By Sachin Gupta / Global Southasia

By day, they serve other people. By night, they narrate themselves. In the alleys and on the rooftops of Gizri, Karachi, three young men turn precarious work, neighborhood challenges, friendship, humiliation, and hope into rhythm. The city may know them as restaurant workers; before the microphone, they become witnesses to the city.

The recently produced documentary W.R.A.P. (We Really Are Pakistan) follows MC Affo, MC Bablay, and MC Shobi, three part-time rappers from a working-class neighborhood whose difficult circumstances forced them to leave school early. In hip-hop culture, “MC,” short for “Master of Ceremonies,” or “Mic Controller” commonly refers to a rapper who performs rhythmic lyrics.

It was watching Indian filmmaker Zoya Akhtar Gully Boy (2019) that catalysed the filmmaker Saba Karim Khan, a writer, editor and social scientist who teaches at NYU Abu Dhabi to search for Pakistan’s own underground Urdu-rap scene, she told Global Southasia over a video call after she shared a review link with us.

It was Gully Boy that got her thinking that “there must be an underground rap scene in Pakistan too, but one with its own echoes, subtext and preoccupations. That’s how the hunt began.”

W.R.A.P. has reached international audiences through screenings and selections at film festivals across the United States, Canada, and Europe, as well as at the Jaipur International Film Festival in India–a particularly notable achievement given the significant visa challenges often faced by filmmakers of Pakistani origin, including Khan, when travelling to India. The trailer can be viewed here:

Teaser credit: Khurram Koraishy

A global music form

What she found in Gizri was not simply a Pakistani counterpart to an Indian film, however. She found young people using a global musical form to document an intensely local reality.

The title We Really Are Pakistan contains an argument in a single word. “Really” challenges the narrow images through which nations present themselves: presidents and generals, cricket stars and celebrities, affluent neighborhoods, patriotic spectacles, and scenes of crisis selected for international television. The title insists that Pakistan is also its restaurant workers, informal laborers, neglected streets, and young men creating music after exhausting shifts.

When Saba Karim Khan asks MC Affo about rap in Pakistan, he replies in Urdu, “Some call it ‘real artist power,’ while others say it means ‘rhythm and poetry.’ But for me, it is simply power.”

Poverty does not deprive people only of material security but also of narrative authority.

Marginalized neighborhoods are routinely explained by journalists, police reports, government statistics, NGOs, academics, and middle-class filmmakers. Residents enter these accounts as victims, beneficiaries, threats, or data.

“The artistic voices we hear come from privilege, opening a certain window into Pakistan,” reflects Khan. “These three rappers, among many more, are harnessing the power of hip-hop to make-meaning, to subvert their circumstance and the stereotypes they battle almost daily. They’re showing us that victim isn’t the only label they embrace and that no change is too small.”

Rap reverses the direction of observation. Those who are usually explained or ‘described’ have now taken on the agency of describing the city as they see it. This act of describing or bearing witness gives them something inequality ordinarily denies them: control over the sentence in which they appear.

A rapper with a phone and an internet connection can, at least in principle, carry the vocabulary of one neighborhood beyond its physical boundaries. The barriers have not disappeared, but the gate is no longer controlled by a single institution.

For an Indian viewer, Gizri is simultaneously across the border and disturbingly close to home. Its streets may evoke low income areas like Dharavi in Mumbai, Seelampur in Delhi, or any basti pushed outside the polished image of a “world-class” Indian city. Change the street signs, accents, and flags, and the structural realities of precarious employment, inadequate public services, and the search for dignity would remain recognizable.

A shared colonial order

Pakistani and Indian societies both emerged from a shared colonial order and continue to produce cities that depend upon working people while excluding these communities from their public self-image. A rhyme born in Gizri can be understood in Delhi not because the border is unreal, but because the social wound it names exists on both sides.

Yet recognition across the border need not arise only from shared suffering. It can also emerge from shared aspiration. MC Affo says at the end of the documentary, “Always remember, destiny takes you beyond your wildest dreams.”

A hope born in a Karachi neighborhood can be felt in a Mumbai neighborhood because it speaks to aspirations that transcend national borders.

Indian and Pakistani citizens frequently encounter one another through war, diplomacy, cricket, terrorism, and patriotic spectacle. W.R.A.P. proposes another encounter: an Indian listener attending to the inner life of a Pakistani neighborhood.

This is not the dramatic friendship of states. It is the quieter recognition of one ordinary life by another.

For an Indian audience, the most meaningful response to W.R.A.P. is not the comforting declaration that Indians and Pakistanis are identical. Such a claim can erase real histories and differences as readily as nationalism exaggerates them. The documentary asks for a more demanding form of recognition: young people on both sides inhabit societies marked by related exclusions, and they are inventing languages with which to resist invisibility.

The three rappers of Gizri featured in the documentary demand this recognition clearly by naming their group KG STANS – short for Karachi-Gizri Stans – rather than choosing a name centered on their individual identities.

These three rappers may never speak for all of Pakistan, and that should not be expected of them. Their achievement is both smaller and more profound. They make a neglected locality audible on its own terms. They transform the neighborhood from a backdrop of crime or poverty into a place that thinks, remembers, jokes, suffers, and creates. Their music does not dissolve the India-Pakistan border. It crosses it as sound and makes us hear the human realities that the border too often turns into abstractions.

