AUGUST 2024 – Balach Khan, Izza Ali Khan
This is an image of the Alam and Panja that I captured in Baltistan during one of my visits to the area.
The focus in this image is the color manipulation to create a negative unprocessed effect that brings out the contrast between the sacred and the profane, creating an aura of religious devotion to the subject as seen through the eye of religious experience and expressionism as opposed to capturing the subject through realism. The white of the pole and the black of the flag contrast each other and the sky to create a halo effect on the subject.
The title Imam-e-Har Zamaaan (Imam of Every Epoch) is a salutation to Imam Hussain, centering the subject and religious devotion the piece is meant to evoke.
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– Balach Khan is a self-taught visual artist from Lahore, Pakistan, working primarily with audio/visual media. His art explores urban landscapes, collective identity, and religious beliefs. Through techniques like color manipulation and soundscapes, he contrasts the sacred with the profane, infusing his work with a sense of religious devotion. His unique approach blends expressionism with deep cultural themes, offering a powerful perspective on tradition and modernity. You can see more of his work @bazm.e.balach.
This is a view from an overhead bridge outside my university. I have taken numerous photos from that bridge and later edited them in different ways and aesthetics.
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– Izza Ali Khan (1999) was born and raised in Sahiwal. She graduated in 2023, on the honor roll, from Lahore College for Women University, majoring in Painting. She is a Visual Artist, residing and practicing art in Lahore. She recently co-curated “The Summer Show 2024” at Artsoch Contemporary. Her work was displayed at the 19th Emerging Exhibition of VM Art gallery. Currently she is working as a Gallery Manager at ArtSoch Contemporary.
JUNE 2024 – Fareha Siddiqui, Rabia Malik, Amama Bashir
Language
by Amama Bashir
My strongest memory of being a child was feeling helpless at not having a language, or not enough of it. It’s still something that makes me anxious. It’s not just me; every time I see a child, stuck in a situation they are not particularly enjoying, my focus automatically goes to their language, the absence of language.
I often see their faces turning red to blue to purple to pale again as they struggle to find words to describe what they are feeling until, eventually, they give up. They always give up. And by then they are glassy eyed and looking directly at me with hope and hopelessness in equal parts. I say “glassy” because language has been very central. I would have said “teary eyed” had they not said glassy when they did, forever adding this word to my vocabulary – a word I find so annoying that it surprises me every time I use it. My surprise always turns into a smile, which if you know me, is rare. What an ass!
My mom now tells me I am lucky to have six kids at once. I always pretend to be annoyed and tell her these are not my kids. When she’s not around, I hear myself saying, My kids, my babies. To them I say, “Kitna pyara bacha hai mera!”
These kids, although always following the pattern I just described, still teach me so much about language, with their limited, very limited, vocabulary.
I see Zirrum sitting at her desk, staring at an empty wall. All the kids are outside, she still sits there alone. “Teacher,” she sings like they always do, they can never pronounce the word like it is supposed to be. I am starting to think it is supposed be pronounced the way they pronounce it, singing this single disyllabic word, like a song, like a poem.
“Yes Zirrum?”
“I am thinking my life wouldn’t be like this if I didn’t have this family. I celebrated my birthday all day long today and when I go home, they will celebrate with me again.”
I look at my little girl, her floor length princess costume, her little crown and pearl necklace – I tear up; my baby has said something my twenty-something friends might not be able to articulate.
I practice counting with Ayra before the others arrive – she started coming early to school to be able to sit at her favorite desk. Usually she is quiet, only nodding when I explain something or make corrections. She walks up to me today and smiles. “Yes Ayra?” She does not know the early morning extra class has ended and it’s officially the first lesson and everyone has arrived. “Can I keep counting my color pencils? It’s fun.” I look around and everyone is taking out their English workbooks. “Okay,” I say hesitantly. She hops back to her seat, excited. I have never been more reassured about my teaching. Never expected it to be Math, I giggle to myself.
I don’t like lying; my high school head teacher’s last note in my journal reads, “You are the MOST honest person I have met in my entire life.” But lying is a big part of this job. I often tell my kids that they are old enough, responsible enough, to be doing this, to be doing that, while I whisper to myself, I am so sorry. All of them fall for it. But one day my autistic child, my dear Abdullah looks at me. He’s frustrated, and he says, “Teacher I am grown up but I am not an adult.” I am so proud of you Abdullah! I am so incredibly proud of you!
