Prices take shine off Pakistan weddings

by Hasan Mansoor
   Pakistan’s traditionally lavish weddings have lost their sparkle this matrimonial season thanks to rising prices of gold and festive essentials in a limping economy overshadowed by Taliban attacks.
   The colourful celebrations normally span three to five days and attract 500 to 1,000 guests, pushing the cost for the hard-hit lower middle class to between 300,000 and one million rupees (3,400-11,000 dollars).
   “It has become too expensive. Everything is expensive. Even a simple wedding could break the back of poor people like me,” said Mohammad Aslam, 62, a retired government employee.
    Aslam spent most of his pension on marrying off his elder daughter, forcing him to borrow 200,000 rupees to help fund his second daughter’s wedding.
   A large part of the spending goes on gold jewellery, as in other South Asian countries, but sales are down partly because of rising global gold prices, businessmen say.
   Gold surged to a new record high of 1,780 dollars an ounce during international trading in October 2012.
   “Four years ago there was a demand for 7,700 ounces of gold daily, only for making jewellery in Pakistan. But now it has substantially decreased,” said Haroon Chand, a leading member of the country’s jewellers’ association.
   Imports of gold through Dubai, which was Pakistan’s main source of the metal, have fallen significantly, he said.
   “Affluent and middle class people have halved their spending on jewellery.”
   Poor families usually have their old jewellery redesigned for the weddings of their children, he noted.
   “I tried to skip some of our customs to reduce the cost of my son’s marriage, but I couldn’t because of family pressure,” Ahmed Ali, a car mechanic, said at his son’s wedding in Karachi’s Ranchore Lane.
   “My wife wanted all that because he’s her only son. My son is also a mechanic and we have decided to repay the loans jointly as soon as possible.”
   Pakistani families spend lavishly on gifts for the happy couple, food for guests at wedding events that drag on for days, or on a sumptuous dinner offered by the groom’s family at a wedding hall.
   “What disturbs me most is that my daughters have also reached adulthood and their marriages will only be possible by taking more loans,” said Ali.
   “Like me, the bride’s family has also taken loans for the marriage. We are all prisoners of our customs,” he added.
   Chand blamed deteriorating law and order, increased taxes on gold imports, the weakening purchasing power of ordinary people and higher global gold prices for dealing the business “a big blow”.
   Falling gold sales have seen people like Mohammad Akram, 33, laid off.
   Until recently he worked as an artisan at a leading jewellery shop in an upscale neighbourhood of the teeming financial capital Karachi, a city of 18 million people that sprawls by the Arabian Sea.
   “I am a skilled worker but am forced to ply a rickshaw to support my children,” Akram said.
   But Nauman Ahmed says business has boomed at his costume jewellery shop during this year’s wedding season, between the Muslim feasts of Eid al-Fitr and Eid al-Adha, because its fashionable designs are “cheap and affordable”.
   Instead of gold, people are increasingly opting to buy silver and costume jewellery, mostly imported from China and India, Chand and shopkeepers said.
   Escalating food prices have multiplied the cost of wedding banquets, with economists blaming Pakistan’s general economic downturn and militant attacks.
   Independent economist A.B. Shahid said such hurdles, including ineffective government policies, may prevent Pakistan from meeting the official 4 percent growth target this fiscal year, which ends June 30.
   Taliban and Al-Qaeda-linked extremists have carried out a five-year campaign of attacks that have killed more than 5,000 people in Pakistan, a country of around 170 million people.
   “Terrorism in our country has highly affected our economy. Our people cannot spend much and this situation could persist until we succeed in curbing militancy,” Shahid said.
   Pakistan’s economy grew by two percent last fiscal year, the lowest rate in a decade, but even that level may not be attainable this year, Shahid said.

