshackle Pakistan’s paralyzed capital that can then provide the leverage to jumpstart enterprise development and job creation.

It is imperative that Pakistan climb out of its current crisis and into prosperity. There are signs it is prepared to do so. The absence of Jinnah’s photo in the sleek and modern offices of the several entrepreneurs Phil, Sara and I met with was the clearest. Pakistan’s younger generation, while deeply patriotic, is not straightjacketed by the past. They know that while Jinnah may have been their country’s founder, they are its keepers. For now, they’re pushing their black and white past aside in order to keep their focus on what could be Pakistan’s abundantly colorful and high-definition future.

Pakistan postcard part one: Sight | wondermentwoman.com

 

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Pakistan and Turkey have a lot in common. As predominately Muslim nations, both have struggled with secularism and Islam. Both have had, as a result, numerous military interventions that have overthrown their respective country’s government. As predominately agrarian societies, Pakistan and Turkey have wrestled with developing their respective economies in order to compete on the global marketplace. For a long time, it was a tough fight. Both countries choked under unemployment, debt, run away inflation and rent seekers. Pakistan still does. Turkey has broken from that cycle.

And people ask what is the bond between Pakistan and Turkey. I say the political circus on both countries is very closely matched!

 

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Pakistan postcard part two: Sound​

By Elmira Bayrasli | Published: October 26, 2010

Sound

Pakistan hums with machinery. It is a powerful hum that, in certain instances, drowns out all other sounds. One barely notices the cacophony of Pakistani families who travel in packs, or hears the ‘Allahu akabar’ of the azan, the Islamic call to prayer, or even the jingles of the brightly colored and elaborately adorned trucks and buses whose hoods are decorated with a belly dancer’s jangled hip scarf.

This potent hum, however, is no white noise. It is the reverberation of back-up power generators that are found in most Pakistani businesses, hotels, offices and homes. With persistent outages that can last up to 15 hours daily, self-powered generators are the only viable option, for those who can afford it. I counted five outages sitting in my five-star hotel one night. Yes, Pakistan has an energy crisis.

Pakistan’s government has not adequately responded to this crisis. Rather than repairing outdated power plants that lack capacity production or resorting to alternative and less expensive sources than oil and gas, it has called for a reduction in supply, decreed that “marriage halls will no longer be able to host all-night wedding parties,” and has banned neon signs and brightly-lit billboards. To be fair, Pakistan is afflicted with a host of other plagues including insurgent violence, unemployment, inflation, corruption, weak governance, and crumbling infrastructure, made worse by this past summer’s devastating floods.

Still, without solving the key matter of energy, the country has little prospect of economic progress or defeating the insurgency. “The shortages have crippled industry and led to rioting across Pakistan,” a BBC report says. Energy: Pakistan’s Catch-22.

Pakistani officials blame tax evaders for the problem. “Why should Pakistanis pay their taxes,” one citizen told me, “when they have to pay out of their own pocket for the basic services the government cannot deliver?”

While energy is ultimately a government’s responsibility to provide, it needn’t be government’s burden to produce. There are entrepreneurs that have ideas for solving Pakistan’s energy crisis. Wasae Shaikh, a scrappy and scrawny 25 year old I met at Karachi’s Institute for Business Administration, is one such person. Shaikh, a second-year MBA candidate, wants to set up model villages that produce solar and wind energy. National Geographic sparked his idea.

“I watched this episode about wind farms in Amsterdam,” the trim bearded Shaikh said to me as we stood underneath a large tree in the institute’s courtyard. He thought, “We’ve got wind here in Pakistan. The sun too. We can launch an alternative energy business using solar panels and biomass fuels,” he said pausing to look at me. “I want Pakistan to be self-reliant. We have to give it a try for our people. I want to do it for my people.”