I see Ayesha sitting at her desk, drawing a doll or a house or something else. Ebad walks in and she says innocently, “Hey Anaya came in to drink water from your bottle!” Ebad doesn’t say anything. He looks at Ayesha then looks at his bottle and stomps out. “I guess I wasn’t supposed to say that,” Ayesha says to nobody. I look up from my laptop and laugh. Ayesha laughs too.
Ayesha takes out a gift for Zirrum from her bag, then takes out another then another. I see Zirrum jump with joy, her face turning red, she is completely overwhelmed. She jumps to take Ayesha in a hug, squeezing her tightly as she says, now out of her breath, “I am so sorry I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”
We sit outside while I teach my students about the weather and they write down their observations about the rain, about the sun, about everything around them. Hareem, usually the quietest in my class, gets up to speak. “I am having so much fun!” After a couple more sentences, she says, “Teacher.” She pauses. “Thank you.” In moments like these Ayesha says, “I love you!” Not confidently, never confidently. She does it while looking away, avoiding eye contact, the words barely audible. However she’s said it, she’s said it nonetheless. She reminds me how important it is for us to say, no matter how scared and embarrassed we might be feeling.
Abdullah gets up with his bag and starts to walk towards the door. I catch him, hold him by the shoulders and ask if he is okay.
“I wanna leave the school. This is the worst school. I have no friends!”
“I am your friend,” I tell him.
“No!” he answers, the ‘no’ wavering in his voice. “I don’t wanna be friends with teachers; when they leave, they treat me even worse.”
Ebad, who looks like a little bully on a usual day, leads a birthday dance with Abdullah on his birthday, adding, “Teacher, can we do something special for Abdullah today? I think we should be friends with him.”
I stare at him, speechless.
On the topic of siblings, Zirrum walks up to me and tells me, “My brother died because he cried a little late.”
I freeze. It is important to cry. It is essential. To cry just when you need to, not even a little late. He hasn’t cried, it hits me.
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– Amama Bashir is an aspiring Kashmiri writer. She has majored in literature and is working towards earning a doctorate in English literature. As she puts it, her thoughts, observations, and emotions make more sense on paper and over the years she has tried to perfect the art of thinking on paper. Her work has been published in various literary magazines. She is currently compiling her parents’ experiences as muhajirs in writing.
– Fatima Shah is a Karachi-based visual artist and printmaker. She holds a BFA in Printmaking from the National College of Arts, Lahore. Her artwork focuses on drawings in both digital and traditional mediums, as well as print. She was a part of the ‘Rework Reuse Reconsider,’ a collaborative printmaking project between Morley College, London and NCA, Lahore which was exhibited at the Zahoor-Ul-Akhlaq Gallery. Her work has also been featured in group shows including ‘Yahan Se Aagay’ at Artnext Gallery and ‘Recent II’ at Tagh’eer in Lahore. In March 2024, she co-curated a pop-up art event, ‘Ladies First,’ at Kayal engaging Karachi’s local community. Fatima is also part of the creative team at the Citizens Archive of Pakistan.
All that could have been said is this
by Fareha Siddiqui
At gum-swollen 50, his are the ghost stories
that we speak in remembrance
of a past that’s ever present.
‘Take my wrinkled hand,’
he says, and I trace the veins in his body—
The blood, a proof of violence over time.
Every night, among trembling lips and the clock
striking 3, he lies in the two-story
home on the biggest river-bed of Bangladesh. Floating bodies
of fresh fish beside him. He smells in remembrance
of the soil beneath the carpets. ‘Please take this hand,
and guide me God, I’m never present
or past.’ He wishes for a future,
and shakes me (frantically) – ‘my time
is yours now, child. Will you bury this body
in satin or linen and make my life a tale
of many foxes, bears, gills – memory of the Jungle? Recall
my body. A temple, my body
is time’s vessel,’ says his corpse
wrapped in dhotis – a perfectly wrapped present.
Who we’ll talk about in therapy and forgetfulness.
But the heart attacks and the bloody body that time
gave him will never be a forgotten story.
And I will gather his life and limbs,
those tender wrinkles around his mouth,
howling silently in the night when nobody
could see or tell his story
of pain and regret. For all he represents
are hours, minutes, and seconds
of how no soul is ever forgotten.
Whether we forget or remember,
we are all just one collective memory away from hand-
ing our lives to death’s embrace. Maybe our time
isn’t ours, and the mind is a borrowed entity.
‘Death, dear child, is just a dearth
of delight. This is what becomes of all our stories.’
In time I remembered to trace his life story
in the wall paint bleeding back home. Today
I look at my hands and they become that story. This is his body.
