‘My novels focus on what is not being said in the news’

Pakistan belongs to the army before it belongs to civilians, it belongs to men before it belongs to women, and it belongs to women only if they are daughters of so-and-so and wives of so-and-so, Lahore-based novelist Uzma Aslam Khan tells DNA.

Novelist Uzma Aslam Khan, based in Lahore where the Sri Lankan cricket team came under militant attack last month, is one of the foremost voices bearing witness to the unfolding crisis in Pakistan. Her last two novels, Tresspassing (2004) and The Geometry Of God (2008), chronicle the Zia years and the post-Zia/pre-Musharraf Pakistan, tracing the roots of the present crisis. In an interview with DNA, she presents a writer’s perspective on the situation in her country.

As a Pakistani writer, what is your take on the current situation in the country? Do you see a pattern here that corresponds with earlier cycles in Pakistan’s history?
It’s a pattern, but with ugly permutations. Militant Islamic groups are a product of the US financing of the Islamic jihad during the 1979-1988 Afghan War. The Mujahideen’s hardcore interpretation of Islam then was a boon to the US, not a bane, but what did it give Pakistan? General Zia, who introduced Sharia. Under him, a draconian version of the Blasphemy Law was passed. He introduced the infamous Hudood Laws that target women. These laws still exist. So the roots of political Islam precede 9/11, but the ‘war on terror’ is certainly fattening the tree. In the ‘elections’ of 2002, for the first time in Pakistan’s history, religious parties gained control of two provinces. And now look what’s happening in Swat. The same day that Pakistan was celebrating the restoration of chief justice Iftikhar Chaudhry and the other judges deposed in 2007 by General Musharraf, Swat was opening Shariat courts. Swat is about 100 miles from Islamabad. How long before the Taliban creep south?  

What do you consider the most dangerous aspects of the current crisis?
I know many Pakistanis who supported the movement to restore Iftikhar Chaudhry because it was a struggle for democracy and civil liberty, and because it was a secular struggle. It worries me that, alongside Chaudhry, Nawaz Sharif has emerged a hero. I’m delighted that rose petals are scattered all over the chief justice but I’m not delighted that they’re scattered all over the former Prime Minister with links to General Zia, and to Islamic parties.

How have the events of these last few months affected your work as a writer?
The news always covers those who make the most noise. Art covers those the newspaper is paid not to notice. My fiction has explored events leading up to the current political and cultural climate, rather than focusing on the present. Everybody is commenting on the present, and in my non-fiction, so have I. But in my fiction, nothing appeals to me less than joining in a conversation that is already happening, and happening all too loudly. Which is why, in my last two novels, I’ve returned to the Zia years, and the post-Zia/pre-Musharraf Pakistan. I feel there are many, many aspects of that period that have informed the current one, but which are unfortunately still ignored. What isn’t being said, what isn’t being seen, that’s where I want to be. If the novel I’m currently working on turns out to be about the post-Musharraf Pakistan, it will also focus on what isn’t being said: those the news ignores. This is how my work is a response to my environment.

Do writers have a responsibility to respond to what is going on around them — to protest, or record things for the future?
Writers have a responsibility to their work. How this responsibility is interpreted is really a very personal choice. Speaking only for myself, the hunger to know my place in the chaotic layers into which I was born helped make me a writer. It’s the hunger to make up for what was never said, and may never be said.

How has the cycle of violence, and the tussle over who ‘owns’ the state affected you personally?
It affects me personally every day. But I’ll give just one example. I needed to do a lot of research for The Geometry Of God, which I wanted to set in the mountains. But my mobility was restricted, for many reasons. The fossil-rich land is owned by the army and I don’t come from a military or feudal or political family that can contact VIPs and get their daughter special favors. This is probably the single most infuriating thing about Pakistan: you have to have contacts to do anything, even write the best scene you can for a book set outside the chaar diwari. If you’re a woman, that is. If I were a man, I might have gathered my buddies and gone tromping into the hills. Pakistan belongs to the army before it belongs to civilians, it belongs to men before it belongs to women, it belongs to women only if they are daughters of so-and-so and wives of so-and-so. The situation is further complicated for me because I’m not married to a Pakistani. To continue the story of my attempts at doing field research for my book, one day I went to the Punjab University to ask the help of a professor. Foolishly, I invited my husband along [Uzma is married to an American]. The professor refused to talk to me about my work and my interest in developing it. He only wanted to talk about my personal life. When for the millionth time I tried to steer the conversation back to work, he pointed to my husband and said, ‘Kis ko kya pata? Yay na bolain kay mein hun Al Qaeda!’ (Who knows anything these days? If he turns around and accuses me of being with Al Qaeda!’) That is the level of fear and paranoia the country is steeped in and having a healthy creative interest in your own country and marrying outside the box (excuse the pun), all arouse suspicion. This is just another example of how in Pakistan the political is always personal. It’s up to writers to make beauty from ugliness, sense from nonsense.