Reporting Pakistan

by Meena Menon

  For the student community to feed into the left parties, there has to be political participation, elections on the campus and the freedom to organize. Young students in Balochistan have already borne the brunt of their independent thinking. Working in the slums and with farmers may be a good start, but under the circumstances it will be a Sisyphean task for the Left to emerge as a serious and dominating stream of thought in the political map of Pakistan. The challenge for the new Left is also to reignite Marxist ideology which most people think is outdated and has little meaning for them.

  The ban on student unions

  In a large, sunlit football ground, young men performed the attan, a slow-moving dance, and the grave teenagers wearing salwar kameez moved rhythmically in large circles, their arms gracefully spread out. There was only one woman and I asked her why no other woman was dancing. She laughed and said she was a PhD student by way of explanation. The Quaid-i-Azam University (QAU), almost on the outskirts of the city, was one of the earliest universities in Pakistan and its campus, with its neatly divided departments, was navigable even for a stranger. I wanted to do a story on the ban on student unions, and when I read about a mela of sorts which had been advertised in the papers, I went there hoping to run into some willing-to-talk students.

  There were small stalls that sold trinkets, clothes and pottery, and I wandered around. Phone numbers were exchanged with some students, and one evening I was in the canteen where a small room had been opened for our meeting; there was tea and refreshments too. A huddle of young men explained how things worked in the university bereft of any real campus politics.

  They were from the Pakhtun Council and I couldn’t meet any others as they had exams, and also since my spooks followed me, it wouldn’t be a happy time for them if they were questioned. Salim (name changed) explained that there were six different communities and all had their councils, like the Pakhtun Council. ‘We want to ignore political parties and the purpose of the council is to maintain peace and promote culture, and solve problems. For instance, if there is no electricity then we intervene.’

  NK, a former general secretary of the Pakhtun Council, said it had around 800 to 1000 members, including 200 women. After political parties were banned during Zia-ul-Haq’s time, there was a resistance to organizing on religious or political lines and so the community-based councils came into being. All the councils came together under the umbrella of the QAU Students’ Federation. Every council had a Cabinet committee with neutral people who were nominated for not having any political affiliation.

  The students didn’t have a high opinion of the political system in Pakistan; they wanted to keep that kind of politics out of the campus, as also the hard-core political parties. Unlike other universities where religious parties like the JeI proliferated, the QAU had kept them out. But some private colleges didn’t even allow student councils. In some universities, there was no federation of councils. Students said that before admissions, they had to sign an undertaking that they would not be part of any political, religious or ethnic unions. The faculty, too, was in favour of the council system.

  There was no official recognition of the council, and in July 2012 students protested that the councils should be made part of the university and they also insisted on representation on the University Disciplinary Committee. Some of the students were rusticated after they disrupted an international conference as part of the protests. The promise to lift the ban on the student unions made by Prime Minister Yousuf Raza Gilani after he was elected in 2008 didn’t come through. In January 2016, the Pakistan Senate called the ban unconstitutional and asked a committee to submit recommendations. After Zia ordered a ban in 1984, the orders were rescinded by the Benazir government in 1988. Some three years later, the student unions were challenged in the apex court on the grounds that they were contributing to ‘on-campus violence’. Then the Supreme Court imposed a ban on the unions in 1993.2

  There was a lot of friction with religious student groups like the IJT affiliated to the JeI which had traditionally dominated the campuses, especially in the Punjab. The QAU Students’ Federation called itself neutral but they were under powerful political influences. Most students felt the unions should be brought back. But this doesn’t even feature as an election issue in mainstream politics. There was some debate in the National Assembly that the federations should be legalized. The Pakhtun Council’s sole aim seemed to be to unite all the Pashtun speakers under one umbrella. The council also tried to get the QAU Students’ Federation recognized, but the university didn’t even do that.