§
– Fareha Siddiqui is an incoming graduate student at Harvard Divinity School in the fall of 2024. She is passionate about ontology, poetry, and South Asian sufism. Fareha believes in the power of language and love as tools of resistance.
Amaltas
by Rabia Malik
Outside my window I see a perfectly triangular roof of the house next door, the kind that we were taught to draw as young artists in kindergarten. These roofs are built at a slant, so that rain and snow may fall off with ease. They’re built at an angle to minimize water damage.
It does not snow in Lahore. There, the roofs are flat, but when it rains the clogged drains sometimes retain the rainwater for days before it evaporates. The roofs sustain this routine. When it rains in Lahore, children come out into the street to splash around and jump in the puddles gathered on uneven street sides. Sometimes, they’ll make boats out of old newspaper scraps and leave them in the puddles, and days later the street would be littered with news from a far off time.
December swallows Lahore in choking thickets of smog. The city fades into an invisible haze, and its people, teary-eyed and suffocated, retreat into their homes. The dilapidated buildings, the overflowing garbage bins, the potholes that turn streets into obstacle courses, all are blurred by the smog. The city is camouflaged. The suffering of the homeless, the struggles of the street vendors, the daily grind of those working in the shadows of prosperity – these, too, are easier to ignore when the world is blurred by smog.
Summer brings its own agony – blistering heat, hours lost in traffic jams, birds displaced from their nests. I wait in traffic, horns blaring around me, a headache lingering from the hours spent in a dingy office in Liberty. I see children crammed into pick-and-drop minivans in the sweltering afternoons, while others with their Thermocol-stuffed shalwars float carefree in the canal. Ice cream vendors and popcorn sellers bring fleeting joy, overshadowed by billboards advertising floral lawns and the latest sector of DHA.
On the opposite end of the canal is my home with the straight roof. I wake up in a house where I am never the first to rise. Mornings start with the hum of the washing machine, the distant murmur of news broadcasts, and the quiet hiss of a pressure cooker preparing for the post-Jummah lunch. This is the house where I sleep with the lights off. There’s the room with the TV with its water-damaged walls repainted by my father. There’s the kitchen where a pot rests perpetually on the stove, boiling milk, chai, rice at various times of the day. The walls of my room are adorned with paintings my father created during COVID, the cupboards are lined with clothes my mother embroidered by hand, and the shelves carry books I’d bought with the hope to one day share with my brother. There’s the lawn where an ailing lemon tree shrivels under the summer sun.
On Khayaban-e-Jinnah, traffic comes to a standstill. Bikes, rickshaws, and cars weave into a tangled mess, a puzzle that will take hours to unravel. Amidst this chaos, the Amaltas bloom on a late May afternoon. Like cascading sunbeams, the Amaltas pour down, bursting forth in the otherwise drab landscape, bringing life to Lahore’s streets. The Amaltas are abundant, lining the avenue in clusters, their branches drooping under the weight of the vibrant flowers. The sight of the Amaltas is refreshing, their vivid hues catching the eye of every passerby, a reminder of nature’s persistence even in the heart of the urban sprawl.
On an April morning, thousands of miles away under the angular roof of the kind of house I once only knew how to draw from the outside, I get up and open my bedroom window. I look out and see a yellow tree, and I see Lahore.
§
– Rabia Malik is a writer from Lahore. She writes around themes of womanhood, familial bonds and nostalgia. Her work has appeared in The News on Sunday, RIC Journal, The Aleph Review and Fahmidan Journal. She is currently pursuing an MFA in Writing.
MARCH 2024 – Mirzya Haider, Hafsa Mubarik, Saud Ahmed, Asad Ali Zulfiqar
Majlis
by Mirzya Haider
You are five.
You are in a black dress with lace that your mom sewed,
sitting cross-legged on the farsh-e-aza1, potato chips in hand.
You lean into your mother in her black shalwar kameez
as she listens to the mulana speak in Urdu.
But the words fly over you like a distant sound.
You are six.
You’re not allowed to watch any cartoons,
or wear pink or red, or earrings
for two months and eight days.
So when your class goes to watch Space Jam
you pretend to sleep the whole time.
Later, at the majlis2, you watch
women break into sobs, and hear men wail
from behind the partition.
You look down
at the carpet quietly
until the nohay3 begin.
Later still, you run outside
because you love getting tabarruk.
You are seven.
At the center a kind teenager explains
that Bibi Sakina4 was a little girl just like you,
and she was separated from her parents,
and she and all the other little children
didn’t have any food or water5.
You imagine what she must have felt.
In line for tabarruk, the smells of
haleem, fresh-cut ginger and chaat masala waft over to you.
