Author Archives: Sabina Qazi

The fashion ‘moron’

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Feeha Jamshed. Photo by Arif Mahmood

“You can criticise my craft but not my inspiration,” says designer, Feeha Jamshed, leaning forward almost ferociously on the white leather sofa in her drawing room. It’s the one time during this interview that her eyes darken, her mood shifts to something vaguely resembling hostility. Earlier this year, Jamshed’s fashion show titled Minnal was criticised by fashion commentators for being dark. Following the shocking death of her beloved older sister, the show, though beautifully accomplished, was sombre; the atmosphere made even more so by the sad music playing in the background, with models scattering rose petals as they walked the ramp.
Fashion journalists felt that her personal tragedy should not have been portrayed so publicly. This criticism, Jamshed believes, was a contradiction in itself. If they believed that her line was so fantastic, then why did they hold the inspiration against her? Do they forget she is an artist, reminds an admirer.

Actually, forget the artistry for a moment.

At 28, and with no formal degree in designing, Jamshed has not only managed to resurrect her father’s larger-than-life business fearlessly and single-handedly, but also simultaneously launched her very own line. Success has embraced her. Yet, one can tell that the show and expressing herself meant a lot to her. “I don’t have stage fright,” she says, “I don’t get nervous, but I felt my heart pounding when I was doing this show,” she admits, adding, “I came forth with my vulnerability. You’re strong because you face your fears … and I have faced mine.”

For someone whose life in the past few years has been dictated by death and tragedy, she has shown tremendous fortitude. “I give myself a day, and then I come back full throttle,” she says. Her grandfather’s death a few years ago when she was studying in Lahore weakened her legendary father, Tanvir Jamshed (also known as Teejay) already suffering from a heart condition. He had a silent heart attack; and because he was such a high-risk patient senior doctors refused to perform heart surgery. Jamshed says that “A junior doctor offered to do it,” and his heart is now working at 30 per cent capacity. “It has been four years since then,” she says, “my father wanted me to come back anyway and at that time he was in no condition to handle anything.”

But then, “she was always destined to be a fashion designer,” says younger brother, Mustafa. “It was in her blood since she was a little child.” He remembers her designing for actor Marina Khan’s show when Jamshed was just a teenager and admits proudly that “she was destined for greatness and deserved to take over the Teejays legacy.”

Jamshed herself discloses that when she was only 13, she designed for actor, Atiqa Odho in Tum He To Ho. “My father was very busy with something so he told me to do it and it became a big hit.”

Growing up in her father’s shadow couldn’t have been easy, especially since she admits that he’s rather hard to please. But then Jamshed was cut from the same cloth. Anyone who worked with Teejays during his heydays must have known what a brilliant businessman he was. Jamshed is no different. Most enterprising, she started earning independently at 15. Younger sister Maham says, “Feeha was always a merchant,” adding that “with the lack of western wear sold here, she would design and cut gorgeous maxi dresses and skirts. Friends would then ask her to make them clothes. later, it evolved into wedding ensembles. Word got around and at 15 she had a client-based clothes business.”

Also, Jamshed admits that while she was still in school she would save her lunch money – 10 rupees at the time – and instead take Super Crisp packets from home to sell them at the canteen. “In Lyceum, I started to sell brownies,” she says. Maham adds “most people don’t know that she makes the best brownies ever! There was such a demand for those brownies that people would reserve them.”

It was also a time in her life when Jamshed didn’t agree with her father’s philosophy. She would see other designers such as Faiza Samee and Rizwan Beyg make so much more money after selling one lavishly-embellished ensemble while her father made so many clothes which in comparison cost nothing. “I was very immature at the time. I didn’t understand what he was doing. To be in retail and to be inventing as well — that was a big risk to take and he was the only one doing it at the time.”
It was a learning experience, opening her eyes to what this business is really about. “I was wearing sunglasses on a rainy day,” she says seriously. “If you can make clothes for the complete 100 per cent, why cater to the two per cent niche market was his philosophy,” says Jamshed.

It is this philosophy that she works with now. “I did the bridal thing but it was so boring. There is no challenge in that. When I joined Teejays my father gave me cotton and told me to make something for him. I ended up making the most difficult pieces using pleats and making flowy clothing that to most would be possible only in chiffon. Cotton challenged me,” she says. “My best piece came out of 50 samples,” she adds, “I started educating myself at the grass-roots level.” So it was no surprise for most that Alexandra Senes, the director for Pret a Porter, the biggest women’s fashion fair in Europe and PFDC’s French fashion consultant picked Jamshed as one of the Super Eight to represent Pakistan in Paris at the show. As it came hot on the heels of her sister’s death, she turned it down but it was one of those rare moments when her father was proud of her.

Now when stating her choicest designers, she is confident her opinions are well-informed. “My favourites are YSL, Jil Sander, Alexander Wang.” Locally, she is a fan of Kamiar Rokini’s design aesthetic, and she loves Umar Sayeed and Imran Ahmed’s cuts. “I’m a cut-oriented person,” she says decidedly.

