TNS – The News on Sunday

WP_Query Object ( [query] => Array ( [post_type] => post [orderby] => post_date [order] => DESC [post_status] => publish [cat] => 8 ) [query_vars] => Array ( [post_type] => post [orderby] => post_date [order] => DESC [post_status] => publish [cat] => 8 [error] => [m] => 0 [p] => 0 [post_parent] => [subpost] => [subpost_id] => [attachment] => [attachment_id] => 0 [name] => [static] => [pagename] => [page_id] => 0 [second] => [minute] => [hour] => [day] => 0 [monthnum] => 0 [year] => 0 [w] => 0 [category_name] => special-report [tag] => [tag_id] => [author_name] => [feed] => [tb] => [paged] => 0 [comments_popup] => [meta_key] => [meta_value] => [preview] => [s] => [sentence] => [fields] => [menu_order] => [category__in] => Array ( [0] => 8 ) [category__not_in] => Array ( ) [category__and] => Array ( ) [post__in] => Array ( ) [post__not_in] => Array ( ) [tag__in] => Array ( ) [tag__not_in] => Array ( ) [tag__and] => Array ( ) [tag_slug__in] => Array ( ) [tag_slug__and] => Array ( ) [post_parent__in] => Array ( ) [post_parent__not_in] => Array ( ) [posts_per_page] => 9 [ignore_sticky_posts] => [suppress_filters] => [cache_results] => 1 [update_post_term_cache] => 1 [update_post_meta_cache] => 1 [nopaging] => [comments_per_page] => 50 [no_found_rows] => ) [tax_query] => WP_Tax_Query Object ( [queries] => Array ( [0] => Array ( [taxonomy] => category [terms] => Array ( [0] => 8 ) [include_children] => [field] => term_id [operator] => IN ) ) [relation] => AND ) [meta_query] => WP_Meta_Query Object ( [queries] => Array ( ) [relation] => ) [queried_object] => stdClass Object ( [term_id] => 8 [name] => Special Report [slug] => special-report [term_group] => 0 [term_taxonomy_id] => 8 [taxonomy] => category [description] => [parent] => 0 [count] => 1512 [cat_ID] => 8 [category_count] => 1512 [category_description] => [cat_name] => Special Report [category_nicename] => special-report [category_parent] => 0 ) [queried_object_id] => 8 [request] => SELECT SQL_CALC_FOUND_ROWS tns05_posts.ID FROM tns05_posts INNER JOIN tns05_term_relationships ON (tns05_posts.ID = tns05_term_relationships.object_id) WHERE 1=1 AND ( tns05_term_relationships.term_taxonomy_id IN (8) ) AND tns05_posts.post_type = 'post' AND (tns05_posts.post_status = 'publish') AND tns05_posts.post_date >= '2018-08-12' AND tns05_posts.post_date <= '2018-08-13' GROUP BY tns05_posts.ID ORDER BY tns05_posts.post_date DESC LIMIT 0, 9 [posts] => Array ( [0] => WP_Post Object ( [ID] => 86778 [post_author] => 29 [post_date] => 2018-08-12 03:25:12 [post_date_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:25:12 [post_content] => Friday nights in Lahore are especially banal. They begin at a coffee shop in Gulberg’s Mall 1, progress to an overpriced restaurant serving the same old salads and pastas, and culminate to friends hanging out till the early hours of the morning. Every now and then, there are whiffs of Ashraf Tikka, brunch at Capri, or rounds of FIFA. Regardless, Lahore’s local sahib-class rarely leaves its bubble stretching from MM Alam to Defence Phase 5. One of such Friday nights ended with a few friends over at my place. The usual conversation ensues: “How’s work going? It’s been soooo long (10 days) since we last hung out. Did you know person X is going out with person Y?” Attention spans at this point are directly proportional to the amount of drink in hand. Given that consumption isn’t synchronized, chances of deep, thoughtful exchange and reflection are rare. That is, until you get to the cliffhanger of this weekly episode. There’s a brief silence mid conversation; few people look over to the snack table for a refill and some swipe through their phones. One friend breaking the awkward silence, in her usual sing-song mellifluous Lahori-aunty-to-be tone, proudly says: “By the way, I didn’t know EVEN YOU had a nice place.” Interrupted by a few reflexive expletives, I begin to wonder what on earth that even meant. If I was still in college, “EVEN YOU ha[ve] a nice place” would have me immediately upset. But, in Pakistan it feels a bit too close to home with its bizarre putting-you-in-your-place effect. Literally translated my friend’s statement means: You live in an apartment and not a 2-kanal house. You drive a Suzuki Alto and not a Honda Civic. You wear Levi’s not Armani. You can attend a Bedian party but cannot afford to host one. You are privileged but not extremely-privileged. Growing up in Lahore — in fortresses substituting for elite private schools — privilege is second nature. Class, socio-economic divide and gender dynamics are topics often swept under the rug. In such a world, adolescents despite their socio-economic realities acquiesce to a system where opulence is valued and reality is shunned. Eighty dollar Nike trainers, Swatch watches, hideous polo shirts, and suede loafers grant you an air of importance. Frequenting Cosa Nostra for American-priced gelato buys you street-cred. Ultimately, being able to afford these luxuries buys you a seat in Lahore’s darbaar. Lahore’s darbaar isn’t as homogenous as it appears on the outside. Social divide within privileged classes expresses itself in very subtle ways. Individuals within the darbaar are raised to internalise these divides. It begins right in school when it’s all about the repute attached to your school. Once enrolled in the name brand school, it’s about where you’re going to college. Upon returning from college, it’s about recreating the same luxurious lifestyle you took for granted until you moved away. This rut, however, ignores the challenges of the student who asks the rickshaw driver to park around the corner instead of directly in front of the school. It doesn’t address the shattered confidence of a teenager who despite being an effective orator freezes when speaking against a speaker from a more privileged school. It doesn’t resolve the feeling of inadequacy experienced by an adolescent who despite being raised in Pakistan, suddenly adopts a quasi-Irish accent in high school. These challenges are not representative of Pakistan, but represent a small subsection of Pakistan I’ve grown up in. While I am acutely aware of the other versions of Pakistan, ones where monsoon flooding leaves your house submerged, sectarian violence leads to half of your family dead or unemployment leaves you homeless, I have not experienced them first-hand. Read also: “So boys, what’s the scene like these days?”   