Wasae Shakikh's Talentrepreneur shirt caught our attention on IBA's campus

“For my people,” was a refrain I kept hearing from Pakistan’s youth and its entrepreneurs. Their country may not have enough energy, but they do. And they’re using theirs to pull Pakistan out of its political and economic abyss. Young and bright Pakistani entrepreneurs, who have the option to leave, are staying behind to launch businesses, in such fields as textiles and technology, to help their country. Wasae Shaikh is one example. In the coming days and weeks I will give you others. Through their efforts, Pakistan, I believe, will continue to hum, not to the machinery of generators, but the machinery of this generation.

Pakistan postcard part two: Sound | wondermentwoman.com

 

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Observing elections​

By Elmira Bayrasli | Published: November 2, 2010

In 2000, I traveled to Kosovo to observe that “country’s” first “independent” elections (Kosovo broke from Serbia). In honor of America’s own election day, here’s an excerpt of my experience, adapted from my upcoming book:

“No Guns Allowed” should be enough to get me thinking about whether I should keep the polls open past the 8PM deadline, which is what the rowdy crowd outside wants. Looking at the clock, I don’t have much time left to decide. The minute hand on the clock inches over 7:58. Angry shouts grow louder. Hard soled boots on cracked pavement make their way inside, rhythmically, insistently. I start to laugh.

The Kosovars working with me pause only for a moment and continue with their work. They’ve been watching me come unraveled all day by the numerous complications that have arisen: missing names on voter registration lists; forgotten identification cards necessary to register; women who need help voting, like the one that’s just walked in with her grandson. I stare at them.

“Miss Elmira, Miss Elmira,” one of the Kosovar election workers, all of whom are men, approaches me as I try to regain composure. ”That woman—,” He points to the distinguished lady with grey hair tucked into a blue patterned kerchief that I’m mesmerized by. ”She cannot vote by herself either. They are asking if the grandson can help. What shall we do?”

Among the things that have complicated this election are women who cannot vote by themselves because they’re illiterate. Yup, women in the 20th century who can’t read or write, which is something no one seems to have alerted the OSCE about. That’s the group that brought me over to be an election observer. The OSCE is the international group that was tasked by that other famous international group, the UN, to organize and conduct elections in this former Serbian province that was until recently a war zone.

“Everyone votes alone – no exceptions,” is the OSCE rule.

Except, the OSCE also wants people to vote, which is what I decide is the more important rule to follow. Therefore I’ve been allowing illiterate women to be assisted in casting their ballot all day long. To do anything less would have felt like a betrayal of my own illiterate grandmother back in Turkey. She grew up in a small village in central Anatolia where it was “not appropriate” for a girl to go to school, which is what I imagine many of the Kosovar women here are told as well.

“Miss Elmira?” my young Kosovar colleague repeats. ”What shall we do?” I don’t answer him. I stare intently at the elderly woman who hangs on her grandson’s arm. The grandson is no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. He is awkwardly tall in that way adolescent boys can be, with long lashes and wispy childlike bangs that are mismatched on his grown man frame.

He, however, is not awkward. There is a reassuring confidence on this young man as he makes the case for why he needs to help his nana, as I hear him refer to her, fill out the ballot. Clearly he has done this before. And I recognize it because I too grew up helping my mother who was not illiterate, but who, when I was a child, struggled with English.

As early as I can remember, long before Kindergarten, my mother would have me talk to bank tellers, electricians and telephone repairmen because she couldn’t. She would speak in her native Turkish and I in English. They would speak to me in English, I to my mother in Turkish. I never thought much about how or why we did this. We just did. And I didn’t like it all that much. I especially didn’t like the bank tellers who preferred to talk to other customers and made us wait; tellers who when they did talk to us, were always in a hurry to get rid of us.