Anyone who has ever seen Jamshed at weddings will testify to that fact. Besides the breathtaking silhouettes, her eastern wear almost always has a traditional feel. “I am the only one who has made a sharara jumpsuit,” she says, adding that, “I have a margin of how modern I will go.” For her baat pakki she wore her mother’s old dupatta with a simple suit. Being undeniably beautiful, her charm reminiscent of old-world beauties, at weddings she often looks like she has stepped out of an old black-and-white Indian movie. Even during the interview, despite being dressed in skinny brown pants, a beige shirt and taupe heels, it is obvious from the round gold-and-pearl earrings that she loves all things traditional.

Nida Khan, a stylist at Tariq Amin and a close friend, says Jamshed is very “desi” at heart. “The radio is always on in her room and she loves both Bollywood and Pakistani music.” Both brother and sister admit that their childhood was like a sitcom. “Growing up with Feeha, there was never a dull moment. She used to make us watch all the Indian movies as she used to get so excited about them. She would make me and Maham do choreographed dances from movies. She would make sure we got it right,” says Mustafa, while her sister Maham adds that, “We were always singing, dancing, acting out scenes from movies and our very own scripts. We would perform these improvised skits in front of our extended family and Feeha was the main attraction. She was an entertainer all around and always had the limelight. And she loved it. Our father was always making home videos and she would come in front of the camera and shout ‘Me! Me!’ Her fame doesn’t surprise any of us.”

But this very fame hasn’t come easy; neither was her childhood a perfectly carefree one. “We had to grow up way too soon, too fast,” admits Maham. “But we made the most of it and had a blast. Our friends would love coming over for night-long gossip sessions with us three sisters and our mum. They still do!” Actor Mahira Khan, one of Jamshed’s closest friends says: “We have lived in each other’s homes and called each other’s mothers amma/mama.” Insia Faisal, another friend now living in Singapore says that in their 22 years of friendship, “We have bonded over everything from boys to Bollywood to weight issues to food. We would hold Miss Universe contests when we were children and we would both wear this horrible coconut lipstick when we started wearing make-up.”

“I am a fashion moron,” laughs Jamshed, “I started wearing make-up recently.” And then, smiling widely, she admits that she got her first pedicure last year. But then “I want people to like me for me,” she says, “not because now I have a better haircut.” The ability to laugh at herself while nonchalantly stating her accomplishments makes her fun to speak to. “Feeha is funny even when she’s not trying to be,” says Khan, “you will always see people laughing around her.” Her sister agrees with Khan, saying she makes her laugh no matter what sadness life brings.
“We understand that you can’t live life without friends, good times, and lots and lots of gupshup,” says Maham. The time to chill is always accompanied by Jamshed’s favourite activity, tea and biscuits, say her friends and family.

And perhaps, this pervading sense of joy in her life was the necessary ingredient. From having to deal with the closing down of Teejays all over the world when foreign accounts were frozen in the aftermath of Pakistan’s nuclear blasts – including outlets on the Champs-Élysées in Paris, in Jeddah, even in South Africa, that sold shoes, safari suits and jackets – to dealing with her older sisters’ illness which spiralled out of control three years ago, Jamshed has faced much emotional upheaval. “We sent my sister and mother to Paris for something that was supposed to take only three months. Minnal was very seriously ill, she was kept in an incubator at the facility and we were sending them 20,000 to 25,000 euros each month for her treatment. Whatever Teejays made was being sent to them,” she says candidly.

“But God had other plans,” she adds. Three months became two years, during which time her sister started to recover. Then one day, while getting coffee for her mother at a bistro under their apartment, she disappeared. “She always came home at 7 pm, even in Karachi if she went out after that, I was her chaperone,” says Jamshed. But on that day she didn’t return. Their mother waited in agony for her daughter. She was found four days later, floating in the River Seine.

The attitude of the Paris police was most lethargic and it was after her father went through great lengths to put pressure on the French government that lawyers investigated her untimely death. Nothing conclusive came up except for the fact that she died 10 hours after she disappeared. There is a lot of conjecture, and for Jamshed’s mother, a doctor, the two gashes on her daughter’s forehead were a clear sign that she had been attacked. “My sister was very God-fearing, she would not have killed herself.” How one can retain their sanity in the aftermath of such a mysterious death of the most beloved member of a family is anyone’s guess. But they did find a way. While her father who hadn’t left his room in years found solace in work, going back to the factory for 12 hours a day, Jamshed and her mother turned to God.

“Minnal, my mother and khala have been mureeds of Sheikh Nazim [the Turkish Sufi saint who lives in Cyprus],” she says. She adds that she prays five times a day now. “We need this, you know, it’s where I, too, derive my strength from otherwise I wouldn’t know how to go on.” She plans now to take her mother to Cyprus to visit the Sheikh. It is clear from the way she speaks about her mother that not only does she love her but she admires her as well. “Dealing with my mother in all this has made me strong. After everything she’s been through, her own mother died a month back,” says Jamshed sadly. “Yet she is so tough, and I wonder, if I need to be strong for her, how much stronger do I need to be.” After a moment’s silence, she adds, “I don’t know anyone like her, and this struggle makes me what I am today.”

It is with all this that one wonders how she balances the might of the fashion industry with her deep spiritual proclivity. “Praying has brought me out of my pain and given me peace. Buddhists meditate every day in the morning; we do it five times a day. Religion has never conflicted with my life. It has made me what I am — and I make clothes. It is so easy for me to make a connection between my beliefs and my life.”