As I snap out of unpacking the entitlement of what was just said, small-talk has again permeated the room. Conversation has drifted back to vacation in London, studying away in Europe, and the sheer abhorrence invoked by Hamza Ali Abbassi’s tweets. In that moment, I know that nowhere else in the world can I find a room with so much happening, despite so little being said. I’m reminded that I’m back where I grew up, in Lahore, Pakistan. [post_title] => In Lahore’s darbaar [post_excerpt] => [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => open [ping_status] => open [post_password] => [post_name] => lahores-darbaar [to_ping] => [pinged] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/boys-whats-scene-like-days/ [post_modified] => 2018-08-12 10:25:27 [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-08-12 05:25:27 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/?p=86778 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw [format_content] => ) [1] => WP_Post Object ( [ID] => 86790 [post_author] => 29 [post_date] => 2018-08-12 03:24:21 [post_date_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:24:21 [post_content] => Two old friends sit in a coffee shop and reach an impasse in conversation. They sit stirring their empty cups when one breaks the silence, as all silences in young urban Pakistan are broken. “So bro, what’s the scene like these days?” They pause for a second. They have had this conversation, filled with digressions and expletives, many times. It’s a tough task conveying what the scene is like in young urban Pakistan. Because it’s all over the place. The conversation starts with the most apparent new change. All the new East-Asian faces in cafes and restaurants and malls. And even on Tinder. So that’s new. But so too are these cafes and restaurants and malls. There’s so many of them. There’s cafes for work with their feng shui interiors and those for cheap dates with apologetic lighting. There’s dingy malls with male-only gyms and larger mega-malls for mega-families. So that’s got to be a good thing, right? It’s all pretty impressive to look at. Both agree. Another round of coffee is ordered. But man you know what’s not changed? Imagine there’s two guys and a girl sitting at a table. And the girl asks one of the guys a question. Why does the dude always answer her question while maintaining perfect eye contact with the other dude? She’s the one who asked the question. Both laugh at this perfectly Pakistani idiosyncrasy with disdain, all the while remembering the countless instances they did the same. They too suffer from a fear of sustained eye contact. At least it’s better than uncles and aunties, man. Like our generation has guys and girls who are friends, who date, who fall in and out of love. But uncles and aunties aren’t friends. Don’t get me wrong, uncles are friends with other uncles, and aunties are friends with other aunties. They are friendly, sure. Just not friends. The awkward hesitation while an uncle and aunty figure out whether to side-hug or shake hands is quite entertaining to watch though. If so far you feel this conversation is all over the place, and paints with too broad a brush, you’re right. But young urban Pakistan is not known for nuance in conversation. The boys decide to step out for a smoke. In the parking lot two young families are just about to sit in their cars. In one sits a burly teenager, in the other a wide-eyed seven-year-old. Maybe it’s the smoke in their lungs, or the weight of the humid air outside, but the conversation starts probing deeper. Both had noticed how the teenager had locked his car-door from the inside, as if upon reflex, while the younger one had not bothered to. Suddenly, the two realised that the teenager had grown up, as had they, in war time. Uneasy and mistrusting of the man on the street. While the younger one was being brought up in the relative peace of the last few years. Were we ever at war, the two ponder? Yes, there were blasts, and school shootings, and insurgencies. And unintended consequences, like the locking of a car-door. But who then was the enemy? Both have vague answers to this question. What a strange war. Did we never call the enemy by its name? Strange indeed. The seven-year-old that didn’t lock her car-door gave them more hope, though they never got around to discussing her Pakistan. One with cinemas, and movies; smooth roads and digital advertising screens on every lamp-post; one with democracy and (not so smooth but) peaceful transitions of power. Read also: The personal is political   No they didn’t discuss it for they had not the words. They were children of a different Pakistan. The two friends might not, you and I might not, but that seven-year-old will. She will grow used to the peace, to the cinemas, to the freedoms, to the democracy. And one day when they come to take these items away, she will not let them do so lying down. I won’t, perhaps you won’t either, but she just might put up a fight. Just as they are heading out of the coffee shop they run into an old school friend. With a beaming smile he hugs the two friends and asks in a loud voice, “So boys, what’s the scene like these days?”   [post_title] => “So boys, what’s the scene like these days?” [post_excerpt] => [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => open [ping_status] => open [post_password] => [post_name] => boys-whats-scene-like-days [to_ping] => [pinged] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/personal-political/ [post_modified] => 2018-08-12 03:18:42 [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:18:42 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/?p=86790 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw [format_content] => ) [2] => WP_Post Object ( [ID] => 86788 [post_author] => 29 [post_date] => 2018-08-12 03:21:07 [post_date_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:21:07 [post_content] => When Hina Rabbani Khar visited my university to give a lecture on foreign policy she began with introducing us to the concept of the Chinese curse. “May you live in interesting times,” the Chinese say. I didn’t bother listening to much else of the wholesome lecture she’d given us, because this piece of information alone was enough to leave me feeling a little, um, personally attacked. You see, I grew up in ‘interesting times,’ and I don’t think it was an entirely rotten experience — the Chinese need not categorise everything into spooky curses. Growing up in a country as vividly unbelievable as my dear homeland can mean different things to different people. For the extremely rich it probably doesn’t mean anything, and for the extremely poor it probably means everything. For middle class folks like myself, the entire experience can be summed up in the way we go grocery shopping: always checking the price tag before buying the imported goods we love, always preferring Rossmoor over Hershey’s — even if sometimes we can afford the latter. To me specifically, I would say it is to grow up with an unerring sense of bewilderment — and to ultimately lose yourself to the process of unlearning more than learning. It is also finding ways to accept the perpetual feeling of unhinged-ness that being born in a politically unstable country brings along, which is no easy task — believe me I’ve tried, so I know what I am saying. Most of my childhood, or at least the part which really matters, was spent in Lahore. I used to go to school in the Musharraf era, at a time when the war on terror was still restricted to the Pakistan-Afghanistan border, the Canal road still heavily tree-lined, basant still very much a non-life-threatening festival in vogue and schools still metal detector free. All of it would slowly change in the coming years, but in the meantime, life was okay. Good enough for a nine-year-old to buy ice-creams with 5 rupees and safely play street cricket with her neighbourhood friends, at the very least. Then came along 2007, and most of these earlier treats I mentioned began to change. I like to describe it as the year which introduced me to a world beyond my school gates — even beyond the confines of Lahore. Politically, 2007 was significant because it was the year Benazir Bhutto returned, and subsequently killed. It was also the year of the Lal Masjid Operation and when the Lawyer’s Movement quickened pace — all events which would forever change the political landscape of the nation. On a personal level it was significant because it made me shift my attention from the cartoon network to other channels on my cable network; primarily the news channels my parents were glued to in those times. [box type="shadow" align="alignright" class="red_lines" ]Growing up in a country as vividly unbelievable as my dear homeland can mean different things to different people. For the extremely rich it probably doesn’t mean anything.[/box] Most significantly, however, 2007 taught me two very important things. Firstly, it taught me that a dictator’s televised monologue and a leader’s speech are two very different things. No matter how hard the dictator tries to convince you that his monologue is a speech, the truth of the matter is, it’s nothing more than a televised address. Not a leader’s speech. Never a leader’s speech. Secondly, it gave me my first lesson in the Irrevocable-Truths-About-Growing-Up-In-Pakistan, Beginners Addition: the personal is political, and the political always personal. You move to many cities after 2007, and yet the rule remains the same, though varying in degrees of severity. The personal is political, and political always personal. A never-ending cycle especially designated for the disillusioned youth of this nation. After learning about this irrevocable truth, there’re only two ways one grows up in Pakistan. You either begin harbouring resentment towards everything under the sun — God, your family, the government, the media and the society — or you learn to take the good with the bad and carry on fighting the good fight in your own little way. Read also: Beyond the lack  The teenage me chose the latter on a subconscious whim, but it’s 2018 now, and the choice has introduced me to other incredible folks who took the same decision while growing up. It makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, fighting the good fight is perhaps worth it.   