  The council took up issues like hostel allotment and quotas since seats are divided by population, with the Punjab getting the lion’s share of 50 per cent and KPK 14 per cent. Women are included in the councils, but I didn’t get to meet any as the students were busy with their examinations and I was leaving mid-May. A report by Bargad3 gives a glimpse into the vibrant campus life before 1984 and the dominance of the Islami Jamiat Talaba. It said, ‘The student politics was also divided by an intense ideological struggle between the political Islamists and the left-oriented parties in an over-all environment of cold war.’ The move to lift the ban on unions had not received much support. ‘In an unprecedented move Vice Chancellors of all public and private universities of Pakistan gave a rejoinder to their previous assertions on the student politics (2009). They don’t think it appropriate to lift the ban at the present critical situation of the country. They rather support the growth of societies and associations within campuses. They further accuse the student unions of being a source of violence and disruption in studies,’ according to the Bargad report.

  Student movements were vibrant in Pakistan during Zulfikar Bhutto’s time. He drew much strength from their unruly power. But under Zia, madrasas were given more importance and the political vibrancy on the campus was blunted with the union ban. ‘Historical evidence proves that before the ban on student unions, much of the street power and larger political assemblies in Pakistan have been attributed to the student politics. After a long lull, the students were again seen on the streets during the lawyers’ movement. Nevertheless their organization, thematic training and scale have visibly diluted as compared with previous examples of national movements.’4

  While students are political in a sense, their organizations, except for the student groups in Balochistan, function more on the lines of welfare groups and are not a part of the broader political picture. There was an incident in 2007 when the IJT opposed the entry of Imran Khan into the Punjab University campus; then there were clashes with the University Students Federation (USF) formed to oppose the Emergency. These incidents had a snowballing effect and the students went on to support the lawyers’ agitation against General Musharraf. The fear that students could set a momentum for social change is very real and the curbs may not be lifted fully yet.

  The Left also suffered from the ban on this traditional reservoir. The National Students Federation (NSF), one of the first left unions, is faced with a tough challenge. Alia Amirali, the general secretary of the NSF in the Punjab, says the first task is to educate people on what a union is and how it’s different from a non-political organization which is allowed on campus. But students are worried about joining the NSF—they fear jails and court cases. There is an antipathy to mainstream politics in the Punjab as opposed to Balochistan where the students’ movement has fed so many political groups, like in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. She says while there is an opportunity to build anew, the real trick is how to achieve this work today in a climate where there is an increasing public–private education divide and also in terms of political consciousness between the Punjab, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Balochistan. ‘This politicization reflects what is happening in society. The lawyers’ movement gave us an impetus that we can be effective and despite small numbers we ended up having more of a discursive impact than we thought,’ she says.5

  But as things stand, in the absence of a free political environment, the NSF is floundering,
and raising a dedicated cadre of young students seems difficult.

  War and refuge

  It was a chance meeting with Professor Anila Daulatzai which got me into writing on Afghan refugees. Speaking at the SDPI on her research based on war widows in Kabul, she was like a breath of fresh air on the Afghan issue. I thought it would be interesting to interview her and get a perspective so different from the usual narrative of Afghans as victims. Outspoken and fiery, Anila was based in the US but was doing her PhD in Kabul. It was a great interview for The Hindu op-ed and she raised so many key questions on the US war and humanitarian aid, saying that both were equally culpable. The relationship between Pakistan and Afghanistan is one marked by hostility, and the refugees who have spilled into Pakistan since the Soviet invasion in 1979, don’t want to go back to their native country. Somewhere Pakistan feels it has taken on too much, forgetting that when it joined hands with the USA in the war against the Soviets first and again post-9/11, it paved the way for instability and an exodus. Pakistan is appealing to foreign donors to help finance projects for communities which are hosting the refugees. It is also showing impatience with Afghanistan since it was supposed to develop sites for refugees to return home but that was not really done. There is hostility to the Afghan influx and a bitter joke that the language of Karachi, where there are many Afghans, will soon be Pashto.