“Miss Elmira, Miss Elmira,” one of my election colleagues jolts me out of my trance. ”It’s almost 8 o’clock. What are we going to do about all the people outside? They are getting angrier. Some said they will burn down the school if you didn’t let them vote.” As I look around the damp, drafty, and dilapidated two-level school house, I realize I can’t stall any longer. I have to decide whether to keep the polling station open. I turn to one of my Kosovar colleagues. ”Let me go outside to see how many people re standing in line.” He tries to stop me, as does the security guard. ”Why don’t you stay here and I’ll go?” he asks, the crease in his forehead deepening.

“It’s okay,” I say. ”I’ll just take a quick peek. It’ll only be a minute.”

It does take me a minute to walk outside to see there is a crowd of maybe 30, or is it 40, men who descend upon me like a swarm of bees on honey, overpowering my sight and hearing. I run right back inside the school. This makes their voices grow louder. I tell the security guard to keep them out.

“These men are not happy,” the security guard tells me, not so much because I need a translation but because it’s the nicest way of saying, “I told you so.”

“Okay,” I say before he or anyone can ask me “What are we gonna do?” again. “Okay,” I repeat waving my arms up and down as if that will calm the situation. ”Okay,” a third time, “I need to radio into OSCE headquarters and ask for KFOR back up to help keep this situation under control.” KFOR is NATO’s military presence tasked with keeping Kosovo peaceful.

All election observers were given a circa 1980-Jack Ryan-CIA-like walkie-talkie radio. ”Keep this on at all times,” we were told, “in order to get the latest information… And use them if you have any questions or require any assistance.”

I had vowed that I wouldn’t call in for any assistance. I had studied the entire manual thoroughly and taken a weeklong training to become an election observer seriously. As if I were back in junior high school where we were rewarded for raising our hands first or volunteering to kick off a discussion, I would be the model election observer — held up as a shining example.

I walk back into the room where the elections are being held and grab the grey metal box and call in, “HQ, do you read me? HQ, this is Ferizaj.” Ferizaj is the name of the small town I am assigned.

“Go ahead Ferizaj.”

“HQ, I’m in need of back up here. I’ve got several dozen Kosovars still lined up. They’re starting to get rowdy. Do you copy?”

“Copy that Ferizaj. Does that mean that you’re not close to closing down?”

“Negative. I need permission to keep the polls open past deadline.”

“Copy. Let’s get you KFOR back up and we can talk about the poll closure in a few.”

“Copy that,” I say as if I know anything about this language that, as I far as I know, is spoken only on the big screen.

I walk back out to the front door of the school where I’m overwhelmed by the smell of cigarettes and shouts.

After five minutes I hear a large vehicle approaching the school. I peer outside the window and see a large white light. All the men gathered at the front door scatter. That’s when I catch a glimpse of the huge tank that’s just pulled up and parked itself in front of the school. Several men in khaki helmets and khaki clothes get out. They’re all holding machine guns and wearing protective armor. Now I really want to laugh.

I open the door to the school and walk out. One of the soldiers approaches me and in a German accent asks, “Are you the OSCE person?” Speechless, I nod.

“Okay then. We’re here to keep the situation under control. You can go about your business.”

Okay then. I can go about my business – you see you angry, cigarette puffing Albanian bullies? I’m in charge here.

I’m in charge.

****. I’m in charge.

I walk back into the classroom where the voting is going on and take a deep breath. I rub my temples. It’s 8:05PM. There are at least 30 more people outside, some of whom won’t have the proper documentation or appear on this voter list. If I agree to let them vote, we’ll be closing the polls at around 10 or 10:30. A two-hour delay wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t also have to count votes. And if the count is anything like what’s going on in Florida, we’ll be here all night.

I’m tired. I’ve fueled myself on nothing more than coffee. My heart races at the thought of being here until the wee hours of the morning. I pace. It’s a regular sized classroom with high ceilings, a few worn wooden desks and broken chairs. There are a few alphabet posters on the wall. Education in Kosovo seems no different than it is in Brooklyn.

As I walk up one side of the room, I catch a glimpse of the elderly woman with the blue kerchief. She’s still got her arm tucked into her grandson’s. They walk towards me. My spine goes slack. ****. I can’t handle another person yelling at me. I turn away and walk in the other direction toward the door and into the hallway. They follow behind.