The writer is an undergraduate student at Kinnaird College, Lahore. She tweets at @rtnvir [post_title] => The personal is political [post_excerpt] => [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => open [ping_status] => open [post_password] => [post_name] => personal-political [to_ping] => [pinged] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/beyond-lack/ [post_modified] => 2018-08-12 03:19:50 [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:19:50 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/?p=86788 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw [format_content] => ) [3] => WP_Post Object ( [ID] => 86786 [post_author] => 29 [post_date] => 2018-08-12 03:20:04 [post_date_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:20:04 [post_content] => Life in Pakistan is typically characterised through categories of lack. Economic hardships, restrictions on speech, behaviour, mobility, the stifling of agency, and a plethora of daily frustrations, ranging from security concerns to shortages of water and electricity certainly do not flood the wells of life with welcome abundance. Yet, one must wonder, are these the only possibilities for life here? Do lives exist beyond the limits of this discourse? What would it mean for us to read this lack otherwise? To an extent, my years spent in the West offer me the necessary hindsight through which to reflect on my life outside its bounds. My intellectual coming of age in a racist and xenophobic, individualistic and fiercely capitalist United States throws into sharp relief the richness of the life I had in Pakistan. I recognise now that I was privileged to not grow up with the constant burden of white supremacy and the everyday anxieties and psychological costs induced by racism. In the US, belonging for people of colour is a precarious, fleeting thing. I feel lucky that I didn’t grow up with the need to mould who I was, to always have to learn new ways of being myself — of being Pakistani and Muslim that were palatable and non-threatening — to be able to feel like I belonged. Growing up in Pakistan, one cannot but confront the omnipresence of realities different from one’s own; diverse histories and temporalities; disparate memories and fantasies are deeply inscribed into everyday geographies. To attempt to think of a single mould into which a ‘Pakistani’ might fit would be a task in impossibility. The sheer force of this multiplicity ruptures efforts towards homogenisation. Voices of difference demand to be heard, and in their insistent roar they provide a sense of grounding and belonging that I have scarcely felt in my years abroad. Other excesses — ontological and epistemological — too coloured life. I grew up in the warm folds of family and kin where love was shared and distributed openly and generously. Relational bonds, even among strangers, were so strong and enduring that they seamlessly rendered even the most trying times of financial, emotional, and political distress bearable. In the wake of natural disasters, for example — earthquakes in Islamabad, massive flooding along the Indus — entire schools would fill up, as if over night, with emergency supplies; relief drives never failed to consume entire cities to ensure that no one in need of medicines, food, and clothing was left unassisted. [box type="shadow" align="alignright" class="red_lines" ]The fundamental question stands. How are we to read the text of Pakistani life?[/box] Every Friday afternoon, scores of people laid their hearts wide open to feed the hungry, with spreads that graciously extended the length of entire city blocks. Not a single Ramzan would go by without a months-worth of rations being distributed by those with means to support families without. Everyday life in Pakistan was structured less around the viciousness of possessive capital accumulation, as I find life in the States so strongly to be. Instead, alternative, more intimate economies were persistently sought and forged. Such efforts at everyday economic reconstruction were guided by a familial affinity for the other, thus pointing towards a radically different political-economic horizon: one based not on unceasing gain but on compassion, relationality and humanity. Remarkable too are the ways in which a childhood spent in Pakistan forced one to dispense with fatalistic views of the world and hopeless imaginations of the future. Lifetimes are spent under skies dotted with flying bullets, with threats to kidnap loved ones, and in the thick of crowded markets that unexpectedly explode. Even amid the looming dangers, we knew there were other lives to be lived. And so we went on, fiercely living — despite the noise in the background. Accentuating the commotion above all else in our portraits of Pakistan simply fails to do justice with the reality of everyday life in the country. It refuses to account for the world-making practices of those struggling to live against the pulse of the pandemonium. We learned how not only to survive, but to creatively, and against all odds, live. Even when enveloped by an unfading darkness and the numbing pain of loss, we managed — desperately, stubbornly — to sneak in moments of laughter, joy, and hope — however brief they might have been. Growing up in Pakistan, we couldn’t help but learn resilience, could not but embody the utmost grit in the face of utmost despair. Our everyday forms of resilience, even in the wake of unbelievable violence, offer us a way of being and knowing that inherently opposes categorisations that pivot exclusively around the negative. Read also: Art thou Pakistani? There is much more that needs to be said. But the fundamental question stands. How are we to read the text of Pakistani life? Categories of lack are unimaginative. And they are hopelessly inadequate at capturing the enriching complexity of lives lived here. For those of us who grew up living the dizzying realities of Pakistani life, we have always known there are other worlds to be imagined, alternative futures to be charted, and wildly different stories to be written than the ones which have been ascribed to us. Our task, then, is to write, imagine, dream them into being. To drown out, relentlessly, the discursive clamour which tells us that we are, somehow, less. [post_title] => Beyond the lack [post_excerpt] => [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => open [ping_status] => open [post_password] => [post_name] => beyond-lack [to_ping] => [pinged] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/art-thou-pakistani/ [post_modified] => 2018-08-12 03:38:49 [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:38:49 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/?p=86786 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw [format_content] => ) [4] => WP_Post Object ( [ID] => 86794 [post_author] => 29 [post_date] => 2018-08-12 03:18:44 [post_date_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:18:44 [post_content] => “So…what exactly is O-level education like here?” inquires my aunt who is on a visit to Pakistan from Canada after four years. Entertaining the idea of moving back to the homeland, she has been inquisitively questioning me on matters that concern her three Canadian-born children. The conversation is difficult but unavoidable. When someone mulls over the possibility of moving back to the country, and God forbid also has children who aren’t aware of the Pakistani schooling system, there’s only so much you can explain to them. Eldest of my aunt’s children is her teenage daughter, who has her mind already set on becoming an actor. The son is a mini version of the NBA star and basketball player Stephen Curry — also his living idol and hero. Their involvement in a list of extra-curricular activities is no surprise to me. The sort of educational nurturing and upbringing they’ve had over the years in Canada makes it only normal for them to be this way. I draw on my own experience of studying in Pakistan, when six years ago I endured the anxiety of deciding which two branches of study I ought to climb. Why only two? Well, because the two tracks that were provided in O-levels were either the business/commerce, or the science/biology one. There was no in-between. If you were relatively lucky to be in another private school, you might have had the possibility of assembling a better combination of subjects — maybe one including sociology or English literature. Even then, most schools stuck to the former options. What about those students that want to study media, photography, theatre, art or music? Wrong answer. Who said students want to study those subjects, that too, at O-levels? One thing is for sure though, I tell her, your kids would have to familiarise themselves with the ongoing political situation here and develop political awareness, a trait that is, undeniably common in the younger, affluent population of today’s Pakistan. [box type="shadow" align="alignright" class="red_lines" ]What exactly can youngsters do except stuff themselves with food at restaurants and cafes, with hardly any theatre /opera houses, art galleries, attractive museums or protected amusement parks?[/box] This emerging young generation is, to a great degree, well-informed and up-to-date with national and international affairs. Partly crediting this to the number of Model United Nations (MUNs) and external debating competitions that take place every other month, this is one thing that I speak of proudly. I explain to my aunt how her children can take part in these competitions if they wish to, of course. Academics, on the other hand do have their fair share of inadequacies and limited subject choices. It’s about time schools chuck away their argument of being unable to hire a faculty due to lower turnout of students for certain subjects. I remind my aunt how she would also have to go through the additional trouble of seeking out private schools that are co-educational. Segregation between girls and boys is widespread in Pakistani institutes, both public and private, funnily sometimes with separate buildings within the same campus. Disallowing any type of communication with the opposite sex, students always discover tactics to talk and meet irrespective of these rules. Public schools have it much shoddier. I realise the lack of recreational spaces in our cities has made it unfeasible to get out and enjoy time beyond the strict precincts of the home and school, both. What exactly can youngsters do except stuff themselves with food every now and then at restaurants and cafes, with hardly any theatre/opera houses, art galleries, attractive museums or protected amusement parks? After our conversation ends, I ponder over when and why I veered off into the sociological dynamics of schooling in Pakistan. Read also: With the best people by my side Are schools to blame, for restricting, imposing and controlling its own students from becoming open-minded, free-thinking, art-loving individuals? Or is it the society as a whole that suffocates those that divert from the conventional paths? Perhaps this is why my aunt is overtly apprehensive about relocating to the country with her children. I smile and try to reassure her that it really isn’t that bad.   The writer, a recent graduate from Turkey in Comparative Literature, is based in Islamabad [post_title] => Art thou Pakistani? [post_excerpt] => [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => open [ping_status] => open [post_password] => [post_name] => art-thou-pakistani [to_ping] => [pinged] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/best-people-side/ [post_modified] => 2018-08-12 03:25:06 [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:25:06 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/?p=86794 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw [format_content] => ) [5] => WP_Post Object ( [ID] => 86780 [post_author] => 29 [post_date] => 2018-08-12 03:16:57 [post_date_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:16:57 [post_content] => Growing up is never an easy task. Although what exactly one has to face while doing it differs from person to person, there is no denying that each and every one of us has to go through a great deal as we pass over