“She taught me the pursuit of happiness,” says Maham. It is in the same optimistic vein that Jamshed adds that as far as her career and business are concerned, she will keep evolving. And “I love, love, love children,” she laughingly concludes; we now know marriage is next on the cards.

Listening to Jamshed and her family narrate their roller coaster of a life leaves me stimulated. So young, yet so battle-hardened. Small wonder the young woman defends her inspiration so ferociously.

Necessity as the mother of laws

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The Maulvi Tamizuddin Khan case was the first time when the Doctrine of Necessity was hinted upon

When in 1955, Chief Justice Mohammad Munir said in one of his rulings that “necessity knows no law”, he never knew that this phrase would echo the language of chaos throughout Pakistan’s political history. He argued that the phrase was backed by such laws as Braxton’s maxim, “that which is otherwise not lawful is made lawful by necessity,” and further elaborated by the Roman dictum that ultimately “the well-being of the people is the supreme law.”

Munir used this to indemnify Governor-General Ghulam Mohammad’s high-handed moves against the Constituent Assembly but it would not end there. It would come up again three years later in 1958 when Ayub Khan imposed martial law and took over the government abrogating the 1956 Constitution, and then nearly two decades later in 1978 to legalise the military takeover of General Ziaul Haq. Another two decades later, in 2000, it reared its ugly head justifying General Pervez Musharraf’s overthrow of Nawaz Sharif’s heavy mandate.

The notion of the law of necessity argues that in certain situations the national legal order of a state is disturbed by a ‘revolution’ not considered by the Constitution. When this ‘revolution’ takes place it not only challenges the existing legal framework but serves to demolish the present Constitution. This basically translates into the fact that subversive actions can legally be taken by one man alone for the larger good, whatever that good may be.
The first time this doctrine was hinted at was in the Maulvi Tamizuddin case on March 21, 1955 when the Federal Court led by Munir legalised the dissolution of an entire assembly on the orders of one man. The full concept of ‘necessity’ came to the fore on October 27,1958 in the State vs Dosso case in which Munir validated the military takeovers of Iskander Mirza and Ayub Khan, observing that “a successful coup d’etat is an internally-recognised legal method of changing a constitution.” What he meant was that this seemingly illegal act was now made legal in such a way that a single military man could walk in and subvert the will of the people — described in Munir’s verdict as a “legalised illegality”.

In his book, Highways and Byways of Life, Munir himself noted that his decisions had been viewed “as the starting point of the misfortunes of this country”. That criticism could not have been truer.

The fact is that the imposition of martial law has never been envisaged by any constitution in Pakistan but our superior courts have always validated it and held that the new regime is always a transitory phase, representing constitutional deviation dictated by the utmost necessity. This ‘necessity’ has been the bane of all democratic dispensations.

A decade after Musharraf used the Doctrine of Necessity once again, the Supreme Court under Chief Justice Iftikhar Muhammad Chaudhry passed what is termed a landmark ruling. In its July 31, 2009 verdict on the judges who had taken oath under Musharraf’s Provisional Constitutional Order, the court declared that the November 3, 2007 emergency was illegal and, thereby, stressed that the Doctrine of Necessity had been buried forever. “… no such judge shall, hereinafter, offer any support in whatever manner to any unconstitutional functionary who acquires power otherwise than through the modes envisaged by the Constitution…” That was supposed to be the end.

However, with political turmoil hitting the country once again, whispers of extra-constitutional measures have begun to resurface. There are many who say that the Doctrine of Necessity has been buried by the current court. But let us not forget that the Doctrine of Necessity had also been invalidated in April 1972 in the Asma Jilani case when the Supreme Court ruled that the validation of Yahya Khan’s extra-constitutional steps based on the principle of ‘necessity’ was “unsustainable” — albeit after Yahya had already left power.

That didn’t seem to stop Zia from overthrowing Zulfikar Ali Bhutto only a few years later in 1977. Later, a ruling was also delivered terming Zia’s usurping of power illegal — but that too after he had died in 1988. Though these verdicts have lost their lustre because of their post-facto nature, they did set judicial precedents which didn’t seem to stop Musharraf in 1999, either.
Buried or not, exhumation is regular practice in Pakistan.

What’s in a blog

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Blogging subjects are as numerous as the number of bloggers out there. Such variety – accompanied by the freedom to write anything – is not without some pitfalls though: this is a veritable free-for-all space where sometimes facts are the single most important casualty.

Every evening, Asad, a financial consultant based inKarachi, comes home from work and opens his web browser which has 10 ‘favourited’ or bookmarked sites. Eight of the 10 sites are blogs. “It’s a part of my routine,” he explains — as much as watching television or reading the newspaper. “When you read the paper in the morning, you mostly know about what has happened since it is about the previous day.” In the evening, an entire day’s events await Asad online in the form of news and analysis; television just doesn’t afford him the same selection and flexibility to get what he wants and cut out the rest.

Asad doesn’t write or blog. He is just an avid reader. For people like him, the ever-expanding world of Pakistani blogs is a Godsend —offering insights into everything, from a new mother’s complaints and travails to presidential controversies. Blogs, indeed, are playing an increasingly larger role in the lives of many professionals who, like Asad, have access to the Internet.