A tall alam stands a few feet away
and you tiptoe over to touch it quickly
and scoot back in line beside
your mother and your sister.
You are twelve.
Your father tells you about Hazrat Qasim6
trampled by the hooves of stampeding horses.
Tears well up in your eyes, and do so again
at the majlis that evening, even though
you still don’t understand most of the mulana’s words,
because you imagine Qasim to be as big as a boy in your class.
You are fifteen.
It’s Muharram again, you have three exams this week,
one on Ashura7.
You have to ask the teacher for an excused absence
for a religious observance that she’s never heard of
and that none of the other Muslim kids request.
You bring your notes to the majlis every night
but pack them away once the masaib8 start.
You fall asleep on the car ride home
to the sound of Sachay Bhai’s voice
crooning about a letter written by Sughra.9
You are eighteen.
You are in a college dorm and the imambara
your family attends is multiple train rides away
and you have midterms. You feel guilty.
On your earphones, on the fourth floor of the library, you listen to nohay
as you try to memorize biological reactions
but your heart’s not in it.
You are nineteen.
You are in Karachi with your family.
Some nights, you go to a drive-in majlis
and listen in on a loudspeaker.
On the evening of the ninth10
you go from house to house,
imambara to imambara11,
the sweet words of nohay and prayers
flowing over you like perfume.
The next morning there is a bomb blast
killing scores of worshippers just like you,
just a few feet away from where you were.
You wonder if someone you stood beside
under the shadow of a towering alam with the name of Abbas12
inscribed in loving stitches of glittering gold on black only hours ago,
is now dead.
The next morning your mamus all go to janaza prayers
for the shaheed, a community of thousands undeterred, crying,
“Oh Hussain, we are with you. We will always be with you.”
You are changed forever.
You are twenty.
Your youngest mamu is no longer on this earth.
The masaib of Hazrat Ali Akbar13
and Hazrat Abbas break you.
The nohay break you.
Teri maa ko batoun mein kaisay?
Tera lasha utaaoun main kaisay?
You are twenty-one.
You are still grieving.
This makes your Muslim friend uncomfortable.
“You Shias prolong grief,” she says.
“What is even the point of your majlis?”
You never speak to her again,
but hold on to her question.
You are twenty-six.
You are married to the guy who established
the first ever Muharram program,
a space that has changed people’s lives,
at a university in Manhattan.
But now you both live in Philly
so you both commute to New York
getting home at 2 in the morning, for ten days.
This Muharram is the first time
your faith feels like your own.
You are thirty.
Your son is born on the eve of the 1st of Muharram.
You name him after the grandson of Mohammad
who’d held him in his arms,
and said he is from me and I am from him;
who taught you submission to only the Most-High,
to stand up against tyranny no matter the cost;
his beautiful boy the image of his grandfather,
the noor of his eyes, his heart, his everything.
You miss every majlis as you stare into your own little boy’s eyes
and pray he grows into his name and carries it well.
You are thirty-one.
Your eldest has a million questions about the way the world works.
Muharram arrives and she asks,
“Why do we have to go to the majlis?”
You know the answer –
without the majlis, we cease to be.
But you don’t tell her this. Instead,
you dress your children in black,
pack your bag with snacks and coloring pages,
and in the car ride to the majlis
you thank your parents for this weight in your heart,
the lump in your throat,
the pool in your eyes.
The thought of Rubab14 breaks you.
You turn to your daughter,
and tell her about a little girl just like her,
a little girl named Sakina.
1 Aza is the remembrance of Husayn. Farsh-e-aza is the ground upon which we gather to remember Husayn, often covered with a crisp white sheet stretching across the room, or many white sheets pinned together.
2 For Shia Muslims this is the annual gathering in remembrance of Imam Husayn’s martyrdom at Karbala during the Islamic month of Muharram.
3 Melodious poetry of lamentation. Noha, singular.
4 Youngest daughter of Imam Husayn, age 4.
5 The Umayyad forces cut off water supply to Imam Husayn and his companions, including children, for three days.
6 Son of Imam Hassan, nephew of Imam Husayn, age 13.
7 The tenth of Muharram, the day Imam Husayn and his companions were martyred in Karbala.
8 The oral tradition of the majlis has a specific structure, and masaib are the segment recounting the specific tragedies that befell Imam Husayn, his companions, and his family.
9 Imam Husayn’s daughter, 15, who was sick and was not with her family in Karbala. According to tradition, she wrote a letter to her father, her brother, and other family members but the letter never reached them.