When these young men rap, a neighborhood becomes its own witness, its own archive, and, for a few vital minutes, its own historian.

End Credits

Sachin Gupta is a physicist, educator, and writer from India who recently completed his PhD in Physics at the University of Massachusetts Boston, specializing in quantum physics. He currently teaches physics at University of Massachusetts Boston.

This is a Global Southasia syndicated feature available for republication with due credit https://www.sapannews.com. This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Global Southasia AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word? Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

By Farooq Sulehria / Global Southasia

‘’Without girls’ education, Afghanistan cannot progress,’‘ was the constant refrain of Gholam Muhammad Sabori, reverentially called Moalim Saheb (Mr. Teacher) by his students, colleagues and friends.

When he died in a road crash on 31 August 2020 in Kabul, Afghanistan lost a formidable education campaigner.

Who was this man, just 65 at the time of the tragedy, whose sudden eternal departure was mourned across Afghanistan – including by many among the Taliban?

Sabori’s death anniversary at the end of August is one of many momentous events during this month over the past decades. This is the month when India was simultaneously partitioned and gained independence and when Pakistan was born in 1947, when Bangladesh suffered its first military coup in 1975 and its first Prime Minister Sheikh Mujibur Rehman was assassinated.

It was also in August, in 2021, that the Taliban returned to Kabul as the US troops withdrew Saigon-style. Since then, the world has witnessed gender apartheid being reintroduced in the country, with education proscribed beyond grade 6.

Six years after Sabori’s passing, reviving his memory offers hope and a guideline for Afghanistan’s future. It is my personal tribute to Sabori Lala, as someone who knew him personally through a mutual connection.

Born in 1955, in the scenic village of Archi in Afghanistan’s northern district of Kunduz, Sabori imbibed and embraced progressive ideas during his college days. As the scion of a mid-ranking landed family, he was able to attend school and college in a country where literacy and tertiary education are restricted privileges. Restive when he arrived at college, Sabori was fired by Marxist ideologies obtained through journals like Parcham (Flag), Khalaq (People), and Shola-e-Javed (Eternal Flame).

Exile

While Parcham and Khalaq laid the basis for the formation of People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan, PDPA, Shola-e-Javed led to the launch of Sazman-e-Rehay-e-Afghanistan (Afghan Liberation Organisation, ALO). Many may be unaware that the last 20^th century Marxist “revolution” occurred in Afghanistan -- the 1978 Saur Inqlab, or April Revolution, spearheaded by the pro-Moscow PDPA. The ALO leadership, sympathetic to Maoist thought, sought refuge in Pakistan, joining the “anti-Soviet resistance”. All this is important to understand Sabori’s life trajectory.

When Sabori arrived in Kabul in the early 1970s, the Kabul University was a hub of politics. The campus was churning with bitterly competing political ideologies. Burhan-ud-Din Rabbani taught Islamic Law here at the Faculty of Law. However, he was also sculpting a band of extremists. His notorious disciple in the Faculty of Engineering, Gulbadin Hikmatyar, stabbed to death a Maoist student leader in the neighbouring department of English, Saidal Sukhandan whose nom-de-plume Sukhandan, means the Discourse Man.

In 2007, when I first visited Kabul University, I spotted a few posters plastered to campus walls, featuring Sukhandan’s effigy. An ALO stalwart, he was a fine poet and a popular on-campus figure.

Later, when Sabori’s first grandson was born, I suggested baptizing the newborn as Saidal. With a forlorn grin, Sabori welcomed and honoured my suggestion.

During his stay in Kabul, Sabori befriended many ALO stalwarts but never became a card-carrying member. However, his affinity with ALO circles forced him to seek refuge in Pakistan, moving along with his extended family to Bajour district in Pakistan’s erstwhile north-western Tribal Areas.

His first act there was to establish two makeshift schools. One for boys, the other for girls; the latter housed at his own home. The refugee camps, meantime, were swelling up as more displaced people arrived from Afghanistan.

Hikmatyar, who had escaped to Pakistan in the early 1970s after killing Sukhandan, administered these camps with his cohorts. Islamabad patronised these elements to settle scores with Kabul. Hikmatyar’s longtime links and ideological affinity with Pakistan’s Jamaat-e-Islami catapulted Hikmatyar to the position of de facto sultan of the sprawling refugee camps on the outskirts of Peshawar and other Pakistani towns bordering Afghanistan. These camps became townships of their own.

Under Hikmatyar’s tutelage facilitated by intelligence agencies of various countries including Pakistan, girls’ education was banned in the refugee camps. Ergo the Taliban ban on girls’ education can be sourced to Foggy Bottom and Zero Point in Islamabad.

Underground

When Sabori’s daughter and other girls in his extended family were barred from going to school, through his old ALO contacts, he reached out to the underground schools run by the radical women’s organisation known as RAWA – the Revolutionary Association for the Women of Afghanistan (Jamiat-e-Inqlabi Zanan-e-Afghanistan), unofficially affiliated with the ALO.

The founder of RAWA, known simply as Meena, and her spouse, the ALO founder, Faiz Ahmed, were both assassinated in the late 1980s in Pakistan’s refugee camps.