Pakistan dancers take traditional form alive

by Hasan Mansoor
   In a posh Karachi home, a dozen girls struggle to maintain their balance as they are put through their paces by Sadia Khan, a skilled performer of Pakistan’s traditional Kathak dance.
   Khan is one of a handful of instructors who are trying to keep the classical dance form alive in this conservative Muslim country, where some clerics have branded its fast, twirling footwork and expressive storytelling “un-Islamic”.
   “In Pakistan, depictions of women dancing has never been stopped in movies or on stage,” Khan, 38, said in an interview at her home studio, emphasising the difference between the popular and traditional forms.
   “I have never heard a cleric speak out against those vulgar dances which have run rampant in our society on film, but they oppose our dance, which is pure art with no vulgarity whatsoever.”
   Dancing was a regular part of life in Pakistan until the rise in 1977 of military ruler Zia ul-Haq, who used religion to suppress cultural traditions and only permitted women to appear on state television wearing veils.
   He banned classical dance performances from the airwaves and cracked down on popular Kathak performers.
   Today, Kathak has gone virtually underground, with only a few qualified instructors and few public performances. Radical clerics have also led a campaign to ban public dancing all together.

   In the restive northwestern Swat valley, a female dancer was murdered by suspected Taliban militants who said she did not heed warnings to abandon her profession, local officials said.

   “I believe that in our religion there is nothing written against dance, but the Islamists claim that dance is forbidden,” said Sheema Kirmani, 59, a celebrated Kathak performer who still teaches in Karachi.
   “I argue that some of our greatest Sufi saints were dancers themselves,” she said.
   “Those who do not like this art form do not have to come to see it. We are not imposing ourselves on anyone and we do not want anyone to force their ideas on us.”
   Sakina, 14, is a student in Khan’s evening class and says learning the complicated manoeuvres is her favourite part of the day.
   “My father has encouraged me to learn about this art form, as it has the potential to teach people to be tolerant and sensitive to the miseries and joys of others, while still entertaining them,” Sakina said.
   “It’s true that most people don’t like dance and think it’s strange, but to me, it’s my whole life.”
   Eight-year-old Bisma agreed. “I’m really happy when I’m dancing,” she said.
   Both Kirmani and Khan said they believe that while Kathak dance may never regain its former popularity in Pakistan, it could serve another purpose — to help bring peace with India.
   The dance form has its roots in northern India and is still widely performed across that country.
   With ties between the nuclear-armed neighbours strained in the wake of the Mumbai attacks in November 2008, the dance teachers said art could help bridge the gap.
   “Pakistan and India have inherited the same culture, which could not be changed in just 50 or 60 years. Culture does not change with the redrawing of boundaries,” said Khan, who studied with Kirmani and later spent four years studying in New Delhi.
   Kirmani added: “If we celebrate what we share then we bring ourselves closer and nearer and develop a better understanding.”
   While peace through dance is their lofty dream, the two instructors said that for now they hope the art form will live on in their students, and perhaps someday once again become part of everyday life in Pakistan.
   “I have never seen a single common Pakistani who hates dance. We are prisoners of our norms, which should change to enjoy something which is true beauty and not an evil. It has been misinterpreted,” Khan said.
   “We should follow the precedent set by Iran, where culture is still alive and kicking alongside religion. We should not mix the two things.”

Pakistan rock renaissance defies dwindling concerts

by Hasan Mansoor
   Gumby, a diminutive pony-tailed drummer, believes Pakistani rock music is vibrant enough to withstand pockets of extremism and shield society at large from Western fears of the Taliban.
   “I’ve been in the industry more than two decades and have seen Pakistani music rise, fall and rise again. Our culture is resilient, which won’t allow the Taliban to take over our society,” says the 34-year-old.
   Louis John Pinto, better known as Gumby, launched himself on the rock circuit as a drummer and percussionist while a teenager and has played as a session musician with all the major cult bands in the country.
   Pakistan has seen creeping religious conservatism for years. Its military is fighting to put down Taliban militants in the northwest and lawless tribal belt on the Afghan border, albeit far from cities populated by the moderate elite.
   Extremists have blown up hundreds of music and DVD shops in the northwest, branding them against Islam and forcing traders to display pro-Taliban tirades against the United States to gruesome clips of beheadings and bomb attacks.