10 Ninth of Muharram, or the eve of Ashura, is considered the most sorrowful of nights for Shia Muslims.
11 A place of gathering for remembrance of the ahlul bayt, or family of Prophet Mohammad, grandfather of Imam Husayn.
12 Brother of Imam Husayn and his standard-bearer, age 34.
13 Son of Imam Husayn, age 18.
14 Wife of Imam Husayn who suffered the loss of her daughter Sakina, as well as of her son Ali Asghar, age 6 months, at Karbala.
§
– Mirzya Haider was born in NY, and completed her undergraduate studies at Barnard College in New York City, where she received the Peter S. Prescott Prize for Prose Writing. Currently Mirzya lives in Boston with her husband and two children. She completed her MPH at Harvard University and is passionate about addressing the disparities among immigrants and Muslims in healthcare research and in the literary world. Who gets to be seen? Her writing has appeared in Muftah and Brown Girl Magazine.
Olive Tree
by Hafsa Mubarik
I cling to the olive tree
A testament to my past
We picnicked under its shade
The heirloom of my family
It stood with me when my home tumbled
Provided shade for my sister’s funeral
A sanctuary when all refuge vanished
Not much of our groves is left
Years of work burnt to ashes
The city howls with wounded cries
No bird now makes home in the tree
The lament weaves through the oud’s strings
As my land crumbles away
I cling to the olive tree
Poet's note:
The poem is inspired by the artwork of Bashar, a Palestinian artist. He took inspiration from a photograph of a Palestinian woman clinging to an olive tree after it was attacked by Israeli settlers. The photograph is an iconic image symbolizing the struggle of Palestinians on a daily basis. The poem also encapsulates the imagery of destruction in Palestine. Through this poem I want to give voice to a woman’s lamentation. Even though we are miles apart, as a human being I feel the pain of Palestinians deep within. Writing about it is my way of saying,
“I hear you and you’re not alone.”
§
– Hafsa Mubarik, a graduate from LCWU, is a fiction writer whose recent short story, “Epiphany”, was featured in University of Punjab’s Anthology ‘Spaces and Places’. Her work also got published in The Bridge Magazine, The Literary Chowk, and in a few other anthologies. She also writes poetry sometimes. Besides writing, she enjoys being a teacher at Lahore Grammar School.
Palestine – فلسطین
by Saud Ahmed
Occupation. Apartheid. Genocide.
Empty words on our screens
Such is the story of فلسطین
Resilience, courage and sacrifice
The only forms of defense
Left to the people of فلسطین
Prophets of the 21st century
Pretenders of peace and equality
With their selective humanity
While warmongers and child killers
Admit guilt of acts
Beyond evil
And the rest of us watch
As فلسطین burns
To rubble, bones and ash