Sabori’s daughter, Jamila (named after Algerian freedom fighter Djamila Bouhired), his nieces and a stepsister, undertook a 24-hour train journey to reach an underground school in Quetta where they were lodged with about 80 other children.

Locked inside, they were rarely able to see the sunlight. Even going to the rooftop was forbidden as was any conversation with the neighbours. They had to stay quiet for fear of attracting neighbours’ attention.

Additionally, all these girls, and the women of RAWA, had to change their names multiple times as a security measure.

This was the price they paid for their education.

While traumatic on many counts, the experience was also fulfilling and lifechanging. Jamila, who now goes by one of her other names, obtained a law degree, LLB, from the University of London as an external candidate from an Islamabad college, and later did her Masters in Arts at SOAS, University of London. When she moved to Scandinavia, she studied to become a schoolteacher, fulfilling an unspoken promise to her father.

She also wanted to work as a human rights activist, and so, besides teaching, she remains active in socio-political circles of her host country. On Sabori’s death anniversary this year, she was performing election duties as a volunteer.

Sabori’s younger daughter Yasmin attended Beaconhouse, an elite private school in Pakistan, which in the 1990s admitted 100 Afghan children to its Jhelum and Peshawar campuses. Yasmin later worked for Afghan and international media outlets, including the BBC, and as an analyst and researcher at the United Nations Assistance Mission in Afghanistan (UNAMA). Presently, she lives in Europe. But we are running ahead of the story.

It was not easy to re-start life in refugee camps as a patriarch for an extended family. In a situation of forced displacement, holding dignity and economy together is a daunting job. Sabori’s children were growing up in different underground schools around Pakistan. He himself was teaching at an underground school. But he never complained.

Afghanistan, meanwhile, was becoming an unending tragedy, wrought by the world’s most powerful countries: the USA, the Soviet Union, China, Saudi Arabia. Although not powerful, Pakistan too played a role in prolonging the Afghan tragedy. When the Soviet troops withdrew in 1988, the Afghan refugees could not return to their home as the so-called Mujahideen outfits, armed, funded, and trained by multiple intelligence agencies, began fighting each other to secure Kabul for their respective factions.

Defiance

In the process, Afghanistan’s capital Kabul was reduced to rubble, literally and figuratively. Pakistan wanted to install Hikmatyar at the helm. However, the Northern Alliance, enjoying the support of India, Iran and Turkey was largely in control of the country and Kabul. Before the Taliban captured Afghanistan and instituted their puritan dictatorship, the Mujahideen in control of Afghanistan were already practicing the Taliban-style Sharia.

The Taliban regime brought peace of the graveyard to Afghanistan, invisibilising women and banning the girls’ education. Since Saur Inqlab, in a matter of twenty years, Afghanistan had gone from a “socialist state” to an “Islamic Republic”.

Besides gender apartheid, harsh punishments were the other hallmark of the Taliban regime. Sex offenders were thrown down from helicopters. Thieves had their hands chopped off. The Olympic Stadium in Kabul was turned into a public gallows.

It was in this atmosphere of fear and terror that Sabori returned to Kabul to help organise underground schools for girls. Disguised as a grocer, Sabori ran a small store. His loyal spouse and three sons lived with him to provide the veneer of a normal family.

Life for Sabori was never easy, never safe. This perhaps was the most dangerous situation he ever faced. He was a lynchpin for a network smuggling books from Pakistan, arranging blackboards, training teachers, and organizing domestic spaces which did not look like schools in the case of Taliban raids. Sabori survived.

The events of 11 September 2001 and the subsequent U.S. occupation of Afghanistan introduced many oxymoronic changes in the country. The ban on girls’ education was lifted. Sabori, seizing the opportunity, returned to Kabul University to complete his own education left unfinished in the 1970s. Secondly, he wanted to pursue a degree to serve as an Inspector Education. He was the eldest pupil in the classroom, often older than his teachers, providing many an occasion for witty remarks by his relatives and class-fellows.

His family was finally re-united -- almost! Based in Pakistan, Jamila was travelling across the globe to promote the cause of Afghan women, sandwiched at the time between liberal feminists supporting the US occupation and religious feminists tacitly supporting the Taliban barbarisms committed in the name of resistance.

Over the next few years, working as Inspector Education, Sabori rose to the position of Overseer.

Meanwhile, the Taliban insurgency was gaining strength. By early 2010s, the Americans ruled by day, the Taliban by night. The US-propped Hamid Karzai-Ashraf Ghani administration controlled the urban centres, the Taliban held sway over the rural areas. Afghanistan is largely countryside.

Hungry for education, Afghans all over the country wanted schools in their villages and towns. To justify the occupation, education was given a priority. Thousands of schools were set up across the length and breadth of Afghanistan. But the schools were often staffed with the henchmen of local warlords. Besides ghost schools, there were ghost teachers, drawing salaries but never turning up for the job.

Sabori took it upon himself to inspect all such schools. In the process, he antagonised two groups. The Taliban wanted to blow up the schools they viewed as US imposition, while the ghost teachers as well as their patronising warlords were not happy with Sabori either. He exposed their system of corruption. Every inspecting trip was a life risk. Threats or bribes, however, nothing dissuaded him from his mission.

“Girls going to schools would be the real revolution in Afghanistan,” he once told me when I sought his opinion on the politics of Afghanistan’s left.