“Excuse me lady, excuse me,” the boy calls after me. I stop and turn around. I’m cornered in the hall. There’s nowhere to go. No bathroom to duck into. No person to hide behind.

The old lady approaches me, opens her arms and puts her head against my chest. I let out a gasp, unsure of what is going on. My arms are paralyzed underneath this little woman, who won’t let go. One of the Kosovar election workers joins us in the hall. He starts talking to the grandson.

“The lady wants to thank you for giving her the chance to vote, – for giving Kosovo this chance for freedom.” She lets me go without uttering a word and again clutches her grandson’s arm. They walk away.

I walk back into the classroom and pick up the walkie-talkie.

“HQ this is Ferizaj do you copy?”

“Go ahead Ferizaj.”

“Thanks for the KFOR backup. With your permission I’m going to keep the voting going.”

“Copy that Ferizaj. You’re not the only one. It’s going to be a late night.”

“Great. That’s why were here, right?”

Observing elections | wondermentwoman.com

 

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Pakistan postcard part three: Taste​

By Elmira Bayrasli | Published: November 3, 2010

Taste

“I’d like a glass of wine,” I said to the waiter as he handed me a menu in the garishly lit hotel restaurant in Karachi. It was my first night in the country. Jetlagged, I was looking forward to red wine and pizza before heading to bed. “Oh, I’m sorry madam, we don’t serve alcohol in the restaurant,” he apologized. “May I suggest you go to your room and call room service? We are allowed to serve you alcohol in your room.” No alcohol, because it’s an “Islamic” republic.

Until that point, it hadn’t sunk in that I was in the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. Having traveled to Muslim countries before, where mosques do not negate martinis, it didn’t occur to me that the south Asian country was actually… Muslim. After all, it was a country where generals dominated, not mullahs. It was a country where a female prime minister once reigned and where a whole cadre of women worked, some leading their own enterprises. Those that I saw were not covered. Some women I saw on the street were in modest Islamic dress with head covering, (no burqa sightings), as were the majority of Pakistani men who wore a taqiyah, an Islamic yarmulke, and sported the traditional Islamic beard. Everyone interacted without any overt segregation, even if those men, and much to my shock Western appearing ones as well, avoided the touch and glance of women.

I silently gasped when a clean-shaven government official clad in a suit and tie refused the hand of my female colleague. “He shook yours because you’re not Pakistani,” she said. “But I’m a Muslim,” I replied. “Don’t tell him that.”

I didn’t have to tell another Pakistani man I came across that I was a woman, Muslim or otherwise. His sexism spoke volumes. I didn’t want to see his behavior as such. While I’m an ardent advocate for women’s empowerment, I’m not in favor of blaming or being critical of men. Men are a vital part of ensuring women’s rights.

Yet, it was hard not to feel that this older gentleman, a former Pakistani government official, made it clear that he was not in favor of my rights: my right to speak and my right to be involved in the entrepreneurship project that I had been invited to Pakistan to participate in. “You know,” he stuttered, “I remember a woman from New York who was a real go-getter –- you know the type: blustery, rude, always had something to say. I didn’t like her at all.”

While it may very well be that he didn’t like me and not my gender, I couldn’t help but see his behavior as nothing more than discrimination. I was cut off mid-sentence during several meetings and cut out of several discussions all together. “How do you deal with this?” I asked one of my female colleagues. “Oh this is Pakistan. It is an Islamic country. That is how men treat women here.”

It is tempting to reduce Pakistani men as Neanderthals and blame it on Islam, just as it is to reduce the country, as Cambridge professor Priyamvada Gopal once noted, “to generals, jets and jihadis.”