Before our tainted soulless husks
And idle blood-stained hands
§
– Saud Ahmed works in financial services but is a writer at heart. He is passionate about three things: writing poetry and fiction, reading fantasy novels and playing football. In 2017, he began channeling his feelings into poetry and found it to be therapeutic for the soul. He writes when inspiration calls and needs nothing more than the notepad on his phone and some time alone. He wants to share his work with the world and befriend a community of writers in the process. He won the Salam Award in 2023 for his science fiction and fantasy short story, Earth 747.
اویس، میرے نام کا دوبارہ تعارف
مصنف: اویس احمد ۔ ترجمہ: اسد علی ذوالفقار
مجھے بچپن سے ہی اپنا نام سخت ناپسند تھا۔ جب میں سات سال کا تھا، میں نے اپنے گھر والوں سے کہا کہ وہ مجھے واسع بلائیں۔ واسع۔ جس کی حد و انتہا نہ ہو۔ یہ میں نے اسمه الحسنه سے لیا تھا۔ لامحدود۔
ایک ایسا شخص جو اپنے گھر والوں سے خودغرضی کے طعنے سن سن کر اکتا چکا تھا، اس کے لیے اللّہ کا یہ نام، یہ تعریف، ایک نعمت بن کر آئی۔ میں نے واسع کو اپنی لائف لائن بنالیا۔ ایک نئی ابتدا کا موقع جس میں مجھے کوئی خودغرض کہہ کر نہیں بلائے گا، خصوصاً وہ جو میرے دل کے سب سے زیادہ قریب ہوں۔
ویسے بھی اویس تو بغیر سوچے سمجھےہی رکھا تھا ناں؟ ابا جان کے وہ تمام رشتےدار جن کا اس فیصلے میں ہاتھ تھا، اس بات سے متفق تھے کہ اویس انہیں کسی سڑک چھاپ بھکاری، یا اسکول میں وہ لڑکا جو اپنی ناک میں انگلی ڈالتا تھا، یا اپنے کسی احمق کزن کی یاد نہیں دلاتا تھا۔ اویس کچھ خاص تو نہیں تھا، پر اتنا برا بھی نہیں تھا۔
ایک بار میرے اک قریبی رشتہ دار نے کہا، امریکا جاکر جو دل چاہے نام رکھ لینا۔
ایسے تو کچھ بھی ممکن تھا۔ میں وقتاً فوقتاً ان سے پوچھتا، تو میں اپنا نام ہیری پوٹر رکھ لوں؟ اور سب ہنسنے لگتے۔
جب میں امریکا آیا، تو نہ چاہتے ہوئے بھی اویس کو قبول کرنا پڑا۔ مجھے نہیں لگا کہ کوئی میرا نام تبدیل کرنے کی خواہش کو سنجیدگی سےلےگا۔ ابھی بھی مجھے یہ سخت ناپسند تھا۔ اویس بہت خودغرض تھا۔ اویس بہت نازک مزاج تھا۔ پر شاید یہی میری تقدیر میں بننا لکھا تھا۔
مجھے اس بات کا برا نہیں لگا جب میرے ساتویں جماعت کے ای ایس ایل ٹیچر نے مجھے اواس بلایا۔ اور نہ ہی مجھے تب ٹھیس پہنچی جب میرے دوست کے والد صاحب نے ہماری محفلِ موسیقی کی ریکارڈنگ پر میرا نام اوالز لکھ دیا۔ دو سال بعد جب میری گورنمنٹ ٹیچر نے بھی یہی غلطی کری، تب تو میں ہنس پڑا۔ جب ایک اور دوست سے صحیح تلفظ جاننے کے بعد ہمارے یورپی تاریخ کے ٹیچر نے پیار سےسمجھایا کہ مجھے اپنے لیے کیسے کھڑے ہونا چاہیے، اور خود ان کی اصلاح کرنی چاہیے تھی، میں بالکل بوکھلا گیا تھا۔
یہی الجھن کالج میں جاری رہی، جہاں ایسا معلوم ہوتا کہ ہر کسی کو کچھ زیادہ ہی فکر تھی کہ لوگوں کے ناموں کے صحیح تلفظ کیا تھے۔ میں کیوں اس بات پر غصہ ہوتا؟ ان میں سے کسی نے میرے جیسا نام پہلے کبھی نہیں سنا تھا تو مجھے کیا حق تھا کہ میں ناراض ہو جائوں؟ مجھے تو خود ہی اویس پسند نہیں تھا۔
پر اب بھی اویس بہت خودغرض اور نازک مزاج تھا۔ یہ بات اور لوگوں کے سامنے بھی واضع ہونے لگی تھی ۔ مجھے اویس سےسخت نفرت تھی۔