Meanwhile, his children landed good jobs. His brothers in the countryside, back from Pakistan, were able to revive farming on the lands deserted since the late 1970s. The canal was rehabilitated which contributed to cash crops.

Legacy

For the first time in many years, Sabori was experiencing stable sources of income and comfort. He built a three-story home on the outskirts of Kabul. The idea was not merely to house his sons, now getting married, but also to accommodate his nephews and nieces arriving to study in Kabul, from Archi. He always referred to the village as “my Archi”.

He must have been very amused when his youngest son named his first-born boy Archi. Beyond his family, his second love was “Archi” where he built a girls’ school on the land he donated from his own fiefdom. Later, he donated more land for a playground on the campus. Sabori viewed every new enrollment as a victory scored against the puritan Thermidor – the reactionary coup.

As if inadvertently anticipating Afghanistan’s relapse into Talibanised reaction in August 2021, he departed for his idiomatic eternal abode exactly a year before the fall of Kabul. As mentioned earlier, even the Taliban attended his massive funeral in Archi -- perhaps in an effort to build their “Taliban 2.0” image, they paid tribute to Sabori for his educational services.

Epilogue in brief

Six years later. Hikmatyar continues to live lavishly in Kabul while his countless victims, including Saidal Sukhandan, lie in graves all over Kabul. During the Taliban’s first stint in power, he went into self-exile to Iran, returning to Kabul post-9/11. The Taliban’s return in 2021 did not drive him or his ilk into exile.

The daughters and granddaughters of these warlords, like those of several key Taliban commanders, live and study abroad. Sabori’s school in Archi is half-closed, owing to the ban on education for girls over 12-years of age. Several underground schools have sprung up where even some Taliban foot soldiers send their daughters.

Saidal, Sabori’s grandson, fled the country at the age of 10 along with his family, when the Taliban returned to Kabul.

The puritan Thermidor has yet again interrupted Sabori’s Afghan revolution, that will be achieved when girls can go to school.

End credits

Farooq Sulehria teaches at Beaconhouse National University, Lahore. He is the author of ‘Media Imperialism in India and Pakistan’ (Routledge).

This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Sapan News AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word? Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

Floods have devastated communities across Nepal, displacing families and communities. We are sharing this personal account, first published in The Kathmandu Post to document the human cost behind the disaster.

HAPSA Nepal, an organization founded by Dr. Ramu Kharel, an emergency physician at Brown University, is appealing for support to help communities facing urgent needs across Nepal. Here is a link to their gofundme page seeking help for post-disaster needs.

Intro

In the devastating floods that severed an entire district from the rest of Nepal, one The Kathmandu Post journalist witnessed his childhood village disappear — through fragments of video, and phone calls that stopped connecting.

By Arjun Poudel

I was on my way to the Kantipur Publications office in Kathmandu on Wednesday morning when my wife called.

“There’s been a flood in the Trishuli,” she said. “Something’s happened to Sole Bazaar and Betrawati — people are saying there’s nothing left. Everyone’s out on the road. There are videos of them panicking.”

I didn’t believe her. Sole is my village. I played in its lanes, worked its fields, walked its road to school every morning for years. If anyone should know that place, it’s me — so surely I would have known if something like this were possible. I hadn’t even heard that the rain had been unusually heavy. And this isn’t a settlement the river reaches, not even in a bad monsoon. I let it go. I had a news meeting at eleven, and I hurried on.

Betrawati Bazaar is where we shop, where the buses stop, where you can get on one and ride straight into Kathmandu. It’s where my parents used to wait for me, knowing I was on my way home. It’s the heart of the place: a Ram temple, a Krishna temple, the crowds that gathered for Ram Nawami and Krishna Ashtami. Being an old Newar settlement, it had its Gai Jatra too, and in recent years, bull-fighting at Maghe Sankranti that drew people from as far as Kathmandu.

All of that, I would soon learn, was already gone.

I opened a news site to check what my wife had told me, half expecting nothing. The headline read: Massive flood in the Trishuli. Something in my chest tightened. I called Niranjan, a journalist himself, whose family lives in Sole Bazaar — they’d moved down from the village once the bazaar grew, and his uncle lives even closer to the river. He picked up on the first ring.

“I just heard too, dai,” he said, the words coming out in one breath. “I can’t get through to anyone. Not Mummy, not Buwa, not my uncle, my aunt — nobody’s phone is even ringing.”

For the rest of my walk to the office, we called each other back and forth, each of us trying every number we had for home. Nothing went through. When I finally reached someone — an elder brother’s house — it was his wife who answered. “There’s nothing left in the village,” she said simply. “Most of the people are gone.”

I couldn’t make myself believe it. Sole and Tupche sit nearly a hundred metres above the riverbed. No flood in living memory — in centuries, as far as anyone knew — had ever reached that high. I am 44 years old, and I have never once, in all that time, seen the river come for us. I have cousins there, neighbours, childhood friends. Everyone I have ever loved outside my own front door is from that village.

I began calling them, one by one. In a place like Sole, everyone is kin to everyone else, one way or another — and where blood doesn’t make the connection, age does, and you call the stranger dai or didi anyway, because that’s simply how it’s done there. Everyone belonged to me, and I belonged to everyone. Slowly, the videos and photographs started arriving on my phone. Nothing had prepared me for what they showed.