from the sweet, blissfully ignorant years of our childhood into adulthood. Add to that technology bringing its own set of problems and what results isn’t your regular run-of-the-mill growing up. One thing of importance to note is that being currently in my second year of A Levels, I can only confine my experience in this world to education and not much else. To start off my tale, the early years of my life were filled with an air of uncertainty and fear due to the security situation of the country. These initial stages, leading up to and, to a certain extent, even beyond the start of my teenage life, were one where my family did not leave the house very often, and whenever we did, we never stayed out late. While parents the world over like to keep their children close, the first dozen years or so of my life were some where entertainment outside the house was a rarity, and I lived a rather shielded and cloistered life. This changed with time of course, as the security threats decreased and I grew old enough to look after myself, but the initial years were among the most uneventful as far as experiences go. The most important aspect of my life while growing up, however, was my school life. Such is our education system that there is tremendous pressure on you from your parents, teachers, peers, and even neighbours (who always like to compare you to their son). And although these expectations started off small, they culminated in the fact that getting one B in my O Levels, despite having 10 As to accompany it, made everyone think less of me, with several family members and teachers openly expressing their disappointment of me. While school is hard enough as it is, this added pressure and constant expectations were a constant source of mental strain. There have, of course, been numerous other challenges that come along with living in Pakistan, such as electricity and gas shortages, the heavy traffic and many others beside, but none of these have truly had an impact on the 18 years of my life growing up as the aforementioned two examples. And the only thing that kept me going in light of these problems, and allowed me to reach the position I currently in are my parents and friends, who were a constant source of help and support. Read also: Strictness should have a limit  I have been lucky enough to have been graced with parents and friends who were always there by my side throughout the ups and downs in my life. And although they may, at times expect too much of me, I was never criticised for my failures, but was helped look past them and get over them. The constant support of these few important figures in my life has been a source of great help at all times, and have helped make life all the more easier to endure.   The writer is currently in second year of A Levels at Lahore Grammar School [post_title] => With the best people by my side [post_excerpt] => [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => open [ping_status] => open [post_password] => [post_name] => best-people-side [to_ping] => [pinged] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/strictness-limit/ [post_modified] => 2018-08-12 10:42:52 [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-08-12 05:42:52 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/?p=86780 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw [format_content] => ) [6] => WP_Post Object ( [ID] => 86784 [post_author] => 29 [post_date] => 2018-08-12 03:14:30 [post_date_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:14:30 [post_content] => I am a student of Literature. Prior to this I was a Science student. When I was in school, no one ever told me how important it was to read books. I was pushed to read course books and not waste time on any other book. Lo and behold, I scored well in every examination. When I started university, I realised that lack of a reading habit was a serious problem. I discussed this with my teachers who encouraged me to read books of my interest. One of my teachers gave me books from her own library for reading. One sentence of my teacher that helped me resolve a lot was ‘If you are not able to understand the story of the novel, giving up is not a solution. Just keep reading’. That’s how I started reading novels and plays. Soon, it became apparent that reading books enhanced my knowledge and this gave me confidence. I feel that confidence is something I have always lacked. There were many things that affected my skills and confidence, not least the aggression of my father that I had to deal with. I was not allowed to pursue any of my own interests and was scolded on little mistakes. In Pakistan, young girls are afraid of going out alone. I too was afraid of going out of the house, alone. My family would always say “Ask your father or brother to take you where you want to go, if it’s necessary”. Every time I asked my father or brother, they would say, “Is it even necessary? Why do you want to go so early? Get ready and remind me after two hours. What is the point of applying makeup? Why do you want to go there; ask your friend to come to your place instead.” These absurd utterances forced me to step forward and become independent. Now I don’t stop myself from apply makeup while going out and I also go independently. While on the roads, some male members of the society feel it is their right to harass me but I have learnt that the only way to handle them is to ignore them. I would not hesitate to add here that I have been immensely supported by my mother. I know that restrictions should not keep me home bound because you cannot attain success in life without facing hardships. Read also: A different perspective Back to growing up problems: choosing subjects is a very important part of the life of a student. In Pakistan, parents take this responsibility upon themselves without asking their children. I, too, faced this. The reason is they don’t trust my abilities. I think strictness from parents should have some limit. It should be healthy and not create barriers between parents and children.   [post_title] => Strictness should have a limit [post_excerpt] => [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => open [ping_status] => open [post_password] => [post_name] => strictness-limit [to_ping] => [pinged] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/different-perspective/ [post_modified] => 2018-08-12 03:34:10 [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:34:10 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/?p=86784 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw [format_content] => ) [7] => WP_Post Object ( [ID] => 86792 [post_author] => 29 [post_date] => 2018-08-12 03:12:30 [post_date_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:12:30 [post_content] => Perspectives differ and so does mine. For me, the societal fabric of any country is largely based on its efficient and effective governance and three factors play a vital role in it: structure, accountability and transparency. The recent electoral process demonstrated the same thing where PTI (Pakistan Tahreek-e-Insaf) got seats because of sloganeering and protesting against corruption. I think the eradication of corruption is what is necessary for decision-making process of any administration. This suggests that our society has encountered political awareness where they now know how to differentiate between duties and responsibilities. The very next instance of policy delivery comes in the shape of China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC) because institutional capacity is not only about social and political spheres but about economic status as well. Currently, the economic boom is tied to inter-provincial harmony where consumption, distribution, exchange and production ratios are yet to be determined. To me, another key factor to be handled is the youth bulge and women empowerment. Youth bulge is a ticking bomb which, if not handled at the right moment can serve as the most disturbing force. Let’s take the example of Balochistan. According to Pakistan Bureau of Statistics, the province produces around thirty thousand graduates every year but employment is given to fifteen thousand only. The private sector is also showing falling indicators of employment. As a young Pakistani from Balochistan, what bothers me most is the growing instability in social and political life. How to handle this situation and what should be the policy recommendation in such a scenario? Previously, women remained neglected in sectors like telecommunication, banking and industry. But, Special Economic Zones (SEZs) are promising opportunities of formal, regular and well remunerated jobs for females. Once the governance structure is improved both telecommunication and balanced trade will pay off. Read also: Editorial I believe Pakistan is the country with immense talent which is the basic tool of the youth. As far as the policy challenges are concerned, a transparent and accountable structure is the ultimate solution where different parts could function properly in order to constitute any system — political, social or economic.   [post_title] => A different perspective [post_excerpt] => [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => open [ping_status] => open [post_password] => [post_name] => different-perspective [to_ping] => [pinged] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/editorial-140/ [post_modified] => 2018-08-12 03:33:37 [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:33:37 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/?p=86792 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw [format_content] => ) [8] => WP_Post Object ( [ID] => 86781 [post_author] => 29 [post_date] => 2018-08-12 03:10:24 [post_date_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:10:24 [post_content] => Today is International Youth Day. This incidentally is the most discussed demographic in today’s Pakistan, especially in the recently concluded general election where no less than 20 million new voters were added to the electoral rolls. There is a serious body of analyses around how young voters may well have transformed the election results. Beyond this political empowerment that an eighteen year old suddenly attains, it is important to see what the youth of Pakistan is thinking — about themselves, about the society they are living in, the joys and sorrows, the personal and political, the inhibitions and freedoms, and other things. With just two days before the country’s Independence Day, The News on Sunday deemed it fit to ask the young people between age 18 to 25 what they feel about growing up in Pakistan. It’s a random group of young people, from Lahore, Karachi, Loralai… The outcome is refreshing, though at times the write-ups leave one sad. This isn’t quite unexpected from a generation that has grown under the shadows of terrorism and, therefore, has security as its topmost concern. One can see parallels of this sense of insecurity in more than one account. There is much grieving at things, festivals, goodness, values that the young people feel we have lost. And the everyday stresses of academics and restrictions of growing up as girls. But then there is hope, resilience, and sheer celebration of — what they perhaps not yet know — the best period of life. [post_title] => Editorial [post_excerpt] => [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => open [ping_status] => open [post_password] => [post_name] => editorial-140 [to_ping] => [pinged] => [post_modified] => 2018-08-12 14:52:35 [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-08-12 