ایک بار میرے پروفیسر نے مجھے “ایوس کار رینٹلز” بلایا تو میں نے مسکرا دیا۔ کچھ لوگوں نے اس مزاق کو برا بھی سمجھا لیکن میں نے ان لوگوں کو سنجیدہ نہیں لیا۔ میں آٹو کریکٹ کا مزاق بناتا جب وہ میرے نام کو “اویٹس” یا “آلویز” بنا دیتا۔ میں اپنے دوستوں سے کہتا کہ میرے نام کے تلفظ پر بحث مباحثہ کرنا میرے ٹائم کا “ا-ویسٹ” ہے۔ میں ان لوگوں سے عاجز آگیا جو دوسروں کے ناموں کی غلط ادائیگی پر فضول بحث کرتے تھے۔ کیونکہ یہ میرے نزدیک کوئی گناہِ کبیرہ نہیں۔ مجھے خود اویس سننے سےسخت نفرت تھی۔
پر اویس کی ایک کہانی ہے۔ اور وہ ایک ایسی کہانی ہے جسے میں نظرانداز نہیں کرسکتا۔ ایک ایسی کہانی جس کا مجھے حساب دینا ہے۔
یہ کہانی میری والدہ کے چھوٹے بھائی کی ہے جس کا نام بھی اویس تھا۔ اسے ایٹریل سیپٹل ڈیفیکٹ تھا، یا سادہ الفاظ میں وہ اپنے دل میں سوراخ کے ساتھ پیدا ہوا تھا۔ دنیا میں اس نے جو وقت گزارا، وہ مختصر پر پراثر تھا۔
میری والدہ آج بھی اُس کا ذکر کرتی ہیں۔ وہ اپنی عمر سے زیادہ زہین تھا۔ ایک خوبصورت، بےلوث لڑکا۔ ذوالفقار علی بھٹو کی حکومت کے دوران جب احمدیوں کے خلاف نفرت وتشدد عروج پر تھی، دل میں سوراخ لئے اس دنیا میں داخل ہونا اُس کے گھر والوں کے لیے پریشانی کا واحد سبب نہیں تھا۔ ۱۹۷۴ میں جیسے اویس کی صحت بگڑتی گئی، پاکستان میں ہمارے لوگوں کی حالت بھی بگڑتی گئی۔ اس ہی سال ملکی تاریخ میں ہمارے خلاف بدترین تشدد کے واقعات رونما ہوئے جس کے نتیجے میں کافی قتل، لوٹ مار اور املاک کی تباہی ہوئی۔
میری والدہ کے خاندان کو روزانہ ہراساں کیا جاتا تھا۔ واہ میں میرے نانا کے گھر کے ساتھ والی مسجد کے امام ہر نماز کے بعد اِسپیکر پر اعلانات کرکے لوگوں کو میرے خاندان کے افراد کے قتل پر اکساتے، یقین دلاتے کہ جو بھی ایسا کرے گا وہ جنت میں جائے گا۔ میرے نانا کے گھر پر گولے پھینکے گئے۔ گھر کی ہر کھڑکی ٹوٹ گئی اور سامنے کا صحن کنکروں اور پتھروں سے بھرنے لگا۔ اچھے دنوں میں لوگ صرف پتھراؤ کرتے اور برے دنوں میں بم باری۔
اس میں اویس پلا بڑھا تھا۔ یہ چیزیں ہمارے گھر میں کیوں پھینک رہے ہیں؟ کیا وہ نہیں جانتے کہ کسی کو تکلیف ہو سکتی ہے؟ تین سالہ اویس معصومیت سے پوچھتا۔ دل میں سوراخ کے ساتھ پیدا ہونے والے بچے کو اس قسم کی نفرت کا کیا پتا؟
اس سال گرمیوں میں جب میرے نانا کے گھر کے سامنے ہونے والے فسادات ناقابلِ برداشت ہو گئے، تو میری والدہ کے خاندان کے تمام لوگ ربوہ منتقل ہو گئے، یہ امید لئے کہ وہاں سب محفوظ ہوں گے۔ میرے نانا نوکری کرنے کے لیے پیچھے رہ گئے۔ رات کو تاروں کو دیکھتے ہوئے اویس ان تاروں سے کہتا کہ وہ اسکے والد تک اس کا سلام پہنچادیں۔ وہ ٹھنڈی ہوا کے جھونکے سے کہتا “مجھے امید ہے اللہ میاں یہ ہوا میرے ابو کو بھی بھیجیں گے، وہ ضرور اکیلے ہوں گے۔” ایسا تھا اویس ۔
وہاں رہائش پزیر وہ بیمار پڑ گیا۔ ربوہ میں طبی سہولیات محدود تھیں اور اس کے ڈاکٹر واہ میں تھے۔ میری نانی جان اسے واپس لے گئیں۔ وہ پہلے بھی بیمار پڑتا تھا، تو یہ بس ایک معمولی سی بات تھی ناں؟
پر یہ کوئی معمولی سی بات نہیں تھی۔
