Many thought he was crazy to swap London for one of the most dangerous countries in the world. But he’s happy to be home. From the Guardian:
After living and working in London for more than a decade, I moved back to Pakistan just over a year ago – and soon realised that the Pakistan I knew had migrated elsewhere. Mainly to the front covers of the sombre current affairs magazines you find in posh dentists’ waiting rooms. The world’s media had reached a consensus that I had boarded a sinking ship. Time, Newsweek and the Economist have all written an obituary of Pakistan, some twice over. The more caring ones are still holding a wake.
A couple of years ago when we decided to return, Pakistan wasn’t exactly the world’s safest destination. It was fighting its demons of poverty, the Taliban and a military dictatorship that fostered them. But it very much belonged in this world: a new bank was going up on every street corner and a new generation of media, telecom and property professionals was working overtime to sell bits of the country to each other. It seems that between us negotiating with the removal men and stocking up on jars of Marmite, the various editorial boards across the western world decided that the end of the world was nigh and it would all begin in Pakistan. Channan, my 11-year-old born-and-bred-in- London son, was so miffed by this that when he saw some white people at Karachi airport, he whispered furiously: “What are they doing here? Don’t they know it’s not a tourist country. They are always saying it’s a terrorist country.” More:
Saeed Shah in The Guardian:
Tales of religious extremism, class divides, dictators, war and love have come from writers who grew up largely in Pakistan and now move easily between London, Karachi, New York and Lahore. Since the publication of Mohsin Hamid’s The Reluctant Fundamentalist two years ago, which was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, a new wave of Pakistani fiction is earning critical acclaim at home and around the world.
Last year came Mohammad Hanif’s first novel, A Case of Exploding Mangoes – a dark comedy about the Islamic fundamentalist rule of General Zia ul Haq in the 1980s – and Nadeem Aslam’s The Wasted Vigil, which is set in modern Afghanistan.
Two keenly anticipated works are due out in the UK in the coming weeks: Kamila Shamsie’s fifth, and reputedly finest, novel, Burnt Shadows, and a collection of short stories by Daniyal Mueenuddin, who was compared with Chekhov when some of the tales were previously published in the New Yorker.
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Mohammad Hanif, author of the blackly humorous book, A Case of Exploding Mangoes, was in India for the Jaipur LitFest. He talks to Shoma Chaudhury of Tehelka about things despairing and hopeful in India and Pakistan.
You were part of the clash of civilizations debate. What was your dominant impression from it?
I have been to India only a couple of times for short periods, so I have seen Indian politics only played out on the media. This was my first experience of watching Indian intellectuals and ideologues live. It was quite fascinating. There was Tarun Vijay – the right wing Hindu ideologue who I have only heard of. When he made that rather extreme statement that there is no clash of civilizations in India because on one side there is Hindu civilization and on the other, there is no civilization, only barbarism, I was really heartened by the reaction of the school children sitting in the front row. You would expect audiences in a festival like this to be full of bleeding heart liberals, but going by the way the kids booed him, one can see there are many new liberals in the making.
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And click here for a slideshow from the Jaipur Literature Festival:
When Mohammed Hanif left Pakistan in 1996, it was ruled by Benazir Bhutto and the Taliban were being touted as the saviours of Afghanistan. Now her widower has become president, and the Taliban want to save Pakistan too. From The National:
Protesters in Peshawar at a demonstration against military operations in Pakistan's tribal areas. AP photo
Two weeks ago, after 12 years in London, I moved back to Pakistan. The week I arrived, Asif Ali Zardari – who spent the last few years in a more involuntary exile, after eight years in Pakistani jails – was elected as the President of Pakistan.
As I drove out of Karachi airport, a banner strung across the road greeted me. At one end was a picture of Benazir Bhutto, taken moments after she returned to Pakistan last year: rose petals in her hair, hands raised in prayer. At the other end of the banner a smug-looking Zardari stared at me, his suppressed grin confirming the impression that he is probably the happiest widower in Pakistan. Each picture bore its own slogan: under Bhutto, a defiant chant that became popular after her assassination, “Zinda hai Bi Bi Zinda hai,” Benazir is alive. Under Zardari, something a bit more intriguing: “Respect to Asif Zardari’s intelligence.”
On my visits to Karachi in the past decade, I have seen some odd slogans on the city’s graffiti-covered walls. I have seen blood-curdling calls for martyrdom next to instant cures for impotence and promises of overnight job promotion. These days, you can read about hair-transplants-on-the-go or learn about how to make the world’s cheapest phone call.
[Mohammed Hanif’s first novel, A Case of Exploding Mangoes, was on the longlist for this year’s Man Booker prize and is longlisted for the Guardian First Book award.]
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When novelist Mohammed Hanif told friends he was returning to Pakistan after 12 years in Britain, they were aghast. Why would he and his young family swap London for a city with daily power cuts and rampant gun crime? The answer proved surprisingly simple … From The Guardian:
Twelve years ago, I arrived in London from Karachi with eight suitcases, a new wife and a three-year job contract. Before leaving for London, we had put our books, furniture and even some of our kitchen utensils at our relatives’ houses. When I told my friends and family that we would be back after exactly three years, they gave us a knowing smile and encouraged us to sell that sofa instead of putting it in their store room.
Two months from now, we are planning to return to Karachi with a container full of furniture, more pots and pans than we left behind and a 10-year-old son. Friends and family in Pakistan are aghast. From London to Karachi? Why are you coming to Karachi? Do you know what happened to Sana’s friend the other day? Do you have any idea how you’ll live without electricity for 10 hours every day? And, by the way, have you discussed this with Channan? How does he feel about it?
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Mohammed Hanif’s book, A Case of Exploding Mangoes is causing a stir in London. Here, blackly humorous, he writes of how he stumbled on books in a Pakistan military academy during General Zia’s regime. And escaped. [Excerpt in Tehelka]
Once upon a time, when I was 18, I found myself locked up in Pakistan’s military academy’s cell along with my friend and partner-in-crime Khalid. We had thought we were doing charity work but the Academy officers obviously didn’t share our ideals. We had been caught trying to help out another classmate pass his chemistry exam, something he had failed to do twice already and this was his last chance to save himself from being expelled. The logistics of our rescue effort involved a wireless set improvised in the Sunday Hobbies Club, a microphone concealed in a crepe bandage around the left elbow of our academically challenged friend, and a Sanyo FM radio receiver. We were running our operation from the rooftop of a building next to the examination hall. We were caught red-handed, whispering a reversible chemical equation into the transistor.
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