   But hundreds of miles away in his compact studio in a multi-storey building in Clifton, Karachi’s poshest address, Gumby says the future of music is promising, with money and passion being injected afresh into the industry.
   “Making music one’s livelihood was thought to be a taboo for people here, but now parents themselves encourage their children to learn music, which shows we have a brighter future,” he said.
   At a concert at an open-air amphitheatre in Islamabad, young middle-class Pakistanis dressed in tight jeans braved a chilly night to cheer bands introduced by two young women teetering on high heels.
   In the more-expensive stalls, parents brought young children, even babies and grandparents to listen to the music.
   Successive governments have encouraged culture by relaxing curbs on artists and intellectuals. The explosion of independent television and radio in the last decade has also fostered musical talent.
   “It is the one thing which comforts our people who are sick of terror attacks and political instability in the country,” said Gumby.
   Hamza Jafri agrees. Last year he opened the Guitar School in Lahore, Pakistan’s relatively liberal and wealthy cultural capital in the east, which now teaches rock guitar to dozens of girls and boys aged seven to 20.
   “Students are forming bands and the youngest one consists of three seven year olds,” said Abid Khan, one of the founders of the school.
   Most pupils come from wealthy families and are actively encouraged by their parents. Some dream of going professional. “I want to become a rock star,” gushed a shy 10-year-old who gave his name only as Kashan.
   Hasan Zaidi, a film producer and director who has chronicled Pakistani music, sees a renaissance in underground contemporary pop.
   “Pakistani pop is beginning to discover its own voice moving beyond bubblegum songs about love, by creating fusion with indigenous folk and singing songs about what is happening around us,” he said.
   But others warn that shows and concerts are declining because of economic woes and fears of bomb attacks — hammering musicians’ main source of income, which rampant piracy deprives them from in sales of DVDs and CDs.
   “Terrorism and a weak economy have affected the music industry dearly,” says Ali Azmat, one of the most famous contemporary rock stars in Pakistan.
   “There has been a 50 to 60 percent decline in shows and concerts and overall earnings since 2005,” he said.
   He accuses “Western powers and their intelligence agencies” of harbouring an agenda against Pakistan. Instead his latest album “Kalashnifolk” focuses on the agonies of social problems that he feels are Pakistan’s real plague.
   But seven years ago Junaid Jamshed, Pakistan’s most famous frontman — lead singer with Vital Signs, the country’s first rock band that emerged in 1986, renounced music and his playboy-image to turn to religion.
   Today he owns designer outlets specialising in conservative dress, keeps his beard long and joined preaching organisation Tablighi Jamaat.
   Critics hold General Zia-ul-Haq and his 11 years of military rule from 1977 to 1988 responsible for infringing the country’s pluralistic tolerant culture and initially driving rock music underground.
   “The early 1980s also saw the rise of political pop, whose lyrics explicitly dealt with issues of freedom and repression,” Hasan Zaidi said.
   Certainly for band Laal, which means Red in Urdu, their music is all about politics and Marxism.
   One of their songs became an anthem for the lawyer’s protest movement that resulted in 2009 in the government restoring the independent judiciary after a two-year hiatus.
   “We are interested in playing music of resistance, struggle and emancipation,” says lead guitarist Taimur Rehman, who is studying for a doctoral degree in London.
   The band’s most popular song is based on popular poems of Habib Jalib, a renowned Pakistani poet who opposed military rule and state oppression in the 1960s, although followers believe his words are as relevant today as ever.
   “You are the truth; they are an illusion, My prayer is that You remain president forever!” is one of their lyrics, which resonates today with critics of President Asif Ali Zardari, who want him to resign over graft allegations.