It is, of course, not just about the personal and the political. There are several other categories of bloggers, from those who write about cupcakes to those who blog about cell phones, laptops and other gadgets. Before making an expensive electronic purchase, increasing numbers of readers go to technology blogs to receive and give opinions and share experiences regarding the use of a particular gadget, instead of relying on official reviews or the salesman’s pitch. Anecdotal evidence suggests that the influence of such technology blogs on purchasing and consumption choices – admittedly not massive in sheer numbers so far – is certainly increasing.

Apart from technology, there are blogs on cooking and baking — and every other imaginable activity. From Ahmer Naqvi, writing as the very popular Karachikhatmal, to the controversial Karachi Feminist or even Owais Aftab famed for his philosophical blog, A Myth in Creation, — blogging subjects are as numerous as there are bloggers out there.

Such variety – accompanied by the freedom to write anything as well the technological flexibility to write it anywhere – is not without some pitfalls though: this is a veritable free-for-all space where sometimes facts are the single most important casualty. The information a blog disseminates can be incorrect or unverifiable or both. Not too long ago, for instance, a website ostensibly working for human rights advocacy and media watch but in reality is dedicated to criticising Pakistani journalists, posted a blog about a journalist and blogger Raza Rumi. “My comments were taken out of context, making me sound like someone I couldn’t recognise,” he says. One of the earliest bloggers inPakistan, Rumi say: “It is the worst kind of blogging that you can do.”

So, it is not without reason that Afia Aslam, the winner of the best diarist at the 2011 Pakistan Blog Awards and the co-founder of Desi Writers Lounge, an online literary journal, says blog-readers must learn to take information gathered online with a pinch of salt. For Sana Saleem, the winner of the best activist blog in the 2012 edition of the same awards, such carelessness about facts in blogging happens because bloggers are citizen journalists who do not have to go through the same kind of rigorous process of fact-checking which professional journalists have to undergo.

Rabia Garib, one of the organisers of the Pakistan Blog Awards, responds more philosophically to the question of accuracy of information in blogosphere. “There is good and bad in everything, be it advertising, design or journalism,” she says, “and just like everything else, blogs will take time to mature.” Like every other medium, blogs will evolve depending on who reads them and how many readers they attract, she seems to suggest.

As the Web turned from the one-way we-publish-you-read media to everyone-publishes-everyone-reads media – or what we refer to as Web 2.0 – the nature of blogging has already evolved, says Garib. “Initially, blogs were meant to be electronic daily diaries” with little to no focus on interactivity and readers’ responses. Web 2.0, however, is making a clear distinction between an average blogger and the change-maker or influential blogger. “Just like television, newspapers, radio channels and journalists, blogs and bloggers survive on the amount of traffic they generate,” says Garib. For her, the “traffic is generated based on the popularity of the blogger” which “is directly linked to the integrity of the blogger.” So, she argues, “responsible bloggers probably won’t dabble in things that jeopardise their integrity because, unlike traditional media sources, the Web never forgets”.

Aslam also believes that the world of blogging has its own in-built accountability. “When you put yourself out there, you must realise that informed readers will read your blog.” You can’t just say anything and get away with it, she says, but “the good thing about blogs is that mistakes can be removed or corrected.”

Umair Javed, who writes a political blog titled Recycled Thought and also used to contribute a regular column to the op-ed section of Lahore-based English daily Pakistan Today, likes to add that carelessness about facts stems from the fact that most blogs start as a means for venting ‘opinion’ rather than disseminating information and his was no different. “I didn’t think anyone would read it.” And then some people start reading the blogs but, in Javed’s opinion, the cliquish character of bloggers and their readers does not produce the kind of internal accountability that others talk about. People read only what they mostly agree with, while refusing to acknowledge the existence of other blogs and bloggers, he says. “The way the Internet is structured, it’s like there are clouds that do not really interact with each other.”

In such an atmosphere, expecting readers to make the writers accountable is wishful thinking at best. Saleem seems to be aware of this. “It’s like a mutual admiration society where people you like will be promoted,” she argues, acknowledging that the virtual-world does suffer from some snobbery where the flipside of admiration – that is unrestrained spite – reigns equally supreme. “If you want to see how blogging is turned into a platform to espouse contempt for someone you don’t like, then look up blogs on opinion pieces or articles in newspapers and magazines,” argues a professional journalist, who writes a regular column for an English daily but wants to remain unnamed. He finds it disconcerting to see several blogs condemning his columns, sources of information, writing style and even the newspaper for publishing his work.

Many bloggers argue that it is not the freedom to criticise that is necessarily the problem. It is the way people engage in criticism: the line of argument simply becomes personal and scornful. A recent example of this is the discussion on social media platforms, following Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy’s Oscar win this February. Though there were some notable exceptions, such as a post by Karachi Feminist on the blog titled Oil is Opium, critics of the director resorted to attacks and comments on her personality, such as her “rich and spoilt” background and her “connections” which she is alleged to have used to win the coveted prize.

