The Marrow of LIfe: NOW OR NEVER, Peshawar, Pakistan (Sep 06)

'Are We to Live, or Perish for Ever’;

Interfaith Forum and Other Encounters

Thus read Choudhary Rahmat Ali ’s pamphlet in 1933 (then an undergraduate at the University of Cambridge) appealing for a separate Muslim state on behalf of the thirty million Muslims who lived in the 5 northern provinces of India. He appealed for the British governments’ ‘support and sympathy’ in their ‘grim and fateful struggle against political crucifixion and complete annihilation’. Five decades later, ironically another minority in the ancient ‘land of pure’ bound by infant national borders and an adolescent national identity, face similar struggles of political crucifixion. The isolated busthi communities of Christians living in abject poverty, hunger to be a part of a community they have been ostracised from. Long to reassert a national identity and a cultural heritage that spans more than 3000 years; exiled on the accusation that they were traitors to the East and in the pockets of the West. All because they believe in the divinity of a Semitic, who is revered as a Muslim prophet.

It was these communities we visited in the Peshawar busthis (slums), where people struggled not just to survive, but to convince their growing families why community ostracisms and socio-economic starvation not to mention harassment, and prejudice, was worth a belief. Fearful of their lives and loved ones every time the cowboy western democracies exercise their right to put their foot in their mouths (simply because they CAN), these families live in exile in their homeland. The stories of religious persecution, in the wake of the Dutch cartoon controversy made me rethink my culturally introverted indignation at the time. (‘People make fun of Christianity all the time, and no one blinks’ I had thought, ‘This unnecessary reactionism displays a lack of tolerance and collective-identity maturity’ I had judged). Ironically despite being a political-psychologist (paradoxically researching cognitive reasoning and social identity in societies of conflict), I had not wasted much thought or consideration on the consequences of the actions, or roots of the reactions. These poor sweepers and Latrine cleaners had better insight. They clearly identified the national insecurities of the East, in the face of what academics would call ‘the rise of global capitalism induced by western cowboy democracies’. In place of arrogant armchair analysis and academic smugness they understood with compassion and proactive reconciliation. Academic words I used in many a paper like peace building now had a face.
The sheer bravery (or insanity) of some Peshawar diocese youth groups that went on a peace march, the day after schools, missions and churches were bombed and mobbed (and many Christians killed) stirred poignant images of the frail fragments of life we had seen. The bullet scarred Cross in All Saints church, Peshawar, and it story of the 8 martyrs who each died trying to mount a cross on a church that was deceptively built like a mosque (because it was the only way to be able to build it without being shut down at the foundation) took our breath away. This was not just faith or blind martyrdom, but an intuitive understanding and commitment to a persecuted path.

At the Interfaith forum Bishop Mano spoke with a passion and sincerity appealing for a community that stands together against prejudice & violence in these difficult times. The Mullah’s and other Muslim community leaders spoke of a commitment to building relationships with Christian communities and reintegration of alienated Christian populace back into main stream society. Despite the commitment and vision of these liberal minded philanthropists, cynically, I wondered how much of this would become a reality, in the face of growing insecurity and explosive global politics.

Later that week, we (particularly us ‘women’ who are NEVER allowed in this ancient Peshawar mosque) tread gingerly across the alabaster archways richly decorated in heavy floral detail. The glory and the stillness of the marble corridors seemed to inspire communion with God. I felt that a loving omniscient God had abandoned these children of Abraham. Tangled theology of Soteriology and Teleology knotted my brow in accusation weighed in discontent. A few curious and some possibly distressed worshippers looked on, as the mullah conducted us through the mosque. Having been pre-briefed not to speak unless spoken to (given I shouldn’t even be there as a woman), I was pleasantly surprised when the ageing cleric spent some time talking to me with relaxed sincerity and unruffled graciousness, despite my awkward questions about women and worship. There was an unperturbed self possession of a man at peace with God as he spoke of the history, politics and culture that created the current paradigms of worship. My wide eyed stereotypes of fundamentalist, narrow minded men of this primitive frontier province, who were afraid of the insidious potency of modern woman and their ancient authority, disappeared in the bleeding sunset. I was touched at the dignity of the meeting of ideas from such diverse vantage points. It took a man truly at peace with himself to afford such candour and grace, in such a troubled region, inextricably woven into the complex chess games of authority and influence in politics and religion, and responsible for ministering to daily crisis and tragedy. Looking around the tangible beauty of the rose tinted minarets in the softly falling dusk, I felt reassured of a God whose Grace and Wisdom were infinite.