09:52:35 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/?p=86781 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw [format_content] => ) ) [post_count] => 9 [current_post] => -1 [in_the_loop] => [post] => WP_Post Object ( [ID] => 86778 [post_author] => 29 [post_date] => 2018-08-12 03:25:12 [post_date_gmt] => 2018-08-11 22:25:12 [post_content] => Friday nights in Lahore are especially banal. They begin at a coffee shop in Gulberg’s Mall 1, progress to an overpriced restaurant serving the same old salads and pastas, and culminate to friends hanging out till the early hours of the morning. Every now and then, there are whiffs of Ashraf Tikka, brunch at Capri, or rounds of FIFA. Regardless, Lahore’s local sahib-class rarely leaves its bubble stretching from MM Alam to Defence Phase 5. One of such Friday nights ended with a few friends over at my place. The usual conversation ensues: “How’s work going? It’s been soooo long (10 days) since we last hung out. Did you know person X is going out with person Y?” Attention spans at this point are directly proportional to the amount of drink in hand. Given that consumption isn’t synchronized, chances of deep, thoughtful exchange and reflection are rare. That is, until you get to the cliffhanger of this weekly episode. There’s a brief silence mid conversation; few people look over to the snack table for a refill and some swipe through their phones. One friend breaking the awkward silence, in her usual sing-song mellifluous Lahori-aunty-to-be tone, proudly says: “By the way, I didn’t know EVEN YOU had a nice place.” Interrupted by a few reflexive expletives, I begin to wonder what on earth that even meant. If I was still in college, “EVEN YOU ha[ve] a nice place” would have me immediately upset. But, in Pakistan it feels a bit too close to home with its bizarre putting-you-in-your-place effect. Literally translated my friend’s statement means: You live in an apartment and not a 2-kanal house. You drive a Suzuki Alto and not a Honda Civic. You wear Levi’s not Armani. You can attend a Bedian party but cannot afford to host one. You are privileged but not extremely-privileged. Growing up in Lahore — in fortresses substituting for elite private schools — privilege is second nature. Class, socio-economic divide and gender dynamics are topics often swept under the rug. In such a world, adolescents despite their socio-economic realities acquiesce to a system where opulence is valued and reality is shunned. Eighty dollar Nike trainers, Swatch watches, hideous polo shirts, and suede loafers grant you an air of importance. Frequenting Cosa Nostra for American-priced gelato buys you street-cred. Ultimately, being able to afford these luxuries buys you a seat in Lahore’s darbaar. Lahore’s darbaar isn’t as homogenous as it appears on the outside. Social divide within privileged classes expresses itself in very subtle ways. Individuals within the darbaar are raised to internalise these divides. It begins right in school when it’s all about the repute attached to your school. Once enrolled in the name brand school, it’s about where you’re going to college. Upon returning from college, it’s about recreating the same luxurious lifestyle you took for granted until you moved away. This rut, however, ignores the challenges of the student who asks the rickshaw driver to park around the corner instead of directly in front of the school. It doesn’t address the shattered confidence of a teenager who despite being an effective orator freezes when speaking against a speaker from a more privileged school. It doesn’t resolve the feeling of inadequacy experienced by an adolescent who despite being raised in Pakistan, suddenly adopts a quasi-Irish accent in high school. These challenges are not representative of Pakistan, but represent a small subsection of Pakistan I’ve grown up in. While I am acutely aware of the other versions of Pakistan, ones where monsoon flooding leaves your house submerged, sectarian violence leads to half of your family dead or unemployment leaves you homeless, I have not experienced them first-hand. Read also: “So boys, what’s the scene like these days?”   As I snap out of unpacking the entitlement of what was just said, small-talk has again permeated the room. Conversation has drifted back to vacation in London, studying away in Europe, and the sheer abhorrence invoked by Hamza Ali Abbassi’s tweets. In that moment, I know that nowhere else in the world can I find a room with so much happening, despite so little being said. I’m reminded that I’m back where I grew up, in Lahore, Pakistan. [post_title] => In Lahore’s darbaar [post_excerpt] => [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => open [ping_status] => open [post_password] => [post_name] => lahores-darbaar [to_ping] => [pinged] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/boys-whats-scene-like-days/ [post_modified] => 2018-08-12 10:25:27 [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-08-12 05:25:27 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => http://tns.thenews.com.pk/?p=86778 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw [format_content] => ) [comment_count] => 0 [current_comment] => -1 [found_posts] => 9 [max_num_pages] => 1 [max_num_comment_pages] => 0 [is_single] => [is_preview] => [is_page] => [is_archive] => 1 [is_date] => [is_year] => [is_month] => [is_day] => [is_time] => [is_author] => [is_category] => 1 [is_tag] => [is_tax] => [is_search] => [is_feed] => [is_comment_feed] => [is_trackback] => [is_home] => [is_404] => [is_comments_popup] => [is_paged] => [is_admin] => [is_attachment] => [is_singular] => [is_robots] => [is_posts_page] => [is_post_type_archive] => [query_vars_hash] => db1169c0b02392f7845b184a6030aa64 [query_vars_changed] => 1 [thumbnails_cached] => )