“But that’s the beauty of blogging,” says a young mother of two who writes a blog that falls in the genre of ‘mummy blog’. Preferring to remain anonymous, she argues that blogs are mean to be cathartic and should be treated as such. “Most blogging starts as a way to vent, more often than not, the frustration and often negative feelings that people harbour. After you are done, you feel unburdened,” she says.

Another young blogger admits that at the time she started to blog, about four years ago, she was depressed and felt there was no one she could speak to. “It’s like writing a diary. It would ease my mind, and by the end of a blog post, I’d feel like I understood myself a little bit better.” Aslam can verify from personal experience how the interactive nature of a blog can enhance the limits of such understanding way beyond we can otherwise imagine. Having blogged about her nanny woes one day, she received a response from an American woman who criticised her for complaining about such trivialities. When Aslam responded by explaining how things worked in Pakistan, the woman on the other side explained that she was a single and working mother of four. The two women ended up understanding each other, gaining insights into their divergent lives which, given their geographical distance, would not have been possible in the absence of blogging.

The fact is that you blog about whatever you feel like blogging about without the fear of any retribution because you may be writing anonymously, though in some cases anonymity can turn out to be too thin a mask to cover anything. Consider the case of a desperate housewife who is educated but bored because she doesn’t work. She anonymously blogs about her domestic life and issues with her mother-in-law. But certain details are difficult to ignore and you can guess who this blogger might be becausePakistanis so small. It is not like Kaala Kawaa (a well-followed and quaintly named blogger) who talks about politics and can remain unknown because he does not write about his own life.

Whether a blog is written anonymously or under the writer’s real name is something that sometimes becomes the most important factor in determining the credibility or otherwise of a blog and a blogger. Aamna Haider Isani, who contributes regularly to the Herald on fashion, also blogs and believes bloggers who are anonymous should not be taken seriously. If she has a following for her blogs, it is because she is recognised as a credible source of information, or at least this is how her own point of view on blogging explains it.

Some people, therefore, have taken upon themselves to know and let others know the unknown in blogging. Businessman and blogger Faisal Kapadia and popular blogger Awab Alvi have started a podcast, 24/7.com, where they choose an unknown blogger each week and interview him. Kapadia, as well as Rumi, are also concerned that, while the world of blogging may afford writers free space, such freedom of expression can also be misused. “For every paedophile or rapist blogger, there is a sympathiser out there. Cliques of haters can come together and strengthen their hatred online,” feels Rumi. Kapadia feels the absence of cybercrime laws allows bloggers to misquote people, use slanderous language or make private information public. “While the beauty of blogging lies in the fact that the writers cannot be controlled, there should be some rules of conduct among bloggers themselves,” he feels.

Garib concurs. She explains how, under the banner of the Pakistan Blog Awards, she organised more than 30 workshops with Pakistani bloggers. Among other things, these workshops inform bloggers about responsible blogging and introduce them to libel and defamation laws.

Even while the debate about the credibility of blogging seems to be going on indefinitely, her experience of giving away awards for excellence in blogging proves that Pakistani blogs – or at least some of them – are not without value. The number of entries and categories for the awards which have expanded enormously in just one year since 2011 when the first awards were distributed proves that many are not blogging only for personal and cathartic reasons. Similarly, the increasing number of people voting for contesting entries is proof that there are readers out there for whom at least some blogging is a meaningful activity worth their support. The awards this year received 700 entries for consideration in various categories and 150,000 votes for the blogs that were finalised for nominations, says Garib. It appears, then, that some blogging is indeed helping to inform and educate.

Some advocates of blogging insist that it has its influences which far outweigh its negatives. Saleem, for instance, says how mainstream media outlets like the BBC approach her for comments after having read her blogs. Kapadia backs this up by saying that he, along with some friends, managed to collect 2.5 million rupees for the rehabilitation of victims of the 2010 floods, mainly because he asked people to donate through his blogs. Every time he travelled to the flood-hit areas with his friend Alvi, the two would make regularly posts online and people would follow them. Even CNN ended up doing a story on them.

Garib explains this in terms of a blog’s ability to reach a wider audience via social media platforms than the mainstream media can manage through its traditional methods. “Technology is so flexible and agile that the number of people who can be part of an outcry for assistance is enormous.”

It is, indeed, the ability to post anything and everything without any mediation that sits at the heart of what blogging is all about and, undoubtedly, it has proven very effective in many situations like traffic jams, need for blood donations etc. But ironically it is this very ability that many people see as a problem. Should freedom of expression have boundaries? In blogosphere, the answer should be left to the bloggers to find out.

For reader Asad, who shuffles through his favourite blogs one after the other in a given order almost every day, the answer is simple. If the information he reads “bounces” more than twice, he just removes the site from his shortcut buttons, replacing it with another site to make up his 10 daily reads.

Choice on the internet, after all, is just a click away.

Whats culture got to do with it

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As passé as this may sound, the fact of the matter is that crimes against women have increased over the years. In the case of some crimes, the numbers have doubled and tripled. However, what seems strange is that the rise is not evenly distributed acrossPakistan. If one studies newspaper reports alone, it would appear as if women in Punjab and Sindh suffer much more than their counterparts in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Balochistan. Statistics compiled by women rights groups also seem to confirm that violence against women is most rampant in Punjab — then come Sindh, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Balochistan in that order.