My eldest aunt was swept away. So was her son, my dai Madhu, and his wife. My other aunt — gone too, they told me. Her grandson Sijan and his wife, caught in the same water. His own son and daughter-in-law, unreachable, unaccounted for. My maternal uncle had gone out that morning to cut grass for the cattle. He never came back.

I called the ward chair, Rabindra Nepal. “Bhai, I came to the municipality office early this morning, and I’m stuck here now,” he told me. “There’s nothing left in the village. You can imagine the rest yourself.” Each call made it worse. Some people, he said, had scrambled up the cliffside and survived that way — by climbing, by luck. I reached a teacher at the local school nearby. “I can’t find my own family, bhai,” he said. “Ninety percent of the houses in Betrawati are gone. The school van was swept off too. There’s a boy near me with a broken leg. Another man beside him — broken leg, his eye is hurt badly. If you can get a helicopter here, please, send one.”

Then Niranjan’s uncle called. Niranjan’s father, mother, uncle, aunt, and his little sister Himani — all of them, taken by the water. “We’re finished, Arjun,” he said. “I’m hanging up now.” And he did.

Betrawati was never just a market town. It’s where Nepal and Tibet once signed a peace treaty after their war. It holds Uttar Ganga dham, a site sacred enough that thousands travel there every year on Pushya Amawasya to honour their dead. All of it — the temples, the treaty ground, the pilgrimage site — is rubble now.

There is no road left, no electricity, no phone signal, no internet. Downstream, the flood took the headgate of the Trishuli hydropower station, and then the power station itself. I remember that even during the years of nationwide load-shedding, back in 2010-11, our village never once lost power. Now the whole district sits in the dark. I saw it myself, travelling with friends toward the district headquarters on Wednesday evening — not just my village, the entire district, swallowed by the dark. Villagers who’d come down to the headquarters that morning are stranded there now, with nowhere to go. The sick who’d come in for treatment are trapped at the hospital, unable to get home. A neighbour of mine stood near a rescue helicopter bound for the army training centre in Battar, begging to be let aboard. “My uncle and aunt were swept away,” he kept saying. “Their phones are dead. I don’t even know what’s happening to my own house.”

My eldest aunt’s older son is in Kathmandu, powerless to do anything from that distance. Her younger son had only just returned from working abroad — he hadn’t even made it back to the village before the water came. On the phone, people told me the children who’d survived by running couldn’t be brought out, that before anyone could even grieve for the mother and the brother and sister-in-law who were gone, the living still trapped in the village would have to be rescued first.

The flood did not only take the village. It took the road to the district headquarters, and with it, the road to the rest of the country. The market that fed us is gone, which means there is nowhere left to buy anything. The fields we planted are gone. And even the grain that families still have stored at home is grain they can no longer mill into rice or flour, because the mills are gone too.

The old bridge over the Trishuli, connecting Dhunge to Trishuli Bazaar, built all the way back in 2024 BS — gone. The newer bridge, built only a few years ago — gone. The Bhainse bridge, every suspension bridge across that river — all of it gone, and with it, any way to reach the district headquarters at all. The district hospital at Baghtar, so close and now so unreachable. Villages further out — Bhairamkot, Samari, Toksar, Deurali, Kispang, Kaule, Bhalche, Salme, and Tharpu across the border in Dhading — cut off entirely. The whole of Rasuwa district is severed from the road network. Looking at what’s left, it’s hard to imagine any of it being rebuilt soon.

“If someone falls sick now, I suppose they’ll just have to die at home,” one villager told me, his voice flat with grief. “How would you even get them to a hospital? There’s no road. No bridge. No vehicle can move.” People can’t even buy salt anymore. So many are displaced. So many are still missing, unaccounted for in the water. What happens now to the ones who survived, I don’t know. I set out almost a day and a half ago, meaning to reach the village myself. I have been stuck at the district headquarters in Bidur, unable to go any further.

I keep asking myself how long it will take before my village looks like my village again. Nobody has an answer. None of us has ever seen a flood like this one — a village this green, turned to ruin in the space of a few minutes. The old men keep saying it, over and over, as if saying it enough times might change the answer: Will this place ever become what it used to be?

Arjun Poudel is a health reporter for The Kathmandu Post. Before joining the Post, he worked for Sagarmatha Television, Naya Patrika, Republica and The Himalayan Times.

This piece may be republished with a linkback to The Kathmandu Post with a line below acknowledging republication from Global Southasia in solidarity with the people of Nepal.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word? Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

Dear Readers,

So much has happened since we last chatted, and one event in particular is a reminder of the importance of human connection.

A few days ago a rush of flood waters devastated northern Nepal on Wednesday, 26 August destroying homes, villages and communities. Thousands are missing and possibly dead. Global Southasia republished a personal account by Nepali journalist Arjun Poudel from The Kathmandu Post. We also want to call your attention to an appeal from HAPSA Nepal, an organization founded by Dr. Ramu Kharel, an emergency physician at U.S. based Brown University in Rhode Island. HAPSA Nepal is seeking support for communities facing urgent needs across Nepal. Here is a link to their gofundme page outlining post-disaster needs.

