#30OctPTIDay "That evening, Pakistan the concept, was right there in front of the whole world, living, breathing and screaming."
#30OctPTIDay "This was about being Pakistanis, pure and simple. I, Pakistani. Nothing else mattered."
#30OctPTIDay | Since the day I have pasted PTI flags on my room walls.
#30OctPTIDay When youth abandoned status-quo parties for good!!! #ImranKhan #PTI
#30OctPTIDay "This was beyond politics. This was nationalism not seen outside cricket stadiums."
#30OctPTIDay "But they also laughed, danced and screamed because they felt one, bound together by a failed past, and a hopeful future. "
I, Pakistan Fahd Husain
For those few hours, I felt my ethnic, provincial, and even professional identity being subsumed by my national one. It felt good to be a Pakistani
You just had to be there. I was. And I stood there, on top of the 16 foot container, and looked at the sea of people shouting, clapping, laughing, dancing and waving flags.
It was mesmerising. It was electrifying.
They came in waves, and kept on coming. Men, women, teenagers, children, families, almost every demographic one can think of. They were all there. And they were pumped up. Seriously pumped up. A teeming multitude that blended into one massive, pulsating kilometre of synchronised humanity. As daylight morphed into twilight, then dissolved into brightly illuminated darkness, Minto Park ignited into a maelstrom of deafening roars, thunderous drumbeats and booming motivational music.
The air was infectious, the mood contagious. The atmosphere was surreal and political. This was like no other jalsa. And it has shaken Pakistani politics, and politicians, to the core.
Today Imran Khan elicits sniggers no more. Those five hours on October 30th in the city of Lahore, under the shadow of the Minar-e-Pakistan, have transformed the struggling dreamer into a political rock star. He is the man to beat, because suddenly he is driving the national political narrative.
But wait, say traditional politicians, this was a good jalsa, but it was just that, a jalsa. It is not like he has won the election.
True. There is a long, snaky and tortuous road ahead for Khan and his Under-19 team. What he pulled off that night was remarkable. But sometimes remarkable is not good enough. Imran may rise and rise from here on, or he may crash and burn at the hustings, slain by the cruel sword of constituency power politics, rooted in kinship and patronage. Predicting outcomes would be a waste of space.
Which is why analysing the Lahore rally in terms of eventual political outcomes would be to misread what exactly happened there that evening. What I saw, and what I felt, went deeper than that. And it epitomised something that is bigger than Imran Khan, bigger than his party, and bigger than all the politicians and their agendas put together.
On that cool and balmy Lahore evening, standing atop that container, I imagined a future draped in colours of hope.
No, this hope was not borne of partisanship, or political loyalty, or even an after-effect of the right words spoken the right way. This hope, perhaps, was an amalgam of a kaleidoscope of emotions, visible in the form of a collective yearning. A yearning for a better life; for justice; for peace and for a society in which every man, woman and child enjoys equal opportunity. A yearning for equality before law and an end to exploitation. A yearning for dignity, for tolerance, and for the protection of the weak.
For those few hours, I felt my ethnic, provincial, and even professional identity being subsumed by my national one. All my internal conflicts, contradictions, acrimony, cynicism, sarcasm, antagonism, despondency, bitterness and rancour seemed to melt away, and I experienced a warm glow as happy emotions welled up.
It felt good to be a Pakistani.
Can you imagine this feeling? Every living moment, we Pakistanis are bombarded with negativity. Terrorism, nepotism, corruption, injustice, exploitation, bigotry, intolerance, topped off by the devastating effects of a collapsing economy. In Quaids country, life has been, and is, nasty. Wherever we go, the world pours scorn on us, and the green passport sparks off red alerts. We crib, we moan and we indulge in self-loathing. We envy India, we hate the US and we grovel in front of the Saudis. As a result, we are made to feel like we have no self-respect.
This hurts. It feels bad. We feel angry, bitter, vengeful, and generally negative.
But not that evening in Lahore. That day we felt good. I felt good. Tens of thousands of fellow Pakistanis, together under one huge green and white flag, dreaming of a better tomorrow, as Strings belted out emotional lyrics about a Pakistan where roti hogi sasti, aur mehangi hogi jaan (bread will be cheap, but not life). I saw Pakistanis crying as they waved flags, swayed to the tunes and yearned for a shore that glimmers on the horizon. They cried for the broken promises, for lives ruined and for a future that their kids deserve but may not get. But they also laughed, danced and screamed because they felt one, bound together by a failed past, and a hopeful future.
This was beyond politics. This was nationalism not seen outside cricket stadiums. This was about being Pakistanis, pure and simple. I, Pakistani. Nothing else mattered. This was a resounding message for all those who say Pakistan is a failed state. That evening, Pakistan the concept, was right there in front of the whole world, living, breathing and screaming.
Yes we are. Yes we can.
All Imran Khan can do is channelise this emotion. He did not create it. He did not even fan it. All he did was dust it off the shelf and assemble it. It does not belong to him. It certainly does not belong to the traditional political parties. This raw Pakistaniat, if it gains momentum, will drive politics, not be driven by it. Asif Zardari and Nawaz Sharif can only ignore it at their own peril.
The rally is over but its hangover hovers in the air. Soon it too will dissipate. Politics may soon flow back into its old biradari (clan), thaana/katchery (police station/courts) patronage grooves. Imran may become a victim of his own idealism as traditional power structures squeeze him like an enraged python.
But that flash of emotion I felt for a few hours that evening, standing atop a container in Lahores Minto Park, will keep burning a small but intense flame inside of me, a reminder that there is a dream called Pakistan.
And it is still very much alive.
The writer hosts a primetime show on a private TV channel. He can be reached at fahd.husain1@gmail.com