Brokers of cheer

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These are not people who make headlines, those you see on television or in newspapers. They are not heroes — but in many ways are so much more. They fill small voids in our lives that no conventional talking head can. They cater to the micro, everyday level. They do and make us do; feel and make us feel. In their own way they make us feel good about ourselves and our surroundings — make us appreciate the small things in life.

They don’t need to inspire us to be bigger and better, they don’t always move us to change but they complete us, in a way that we would never think possible. Sometimes it’s the loyalty two people show to each other, at other times it’s a haircut, making us feel beautiful. Most of the time, we invite these people into our lives. We ask them to take us to the bottom of the sea or to help walk us through a bad moment in our lives. Some will help us indulge our sweet tooth or let their success encourage us to pursue our dreams, however inconsequential they may seem. Or maybe we’ll ask them to design something beautiful for us to wear or even take courage from their strength and then secretly feel like we’ve been signed a new lease on life. And because of all that they are larger than life.

Without them life would be, well, incomplete. Here the Herald celebrates a select cross-section of talent — nothing more and nothing less.

Zahrah Nasir

Zahrah Nasir. (Malika Abbas/White Star)

The princess of La-La Land

Zahrah Nasir

High up in the mountains, 6,000 feet high above Azad Kashmir, is a small place called La-La Land where Banafsha Khumar lives with her canine companions, an assortment of birds who come to her orchard know that they will be fed, as butterflies flutter prettily around her garden. How does one describe Khumar, better known as Zahrah Nasir? Is she a writer, a benefactor, a promoter of world peace or a farmer?

“I’ve grown up in the countryside,” she says, “There is life in nature and I’ve always felt close to the earth and the environment and so the natural progression was into horticulture.” Her home is a slice of heaven on earth. “When you walk through my home, it isn’t just my property you are walking through but my thoughts,” says Nasir. The potential muse for a book or a film, a conversation with Nasir transports you to a better place, away from the greed and mechanics of the world we live in.

In an effort to live a sustainable life, Nasir grows everything from edible flowers to fruits and medicinal and culinary herbs. Excess produce is bartered for things she doesn’t grow, such as apples, coffee, rice or cooking oil. Having accomplished her childhood dream of living on a mountain, in a small house with a big garden and dogs, she now sets about enriching the lives of others. “About six months ago, a friend and I had this wonderful idea to put together a rehabilitation project in a valley called Jegdalek, Afghanistan.” On a journey with the mujahideen to Afghanistan in 1983, Nasir promised the people of the valley that one day she would come back to help them. “We will revitalise their agriculture, make sustainable organic agriculture available and provide them with alternative energy, factoring in climate change issues with regards to water and water usage. They need medical facilities, sustainable employment — a whole lifestyle that accommodates their traditional cultural values. Imagine creating such a haven of peace in a war zone.”

Nasir firmly believes in creating such sanctuaries. “The harmony that I have in my orchard and garden is what I try to bring about in the world. If you smile at people, they smile back, they are cheered up and pass that smile to others and you have millions of smiles. Smiling creates peace and harmony and in a harmonious atmosphere, agriculture thrives. Smiles are magic.”

Muhammad Junaid

Mohammad Junaid. (Malika Abbas/White Star)

The people’s anchor

Mohammad Junaid

Many recognise him – he’s the face of Geo News, well most nights – and many more attentively listen to what he says when news stories break. Wearing a congenial expression, regardless of the stories he delivers which are often news stories on yet another suicide attack, Junaid appears pleasant making him a living, breathing presence inside people’s living rooms.

Tall and impeccably dressed he is reserved, while being unfailingly polite. “I am connected to people,” he admits. “I tell everyday stories, whether about, politics, electricity, inflation or other social issues that interest Pakistanis, and I guess I put it forward in a way that television viewers can relate to.” Those who have met him find him far more magnetic in real life than on reel.

“I come across a lot of fans, mainly young people, and I also get discounts where I go. The job has its perks,” Junaid explains seriously, but he doesn’t let it get to his head. Recalling his first live broadcast in 2008, he says he was painfully nervous. Having studied journalism and politics, Junaid trained with veteran broadcaster Poonam Sharma. “The job may be exciting bringing with it doses of fame but not without gruelling on-screen hours. So there’s little time to relax or do much else. And depending on the size and volume of a mistake, you can lose your job,” he says. Besides, the most trying situations in life become unavoidable; “live telecasts of blasts, of a terror incident, people dying or injured and in need of help. Then there’s the constant shouting through your earpiece during a live broadcast which is painful.”

But Junaid wasn’t entirely unprepared for this life. “Ali Salman Jafri from the BBC Urdu service who taught me at college once said ‘you will live a tense life, remember, you might get luxuries, and enjoy the challenges but that’s the beauty of the profession.’” To relax he takes long walks, watches movies, reminding himself that he’s in a better place than most of his contemporaries. “This profession has given me respect and value.”

Mehr Hussain

Mehr Hussain. (Malika Abbas/White Star)

The fairy godmother

Mehr Hussain

In Peter Pan, James Barrie wrote that when the first child laughed for the first time, the laugh broke into a thousand pieces which went about skipping. That was the beginning of fairies. What is it about a child that turns the world into a magical realm? If you want to feel happiness around children having fun, a visit to Monkey Business might be a good idea.

