Karachi Sojourner

Abbottabad, the town of green hills and valleys, of prestigious boy schools nestled between chicken farms and refugee tents, a sleepy hollow really, but how nice to be away from the heat of the lowlands. The weather is just right, cool in the morning and just starting to get warm in the afternoons. How sorry I feel for my friends in sizzling Karachi.

I am the guest of a family who are in the chicken farming business. They are charming hosts, just the right mixture, warm but not too effusive so that one feels uncomfortable. My hostess, a matron in her forties, and I have long chats about the feminist movement over coffee and the housework is temporarily forgotten. She feels strongly about the position of women here but is stumped by the same question that stumps so many Pakistani women of her age group: ie how can men and women be equal when they are born so different? I patiently explain that the issue is not about "equality" in the strict sense of the word. Of course men and women are not created all equal, neither are all men created equal for that matter. But what we are talking about here is equal rights and equal opportunities. In short, the right to self-fulfillment and self-actualisation which should be the inalienable birthright of everyone, regardless of sex, race or religion. When feminists fight for equality, they are fighting for equal opportunities to be complete, fulfilled and happy human beings.

Hostel

Here in Abbottabad, purdah is very strictly observed. I go everywhere in a shawar-kamiz (Pakistani outfit) with a dopatta (shawl) over my head. My hostess and her eighteen year old daughter will not step out of their gate to buy provisions down the road even if they are in Chaddar (head covered) because "too many people know us here".

They can drive however down to the bazaar in town to do their shopping. What strange customs, often puzzling and bemusing to the foreign eye.

I soon discovered for myself the good sense of my hostess's caution. My ayah
(female domestic) and I, doppatas securely over our heads, set off on foot one evening for the Ayub Medical College not far from the house. A friend in Karachi wanted me to deliver a bag to his sister, a first year medical student. En route we met with a lot of males but not a single member of the opposite sex, not even one in burqa. Midway, a staring male on seeing us, rolled his eyes heavenwards and muttered in Urdu, "Heaven forgive them!"

At the girls' hostel my friend's sister and her roommates are overjoyed just to have visitors. Scarcely able to contain their excitement, they rush around to get us cokes and beg us to stay for a while. Life it seems is pretty bleak in the girls' hostel and they are practically prisoners in the hostel grounds. "The boys have all the freedom they want" one of the girls complained.

Capital

Islamabad: First impressions of this capital city as I stroll up the Shakarparian Hill to get a bird's eye view of the city, is: "Can this be real?" Yes, somehow Islamabad seems artificial, truly a city planned by bureaucrats. My host, a UN expert, also from Singapore, agrees. "Foreigners who live here feel they are not living in Pakistan", he told me.

I visit the National Art Gallery and the Museum of Folklore. Again the inescapable odour of bureaucracy lurks in the corridors. At the Gallery, I am struck by a semi-abstract painting by Zarina Toori, a batik artist from Lahore. Liquid eyes of a Pakistani beauty stare out pensively from a batik canvas. The girl bears a striking resemblance to Rekha, the Indian film actress, including the slightly parrot nose. The more I look at it the more I like it. In the end I part painfully with Rs 1500 to acquire it. "A gift for my husband" is my excuse. Perhaps one day it will fetch thousands, when the artist becomes famous, who knows.

First evening in Islamabad is pleasantly spent at the Holiday Inn Coffee House with a colleague whom I was meeting for the first time. How nice when kindred spirits meet, and find so much in common. We gossip about our chosen profession, journalism. So many common acquaintances, experiences and views. Journalists are the same all over. This one has been in the game a long time and can tell me a thing or two. We agree upon the importance of a conscience in our profession. What happens when a journalist gets an exclusive scoop which could cause a war between two countries? Should he go ahead and use it or should he "can" it?
"Can it" : is both our answers. Today's kindred spirits can become tomorrow's firm friends, I am sure. . .