A gathering of Peacemongers

A multi-generation group gathered in Washington, DC on 21 August to hear “A Peacemongering Conversation: Towards a Better Future in Southasia and Beyond,” with Global Southasia’s Chief Editor Beena Sarwar. The discussion centered on reimagining “Southasia” as a single, interconnected region can open a space for peace beyond rigid national borders.

Hosted by young professional Bharat Sharma at the International Students House, some 50 students, professionals, and scholars joined a discussion about how the India-Pakistan conflict constrains regional cooperation and daily life. Our sister organisation, the Southasia Peace Action Network or Sapan, addresses these issues, focusing on youth, social media, and diaspora communities as key forces for building a more just and peaceful regional future despite ongoing state repression and political hostility.

Lessons for journalism today

What do sufis, scientists, and journalists have in common? Television producer Asadullah Khan offers a thoughtful reflection on journalism as both a craft and a public responsibility, in his first article for Global Southasia, Sufi, Scientists and the 10 Pillars of Journalism.

We Remember

Several of our stories looked at the past from very different perspectives: the legacy of empire; the memory of an individual whose life crossed political and national boundaries; and friendships across borders.

Screen over an ugly past, by freelance columnist and former newspaper editor Kamila Hyat in Lahore examines the Commonwealth Games through the lens of the British Empire and asks whether an event born from colonial history can still serve a meaningful purpose today.

Jaspal Singh, a community organiser and cultural activist in Boston, pays a personal tribute to Amin Mughal, journalist, academic, and Marxist intellectual who passed away in London recently, and is remembered for his commitment to Pakistan and to humanistic values despite political persecution and years of exile.

The ‘heptula’ continues, comments writer Aamir Butt, referring to Saadat Hasan Manto’s playful term for absurdity while reflecting on friendships and cultural affinities that survived Partition, including the connections between Manto, Ali Sardar Jafri, Shyam Sunder and Faiz Ahmed Faiz.

Congratulations!

Our very own Namrata Sharma, a freelance journalist and member of the advisory council at Global Southasia, and Southasia Peace Action Network, Sapan, based in Nepal, was recently appointed as a member of the Press Council Nepal, established to promote standards of a free press.

While rereading the articles for this newsletter, I realized they were a thoughtful reflection of the kind of critical, inquisitive thinking Global Southasia strives to share with our audience.

An online discussion this Sunday

Before signing off, a heads up about a virtual conversation this Sunday hosted by Sapan, bridging Southasia and its diaspora. The session features three literary and cultural voices who have dedicated their lives to mapping memory, artistic resistance, and cross-border empathy: Urvashi Butalia, feminist publisher, historian, and author of the groundbreaking 1999 work The Other Side of Silence: Voices from the Partition of India; Salima Hashmi, artist, educator, peace activist, and author of the recently published memoir Waiting in the Wings, carrying forward a legendary legacy of cultural resistance and cross-border solidarity; and Nayanika Mahtani, author of Across the Line (2020) and co-writer of the film Main Vaapas Aaunga, directed by Imtiaz Ali, starring Naseeruddin Shah.

• Main Vaapas Aaunga is now on Netflix! Watch the official trailer here, and read Afghan writer Sola Mahfouz’s moving Global Southasia piece about the film.

When: Sunday, 30 August 2026
Time: 9 am EST, 2 pm UK, 6 pm Pakistan, 6.30 pm India, 6.45 pm Nepal, 7 pm Bangladesh
Where: Online via Zoom. Secure your spot by registering at this Zoom link, or watch live on YouTube.com/southasiapeace

Register for Zoom

That’s a wrap for this edition! We’ll be back with more insights and information. Have questions about the stories? Drop a comment — and please share this newsletter with friends who might like it.

Thank you,

Regina Johnson
Coordinating Editor
Global Southasia (formerly Sapan News)

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By Asadullah Khan / Global Southasia

A recent newsletter from Sapan, the Southasia Peace Action Network, caught my attention for two reasons. One was a Brown Pundits’ report about Beena Sarwar’s talk on ‘How to Think like a Journalist’ at the Stockholm Mela Nordic Southasia Peace conference. The second was about the Sufi poet Amir Khusro’s poem welcoming the monsoon season, explained by the composer Arshad Mahmud.

Both got mixed up in my head -- great Sufi poetry from Southasia and journalism. And following Beena Sarwar’s lead, I began mulling over the idea of thinking like Sufi, a scientist and a journalist.

At first glance, a Sufi mystic, a scientist in a laboratory, and a journalist in a newsroom seem to inhabit entirely different worlds. One seeks spiritual truth; another investigates the laws of nature, and the third uncovers facts that shape public understanding. Yet beneath these different pursuits lies a remarkably similar philosophy: Truth demands humility, discipline, and a willingness to question oneself before questioning the world.

The principles that define ethical journalism are also the foundations of scientific research, and Sufi thought. A journalist investigates events without prejudice. A scientist tests ideas without bias. A Sufi strips away ego to perceive reality.

Each follows a path where truth is not inherited or assumed — it is discovered. Beena Sarwar’s ten pillars of journalism provide an ideal framework to understand this shared pursuit of truth.

The first one is: ‘Observe without judgement’

That is where the journey begins. A reporter reaches the scene before writing the story. A scientist studies nature before proposing a theory. Charles Darwin spent nearly five years aboard the HMS Beagle sailing around the world, filling notebooks with observations of plants, animals, fossils, and geological formations, long before he developed the theory of evolution by natural selection.