چار لوگ اویس کو دفنانے گئے۔ پاکستان میں زندگی کے کئی پہلوؤں کی طرح جنازہ بھی ایک اجتماعی تقریب ہے۔ قریبی رشتہ دار کا میت کو غسل دینا، کفن پہنانا، نمازِ جنازہ ادا کرنا، اور تدفین، جہاں رشتہ دار اور برادری کے دیگر افراد خاندان کے ساتھ اظہارِ ہمدردی کرتے ہوئے قبر پر مٹی ڈالنے میں مدد کرتے ہیں۔ لیکن پاکستانی قوانین کے مطابق احمدیوں کو اسلامی قوانین کے مطابق تدفین کی اجازت نہیں تھی۔ یہاں تک کہ وہ کسی بھی لحاظ سے ایک مسلمان کی طرح زندگی گزارنے سے ممنوع تھے۔ وہ کہیں بھی بڑی تعداد میں جمع نہیں ہو سکتے تھے، یہ انُ کے لئے غیرمحفوظ تھا۔ واہ میں احمدیوں کے پاس اس وقت کوئی کفن دفن کی جگہ یا قبرستان بھی نہ تھا۔ واہ کینٹ کی مقامی حکومت سے اویس کی تدفین کے لیے جگہ تلاش کرنے کی درخواست کی گئی۔
دفنانے کے لیے گئے چار آدمیوں میں سے میرے نانا جان خاندان کے واحد فرد تھے۔ وہ رات کو موٹر سائیکلوں پر نکلے اور گاڑی کچھ فاصلے پر پارک کی تاکہ وہ نظروں سے بچے رہیں۔ حفاظتی خدشات کی وجہ سے قبر کو برابر کیا اور وہاں کوئی کتبہ یا قبر کا نام و نشان نہ چھوڑا۔ ہر بڑے موقع جیسے عید، رمضان، کبھی جمعہ کی نماز پر لوگ اپنے پیاروں کی قبروں پر جاتے ہیں۔ اویس کو یہ سعادت بھی نہ ملی۔ میری والدہ کہتی ہیں کہ برسوں سے میرے نانا قبرستان میں اندازاً اس سمت کی طرف رخ کرکے دعا مانگتےتھے جہاں اویس کو دفن کیا گیا ہو۔ لیکن یہ روایت بھی نانا کے ساتھ ۲۰۰۵ میں چل بسی۔
اب کسی کو یاد نہیں کہ اویس کہاں دفنایا گیا تھا۔ جو ایک آدھ تصویر موجود تھی گم ہو چکی ہے۔ اس کی یاد دلانے والی کوئی لمس آشنا چیز باقی نہ رہی۔ صرف نام۔ جس نام سے نفرت کرنے میں میں نے برسوں گزار دیئے۔ وہ نام جس سے میں قطعِ تعلق چاہتا تھا۔
اب جب میں اپنے نام کے بارے میں سوچتا ہوں تو میں انہیں یاد کرتا ہوں۔ میں ہر احمدی کی زندگی کو یاد کرتا ہوں۔ اویس اب میرے لیے صرف ایک نام نہیں ہے۔ یہ ۱۹۷۴ کے بعد کے پاکستان میں احمدیوں پر ہونے والے ظلم کا زخم ہے جو آج تک دکھتا ہے۔ یہ اس بچے کی داستان ہے جو شروع ہونے سے پہلے ہی ختم ہوگئی۔ یہ اس بچے کی عقلمندی اور صبر کی نشانی ہے جس کے اس دنیا میں صرف تین سال تھے۔ یہ میری والدہ کی اپنے مرحوم بھائی سے محبت بھرے رشتے کا یادگار ہے۔ یہ ایک خاندان کے صبر اور استقامت کی علامت ہے جسے اپنے بیٹے، اپنے بھائی کی تعزیت کرنے کا موقع نہیں دیا گیا۔ یہ میری والدہ اور ان کے بھائی سے آخری اور اکلوتا رشتہ ہے۔ اور یہ سب میں ہر وقت، ہر جگہ اپنے ساتھ لئے چلتا ہوں۔ اور مجھے اویس کہلانے پر کبھی اتنا فخر نہیں ہوا۔
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۔ اویس احمد سیئیٹل میں مقیم صحافی ہیں جو مرکزی اور جنوبی ایشیا کو کوَر کرتے ہیں۔ انہوں نے ۲۰۱۷ میں امیرکن یونیورسٹی واشنگٹن سے صحافت میں بی اے کے ساتھ ٹرانس کلچرل لٹریچر میں مائنر کیا۔ اویس اپنی تحریر میں تعلق کے احساس تارکینِ وطن اور جبر کے سوالات کھوجتے ہیں ۔فارغ وقت میں وہ پڑھنا اور ٹی وی دیکھنا پسند کرتےہیں۔کبھی کبھار وہ ٹک ٹاک پر گاتے ہوئے ویڈیوز پوسٹ کرتے ہیں۔
۔ اسد علی ذوالفقار ایک نیو میڈیا آرٹسٹ ہیں جن کا تعلق کراچی سے ہے۔ موجودہ سیاسی ماحول کو مد نظر رکھتے ہوئے وہ اپنی زندگی میں اپنی ذات اور دوسروں کے لیے ہمدردی رکھنے کے طریقے تلاش کر رہے ہیں۔ ان کا کام برادریوں اور نسب تعمیر شده اور قدرتی ماحول زبان اور مذہب خدا اور خود سے تعلقات کے گرد گھومتا ہے۔ اسد نے حبیب یونیورسٹی سے کمیونیکیشن اینڈ ڈیزائن میں بی اے کیا ہوا ہے۔ ان کی خدمات کو سراہنے کے لیے ۲۰۲۲ میں انہیں پرنس کلاز سیڈ ایوارڈ نوازا گیا۔
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