Mehr Hussain, the proud owner who began Monkey Business with her husband, Usman, is also mother to two-year-old Zidane and four-year-old Nael. She takes them to school, cooks for them and does the required motherly chores but she gives full time to her business where her sons are fully entertained as well. More often than not, Nael will be seen running around the jungle gym, or jumping up and down in the ball pit while his younger sibling will be found asleep on a sofa in the corner, oblivious to the noise. Monkey Business meets the needs of all children from six months to 10 years. It also caters to children who may not enjoy physical activity; for them there is painting and pottery to learn, or watching a movie in the cinema room.

Hussain has experience with children because she would organise massive birthdays in London, so she says “everything in Monkey Business is part of what I used to do with Nael in London.” The best part is that if children are having fun on their own, parents can enjoy a cup of coffee with a sandwich at the café, tucked away at the far end. “There are no venues for children’s recreation in the city, and nothing for parents to do if they want to be near their kids but relax too.” For Hussain and other mothers, Monkey Business was the need of the hour.

Her biggest accomplishment, however, is that it is a home away from home for her own children. “They love coming here, Zidane has grown with it, he was only eight months old when we set it up,” she says, looking over her shoulder to make sure he is still asleep.

Saad Haroon

Saad Haroon. (Malika Abbas/White Star)

“A day without laughter is a day wasted”

Saad Haroon

If laughter is the best medicine, Saad Haroon is the cure for our grief-stricken nation. Somebody once said that if Pakistan was a monarchy and Haroon was the court jester, we’d all be very happy people. In actuality, according to Haroon, “what simply started out as an exercise in being happy became a career.” “The reason we do this is all political and social,” he explains. He found enormous success post 9/11, a factor he attributes to the general gloomy feeling about the state of the nation. “In that climate, what can feel better than to have a room full of people laughing?”

Quoting Steve Martin, his role model, he says, “Why wouldn’t you want to be in show business? It’s fun, it’s exciting.” And with stints in theatre under his belt (he acted and won a scriptwriting competition during his college years), he knew how much fun theatre and stage could be. Influenced by people such as his theatre professor and his room-mates in New York, musicians and comedians themselves, Haroon is now the driving force behind a troupe of aspiring comedians in Pakistan. “I train people. Some might be funny naturally but I mould them to use their talent more effectively.”

Ironically, he believes “comedians are miserable people, especially when they’re not performing. They’re anxiety ridden because they’re spending the whole day thinking of how to make someone happy for an hour.” The performance bug got to him fairly early. “I remember walking in the corridors of St Michael’s [school] when I was in class 7, knowing that this was boring, and that something had to be done. Now, when I wake up in the morning I think about how to make people happy. Sometimes you can wake up in the middle of the night and write something, it could have been very frustrating if it wasn’t so rewarding.”

So, while others may use that one hour with Haroon to feel rejuvenated, he admits to finding happiness in “the little things in life. Seeing my friends makes me happy, vegging out, maybe.”

Brokers of cheer

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These are not people who make headlines, those you see on television or in newspapers. They are not heroes — but in many ways are so much more. They fill small voids in our lives that no conventional talking head can. They cater to the micro, everyday level. They do and make us do; feel and make us feel. In their own way they make us feel good about ourselves and our surroundings — make us appreciate the small things in life.

With the Midas touch

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Fareshtey Aslam

Fareshtey Aslam

I find it extremely troubling when choosing a subject for an interview. I question the subject’s accomplishments; how worthy are these accomplishments? If the individual is well-known, then how does one avoid making the profile or interview sound redundant? So you can understand why I found the prospect of interviewing Fareshteh Aslam a daunting task.

Following extensive research and an overwhelming sense of trepidation, I met Aslam one September evening at Nabila’sKarachisalon. Amid the drone of loud hairdryers and the incessant chatter of women, this larger-than-life personality, ensconced in a black cape protecting her from the dye applied to her hair, seemed like just another ordinary woman at the salon. Shouting to make ourselves audible, Aslam and I tried to organise a more suitable location to meet. She kept asking me what time was convenient for me. Finally, we decided to meet at her house.

As she celebrates a decade of the Lux Style Awards (LSA), the topic of the event was a natural conversation-starter, as Aslam has been involved with the LSA since its inception. “The Lux Style Awards were Freiha Altaf’s brainchild in 2002, but the idea resonated with everyone, from the brand team to the stars. It was the right concept at the right time. That is why it has endured,” she says. The awards, she reminds me, started as a follow-up to a television show called Lux Style Ki Dunya (LSKD) — Aslam was a member of the show’s managing team. Altaf, who had left the LSKD in the middle to travel abroad, returned during the show’s fifth season. Aslam, who was pregnant at the time and working full-time as a journalist with The News, was “utterly sick of LSKD” by then and thought the show would have to come to an end. Therefore, “the idea of the LSA at the time was thrilling.”