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Likewise, Sufi masters have long taught that clear perception begins when the ego stops rushing to judge. A line from the 13th-century Persian poet Jalal al-Din Muhammad Rumi’s poem, “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing, there is a field,” is less about abandoning morality than about suspending premature judgment until deeper understanding emerges. Whether in journalism, science, or spirituality, observation must precede interpretation.

The second principle is “Don’t assume”. Every breakthrough begins by questioning what the wider public accepts. For centuries, physicians believed cholera spread through foul air. During London’s 1854 cholera outbreak, physician John Snow challenged this assumption by mapping infections and tracing them to the Broad Street water pump, demonstrating that contaminated water, not “bad air” was responsible.

Similarly, Sufi poet Bulleh Shah challenged inherited religious and social identities through his famous line, “Bulleya, ki jaana main kaun” (”Bulleh, I know not who I am”), reminding us that wisdom begins with questioning certainty. Journalists, too, resist assumptions by asking difficult questions before accepting popular narratives.

The third pillar, “Verify information”, separates truth from speculation. A responsible journalist relies on multiple sources, just as a scientist depends on reproducible evidence rather than a single experiment.

The discovery of DNA’s double-helix structure illustrates this principle perfectly. James Watson and Francis Crick developed their model by building upon years of research, including Rosalind Franklin’s X-ray diffraction images. Scientific knowledge advanced because evidence was independently verified.

Sufism echoes the same lesson from another direction: Spiritual truths should be experienced rather than accepted blindly.

All three traditions insist that repetition alone does not make something true.

The fourth principle is to “Provide context”. Facts isolated from their circumstances can be misled.

Journalists explain the historical, political, and social background behind an event.

Scientists interpret observations within broader theoretical frameworks. Albert Einstein’s theory of general relativity transformed physics because it explained observations that Newtonian mechanics could not, including the orbit of Mercury and the bending of light around massive objects. British astrophysicist Arthur Eddington’s observations during the 1919 solar eclipse placed Einstein’s ideas in their proper scientific context and forever changed our understanding of gravity.

Sufi thinkers similarly remind us that every individual carries an unseen story.

Compassion grows when context replaces quick judgment.

Just the facts

The fifth principle is “State facts, not opinions”. Science asks not what researchers hope is true, but what evidence demonstrates. Austrian scientist Gregor Mendel patiently counted thousands of pea plants over many years, allowing facts, not expectations to reveal the laws of inheritance. Journalism follows the same discipline by separating verified facts from commentary. Sufi teachings also caution against confusing the voice of the ego with reality. Truth is discovered through disciplined observation, not personal preference.

The sixth principle, “Avoid labelling, name-calling, and finger-pointing” is equally important across all three traditions.

Scientific progress depends upon evaluating ideas rather than attacking individuals. Hungarian physician Ignaz Semmelweis faced ridicule when he argued that doctors should wash their hands to reduce maternal deaths, delaying acceptance of a practice that would eventually save countless lives. Journalism similarly serves the public best when it scrutinizes evidence rather than demonizing people. Sufi poets challenged labels of religion, caste, and status, insisting that humanity cannot be reduced to simplistic identities.

The seventh pillar is to “Respond with reason, not emotion”. Some of history’s greatest scientific discoveries provoked intense emotional resistance.

Astronomer Galileo’s support for the heliocentric model which placed the sun at the center of the universe challenged deeply held beliefs, but scientific questions could not be settled through outrage or authority — they required evidence.

Responsible journalism follows the same path by reporting controversial issues with calm analysis rather than emotional reaction.

Sufism teaches mastery over one’s impulses, encouraging reflection before response and wisdom before anger.

Closely related is the eighth principle: “Use neutral language and choose words carefully”.

Scientists distinguish precisely between a hypothesis, a theory, and a law because each carries a specific meaning. Journalists understand that emotionally charged language can influence public opinion before readers examine the facts. Sufi poets treat language with care, using words not to inflame conflict but to illuminate understanding. Precision in language protects credibility and encourages thoughtful dialogue.

The ninth principle, “Stay open-minded”, lies at the heart of discovery.

Scientific knowledge evolves as new evidence emerges. German geophysicist Alfred Wegener’s theory of continental drift was dismissed for decades until the discovery of plate tectonics confirmed his insight. Journalism, too, earns trust by correcting errors when better evidence becomes available. Sufi wisdom embraces humility before the vastness of truth. As Rumi advised, “Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.”

Openness is not weakness; it is the willingness to let evidence reshape understanding.

Talk less

Finally, “listen more than speak.” The best journalists know that powerful stories emerge through careful listening. Scientists examine data, invite peer reviews, and welcome constructive criticism. In 1967, Irish physicist Jocelyn Bell Burnell noticed unusual radio signals that others overlooked because she listened attentively to unexpected evidence, leading to the discovery of pulsars. Sufi teachings elevate listening into a spiritual practice, urging seekers to hear not only words but also silence, experience, and the quiet voice of the heart.

Across all three traditions, breakthroughs belong not to those who speak the loudest but to those who listen the most carefully.

The convergence of Sufism, science, and journalism offers an important lesson for our age of misinformation and instant opinion. Each tradition rejects certainty without evidence. Each values humility over arrogance, inquiry over assumption, and truth over ideology.