Not all Pakistani men treat women in such a way. I’ve written about several of them in this Portfolio.com piece, Shamoon Sultan and Monis Rahman. I’ve become friends with others such as Creative Chaos CEO Shakir Husain and writer Mosharraf Zaidi. Both couldn’t be more mainstream — that is, “progressive minded.” “I’d be happy to meet with you,” Shakir said as we were arranging our first get-together at his Karachi-based outsourcing office. “But it can only be an hour. At noon I have to go pick up my son from daycare.”

There is a generational difference between all of these men and my New York-hating government official. Shamoon, Monis, Shakir and Mosharraf are all under 40, which, given Pakistan’s increasing Islamization over the past 20 years, should have made them more chauvinistic. While there is no doubt that a large part of Pakistan’s society is insufferably sexist, it is not true that Islam has turned every man — in Pakistan or elsewhere — into a misogynist. The fear of letting go of traditions and the inability to open one’s mind to change is the root of not only the country’s anti-woman scourge but one of the reasons for its fragile and failing state. That is what left me with a most bitter taste.

The beer I was left no choice to order that first night in Karachi did too. When I called for room service I was told, “Oh sorry madam, we don’t have any wine.” I let out a sigh. “I know you would prefer wine,” said the gentleman on the other end of the phone. “Wine is a lady’s drink,” he paused. “I prefer it too.”

Pakistan postcard part three: Taste | wondermentwoman.com

 

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Pakistan postcard part four: Smell​

By Elmira Bayrasli | Published: November 7, 2010

Smell

It brought tears to my eyes. As soon as the astringent yet sugary scent that wafted through the Marriott Karachi hit my nose, my stomach tightened: someone was cooking onions.

I hate onions. There’s no real explanation for it. I just do. And that’s a very big problem for me wherever I go. The powerful bulb, worshiped by the ancient Egyptians, is the key ingredient in just about every dish everywhere. That has made ordering in a restaurant tiresome – for both my fellow diners and me. “Please, no onions,” has become my predictably Pavlovian platitude. That was no exception in Pakistan.

One cannot escape the scent of onions in the south Asian country. It, far more than curry, is the basis of Pakistan’s rich and meat-heavy cuisine. That is why Nishan Channa, a 25-year old MBA student at Karachi’s Institute of Business Administration (IBA), has launched an onion business.

“I’m sorry that you don’t like onions,” Channa said to me as we sat on the maroon, beige and navy striped couches of the Marriott Karachi. “But you can generate lots of things from onions,” he said with a smile, earnestly trying to convince me to change my mind.

Channa is attempting to generate a business that utilizes “100 percent” of an onion’s resources, producing “zero wastage.” His idea: first, sell fried onions, a staple in Pakistani kitchens, to local restaurants and hotels. He’s already started with Karachi’s popular BBQ Tonite, an Olive Garden-esque eatery. Then, use the peels as biomass fuel to produce electricity and whatever waste that is leftover as cattle feed.

YouTube - A Pakistani MBA student's pitch for his onion venture

It’s an idea that many others outside of Pakistan have already run with. That Channa is, in present-day Pakistan, fascinated me. Agriculture is no longer the country’s main economic driver. Following the global trend, Pakistan has largely become a service-based economy. Given nearly 60 percent of the population is illiterate, that strikes me as a problem – perhaps the cause of Pakistan’s problems… But I’ll leave the economists to analyze that. I’m more interested by Channa’s interest, not in gadgets or, (forgive the cliché), guns, but in onions – and using them to solve the country’s severe energy and economic crisis (see previous posts).

In today’s uber-connected-Social Network-reality TV-obsessed world, young minds are eager, more than ever, to claim their 15 minutes. Ideas seem to be born not for utility but out of vanity, or worse yet, anger. Channa’s desire to be Pakistan’s Mr. Onion is a welcome contrast to that. It is a clear signal that practical, perhaps even old-fashioned, solutions to solve Pakistan’s problems exist. And they do so at the hands of Pakistanis themselves.

Pakistan postcard part four: Smell | wondermentwoman.com