After getting the go-ahead for the LSA, the team had six weeks to pull the show off. Aslam, her husband, Imran (the script-writer for the show) and Altaf worked around the clock — “Frieha would come over every day and just flop,” Aslam recalls. In its second year, the LSA asked Aslam to take the reins as the awards’ manager, and, as is evident from Aslam’s tone, she is proud of the event. “The LSA’s works on a portfolio-based system,” she explains, which encourages participants to painstakingly work on their presentation. “[Fashion designers] Sana Safinaz didn’t win an award for seven to eight years, simply because they put together their portfolio too casually. Now that they are working at it, they are winning.” The LSA have propelled designers to excel in other ways as well — “At the start, fashion designer Deepak Perwani wanted to be a presenter at the awards, but Frieha refused, as the masses did not know Deepak at the time.” The designer subsequently started acting on Hum TV, ensuring a slot as presenter in the following year’s event. Aslam feels that the LSA gives people a platform and “they can make of it whatever they choose to.”

Though popular now, the LSA remain the subject of debate every year. “For every one person who is happy, four others will sulk,” says Aslam. LSA nominees are chosen by fashion journalists and those involved in the industry (after much heated debate). Judges then grade nominees and contestants and those with higher numbers are declared the winners in various categories. Aslam admits that the judges’ personal choices do have an overriding influence.

An event that entails nine months of planning and hard work, Aslam admits that the only time she and Imran fight is during this period, as she has to force him to write the script for the show. These debacles may soon be a thing of the past though. “This is my last year,” Aslam says, leaning back in her chair. “I get bored easily and I think the LSA needs fresh blood now.”

While it may seem that the LSA are the defining moments of her career, Aslam has numerous achievements to her credit. As the youngest and only female sports journalist focusing on cricket, she has been both applauded and ruthlessly criticised. While a well-known cricketer attacked her character, older, fellow journalists didn’t take the then-25-year-old Aslam seriously and dismissed her as an ignorant little girl. “None of the older lot believed me when I said there was match-fixing. To this day, I don’t know if they were romantically unable to believe that their heroes could be flawed,” she says. “I told journalists like Imtiaz Sipra, Arif Abbasi and Omar Kureishi, that if we don’t deal with the problem of match-fixing now, we will be talking about it for the next 20 years.” Aslam left the world of cricket journalism “when it became filthy,” saying, “I kept writing about it until there was an official inquiry [into match-fixing]; basically I exposed match-fixing and then I left.” At this point she reminisces, “I saw the best of cricket. The rot started after Imran Khan left the sport.” While she admits that she misses journalism, she says it is a “young person’s game”.

When I joined The News in 2007, Aslam had left not too long ago, and many still spoke of her with fear. “Mediocre journalists were intimidated by me, because I knew where they stood,” she says. “The hardworking, good lot such as Muniba Kamal or Maheen Sabeeh were never scared of me.” As harsh as this may sound, such pronouncements are characteristic of Aslam’s nature — “I don’t believe in playing a political game in anything,” she explains. “I can’t turn the other cheek. Wrong is wrong and I have to say it. I can’t forget something Imran Khan said: “Jhoot kay koi payr nai hotay” (a lie does not have feet to stand on).

So far, so good: Aslam appears to be resilient and, perhaps, one of the strongest women one might have the chance to talk to. However, she reveals she does have a weakness, an actual physical condition for which she holds her years as a working journalist responsible. “I have never smoked,” she clarifies, but all her closest friends and her husband are smokers. Constantly surrounded by chain-smokers, especially in the newsroom, her lungs have been severely weakened. “I couldn’t climb a flight of stairs and I would cough all the time.” Following a battery of tests, Aslam underwent oral chemotherapy and treatment with steroids, which resulted in a bloated appearance, loss of hair and weight gain. She has to carry an inhaler around with her at all times.

The gravity of her ailment aside, she speaks happily about her marriage to Imran, who is the president ofGeo,Pakistan’s most popular private television channel. “We were two regular people who fell in love,” she says simply. They were hardly regular, she has to be reminded, to which she protests emphatically, “Come to my house and see how normal we are.” The funny thing is that the next day at her house, I couldn’t help but notice the pervading sense of normalcy in the apartment — the smell of delicious food being cooked in the kitchen, the maids bustling about. Wasn’t Aslam faced with opposition from family and friends when she chose to become Imran’s third wife? “I knew it would work. Maybe this time, Imran was ready or maybe we were both right for each other,” she shrugs. “Whatever it was, it’s been 15 years now.” There is something delightfully triumphant in that declaration and needs no further argument.

A recent tragedy in Aslam’s life brings us to subject of motherhood. A few days before I met her, she lost her mother; it was the first time in a long while that Aslam cried. Her own role as a mother is not one that can play out easily, when coupled with the demands of her career. “As callous as this may sound, I have to work. I have worked all my life,” she says. So, she is only able to spend time with her son from6:00 p.m.until bedtime. Aslam has learned to balance the rigours of her job with the task of maintaining a home and family life, enabled by the expert domestic help she has in her house. “[Fashion designer] Rehana Saigol said to me many years ago that if you want to survive in this country, surround yourself with good servants,” she explains. As far as her husband is concerned, she says, “Imran and I operate on different time zones, so we try to make time for each other on weekends.”

As I walk out of her home, thinking our meeting ended too soon, I see Imran, standing outside in his boxer shorts and shirt, reading the newspaper and smoking. Everything in their life really is quite normal, after all.