  In 2017, Pakistan continues to host some 1.3 million registered refugees who have proof of registration (PoR) cards issued by Pakistan’s National Database and Registration Authority (NADRA), and this gets periodically extended. There are, according to estimates, approximately 600,000 undocumented Afghans living in Pakistan.6

  The year 2016 saw a twelve-year high in the return of Afghan refugees. More than 370,000 registered Afghan refugees returned home from Pakistan in 2016, compared to just over 58,000 in 2015 under the UNHCR-facilitated voluntary return programme.7 There was a controversy over the high numbers and Pakistan was accused by human rights groups of forcing the exodus. The majority of those returning are going to Kabul, Nangarhar, Baghlan, Kunduz and Laghman provinces.8

  The UNHCR says there are a number of related factors which have led to this increase. The rise in return coincides with the introduction, on 1 June 2016, of tighter border management controls at the Torkham border. Afghans now need valid passports and visas in order to enter Pakistan. So many families are now opting to return to join their families in Afghanistan. Another reason is the increase in the UNHCR’s voluntary repatriation and reintegration cash grant which was doubled from $200 to $400 per individual in June 2016, which means $2800 for a family of seven. Moreover, Afghanistan’s Ministry of Refugees and Repatriation’s campaign launched in July 2016 in Pakistan, encourages Afghans to return home. Besides, in Pakistan, the increase in the number of security operations against undocumented foreigners, including undocumented Afghans, has also impacted the refugees’ decision to return. A report by Human Rights Watch in February 2016 was more direct. It indicted the Pakistan government for unlawfully coercing Afghan refugees out of Pakistan, and the UNHCR for remaining silent ‘about Pakistan’s large-scale refoulement of Afghans, not once stating that many of those returning were primarily fleeing police abuses and fear of deportation and that Pakistan’s actions were unlawful’.9

  One in four refugees in today’s world is an Afghan and while the Syrians are about to overtake that, the onus is on Afghanistan to do more to ensure the return of its 5 million refugees back to their country. The theatre of war in Afghanistan has had an impact on its people, the politics of the region and terrorism. While much has been written and researched about the wars, the Taliban and the US as well as ISAF, there is little outcry about the people forced to leave that devastated country and seek refuge elsewhere. In Islamabad, there seems to be little sympathy for the Afghans who are perceived as a criminal bunch. You can see them everywhere in the capital, shabbily dressed, bearded men who collect your garbage for a pittance, or selling French fries at makeshift stalls in the various markets for PKR 30 a helping in crumpled newspapers. Gangs of unkempt Afghan children would roam the streets at times, foraging for food. Once while buying fruit from my usual vendor, there was a group of Afghan children who asked me to get them something. The vendor gave them bananas but they made a face and pointed to a large, red pomegranate. I let them have it, and to my amazement they didn’t need a knife to cut it. They chewed it open and tapped it on the pavement to get the luscious seeds to one end and then ate it all up, the red juice streaming down their pink cheeks.

  After the anti-Soviet jihad and later the war against terror post-9/11, Pakistan found itself at the receiving end of the problem and had to accommodate the massive influx of Afghans, many of whom blamed Pakistan and the US for their sorry plight. Pakistan has often made it clear that it cannot continue to house the refugees who barely manage to survive despite the grant of land and housing. In Karachi, we were told to avoid the Afghan camps.

  I was keen on visiting an Afghan refugee camp, and the UNHCR said there was only one in the capital on the outskirts of Islamabad. It seemed like a mini Afghanistan with a dusty road of sorts leading up to it, full of turbaned men. No grown women were in sight due to the strict purdah system and children milled around playing cricket in the sun or hanging around at a few makeshift stalls. There was a large shed for cattle fodder, stall-fed cows and donkey carts. The only school was shut two years ago. It didn’t seem like the rest of the capital at all, with its low mud huts and little strips of by-lanes with stinking gutters all around. My escort and I landed up there in the afternoon and we had to sit in the open, surrounded by the men who spoke of the problems of living in this camp. They were also hounded by the police, and the searches often unearthed many arms and ammunition, which the Afghans said they were used to carrying. I wanted to meet some women and after a long chat with the men, I asked if I could go inside the homes, and they readily agreed, even providing me with a translator.

  Afghan hospitality rose above the depressing surroundings and there was hot tea ready and bread which they baked once a day in deep clay ovens in their courtyard. They were trying to recreate their life back home. In Zaituna Bibi’s house, a gleaming steel flask occupied pride of place. She proudly told me it was from Kabul and it cost PKR 1500. It kept tea hot for twenty-four hours. She didn’t think much of the local flasks as the tea got cold in no time. Like most women in the Afghan refugee settlement in Islamabad, she baked once a day and about thirty of the large ‘skateboard’ loaves lasted her nine-member family for three meals a day. They all lived and slept in a small room with a shaky roof which doubled as a terrace and sleeping area in the summer heat. The other room was for the cattle—a cow and goats. A small, enclosed courtyard served as her kitchen and seating area. There was a deep mud oven (tandoor) and next to it two broad shelves with aluminium vessels and large cans. There was no gas or power there and firewood cost PKR 3000 a bundle plus another PKR 500 for transport. The only healthcare centre remained closed most of the time and people paid PKR 500 to get to the nearest hospital. But Zaituna Bibi pretended she lived in a palace—her warmth and hospitality, and acceptance of things rose above her sordid existence.

  The refugees, most of whom came here in 1979, didn’t complain about their homes or the drains or of the lack of basic amenities, but what they dreaded most was the police. In the large gathering, there were many men who have been to jail. Bahadur Khan’s son was in jail for twenty days. Originally from Baglan, he came there thirty-five years ago when he was a child. Like most Afghans, he sold vegetables in the market opposite where they used to live earlier till they were allotted this new piece of land.

  There were about 3500 people in the camp. Mohammed Isaq came here as a one-year-old baby with his parents who left everything behind in Kunduz. He didn’t even know if his home was still there. Isaq sold water or vegetables for a living. There were some electric poles in the vicinity but they didn’t get power. The Afghans were caught in a warp—stuck there
in difficult conditions and not in a position to go back. If the police caught them, they would tear up the PoR cards and put them in jail. Some of them had paid PKR 20,000 to be released after begging or borrowing.

  The men left for the vegetable market at 5 a.m. and often the police lay in wait to catch them. A search operation had been conducted here before I visited and many arrests were made and some weapons recovered.

  Most of them earned PKR 300 to 500 a day, like Ahmad Din. His brother, Azharuddin, had spent five days in jail. Ahmad was afraid to leave for work and constantly feared that he would be picked up. He didn’t want any more children as he didn’t know how to raise his two young sons. For the Afghans, it was difficult to get SIM cards or open bank accounts. They bought motorcycles in the names of Pakistanis.

  Sitting inside their enclosed courtyards, the women often sent little children to fetch water. There was only one functioning bore well. The government had built toilets at the back of the camp. Zaituna said her home in Kunduz might have been beautiful but there was nothing to eat there. She came here when she was three and now had seven children, including four girls. On the single beam holding up the roof, she had tied a battery-operated LED lamp with a ribbon. That was the only source of light in most houses. Her husband plied a donkey cart and earned some PKR 300 a day. Women would step out of the camp for medical check-ups or to visit relatives, always accompanied by men—a way of Afghan culture and tradition.

  Since it was not an officially recognized camp, it lacked the basic amenities provided in the refugee villages. In 2009, the Capital Development Authority asked all Afghans residing in a few sectors of Islamabad to vacate the areas in order to initiate some developmental projects. They were offered two options by the UNHCR—they could voluntarily repatriate to Afghanistan or relocate to an alternative site. Some of them did opt to return but around 500 families preferred to stay back and live in this settlement.