The journalist investigates society. The scientist investigates nature. The Sufi investigates the self. Yet all three are engaged in the same lifelong pursuit: stripping away illusion to arrive at reality.

The journalistic pillars identified above are therefore much more than newsroom guidelines. They are universal principles of critical thinking that resonate equally in scientific laboratories, Sufi lodges, classrooms, and public life.

They remind us that credibility is not earned by speaking first or loudest. It is earned by observing carefully, questioning courageously, verifying patiently, listening deeply, and allowing evidence, not ego, to guide the search for truth.

In a world where information travels instantly but wisdom often arrives slowly, perhaps the journalist, the scientist, and the Sufi are walking the same road. One carries a notebook, another a microscope, and the third a heart refined through reflection.

Their tools differ, but their destination remains the same: Truth.

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Author Bio:

Asadullah Khan is a television producer born and educated in Karachi. A member of the founding team of Geo TV, he has more than 30 years of experience, from studio settings to international war zones and conflict areas including Pakistan, Iraq, and Lebanon. Now based in Islamabad, he heads the current affairs programming of new television channel being launched.

This is a Global Southasia (formerly Sapan News) syndicated feature available for republication with due credit to sapannews.com.

This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Global Southasia (formerly Sapan News) AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word?
Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

By Kamila Hyat / Global Southasia

The Commonwealth Games, are one of the events which most avidly display the Commonwealth of Nations set up by the British as the empire they ruled over came to an end with one nation after the other gaining independence.

This year the games were held in Glasgow, 23 July to 2 August, and it was noted by many commentators that the veneer of gold which once hung over them seemed significantly subdued. In the first place, only ten sports were included in the 2026 events and six para-games for athletes who were not fully physically abled. This compared to 19 sports in 2022, the last time the games occurred in Birmingham with eight para-events. It is also a fact that initially Australia was the host of the 2026 games but backed out at some stage, either due to a lack of interest or a lack of sufficient resources. The question to ask then is if the Commonwealth is beginning to wane and gradually disappear.

It is also notable that the countries which occupied the top slots on the medal table were those which belonged to the developed world and are a part of the ‘soft power’ displayed by the structure of this peculiar organisation. Australia took first place, followed by the UK and then Canada. India did come in fourth but this is not a good showing for a country with the world’s largest population, most of it young. Pakistan with one bronze medal to its name, with the female boxer winning a bronze medal, put off its worst performance in 36 years and finished in 36th place along with at least 10 other countries. It was joined in that place by countries like Rwanda, Tonga, Malta and several others, including Bermuda. There were countries lower down the order, including Bangladesh, Seychelles, and of course a marked number of others.

In other words, these countries have not developed their infrastructures very far, at least in sports. Even a basic look at the United Nations Development Plan’s Human Development Index, which is a measure of the average achievement in key dimensions of human development: a long and healthy life, being knowledgeable and having a decent standard of living would suggest this is also true for other areas such as education, health and social welfare. Of course, Pakistan falls towards the bottom of this list in both spheres.

The issue over the Commonwealth of Nations, as it is now called, is why it continues to exist and to what extent it is at all relevant. Historians argue that it is a soft cover for the real issues of the damage caused by colonial rule and the extraction of wealth from the nations which were ruled over by the British Empire. India, Pakistan and Bangladesh are of course examples of this theft of resources which were never returned. The scholarships and cultural programs offered by the Commonwealth, as well as events such as the Commonwealth Games, cannot make up for the wealth and resources that were taken away and used to build Britain, with cotton being an example from the Indian subcontinent along with a great many other items.

There is also the issue of reparations for this loss of resources and British actions in the colonies, including a lack of respect for the people who live there. The argument goes that the Commonwealth places a shield over this issue which has begun to come up more and more often, notably when countries quit the Commonwealth as Barbados did in 2021. Only a few countries, out of the 56, which make up the Commonwealth and were once under British rule decided not to join the organization, including Myanmar which gained independence in 1948 and Sudan which gained independence in 1956. Others have been in and out over various periods including Pakistan.

The Commonwealth ostensibly punishes nations for a lack of democracy and the abuse of human rights. But again the criticisms suggest that it does not do so often enough and does not show any real degree of even-handedness in choosing these options.

The issue of the Commonwealth will then continue to be debated. There is really little to say in favour of its continuing to exist. It is true that we have all benefited from the proficiency in the English language that British rule has granted a few individuals in the Indian subcontinent and in other nations. But far too many are left out of this small segment of society.

There then needs to be far more thought about whether events such as the Commonwealth Games are in any way beneficial to the nations which take part or whether they should be abandoned as part of a broader effort to give nations which once fell under British colonial power their dignity and rights. As nations which in fact deserve to be offered an apology for the atrocities committed in most of them by the British. This of course has not happened so far.

In Britain the debate is raging. It is also raging in other countries including the eleven realms which still recognise the British sovereign as their own sovereign. These realms of course include Australia and Canada as well as a host of other countries. But why the Commonwealth exists and what its purpose is needs to be considered given that events such as the Commonwealth Games really give a soft cover to the events which should really be taken up by history.

Most important amongst this past is the damage colonial rule has inflicted on developing nations across the world. It is this shared past that needs to be highlighted. Events such as the Commonwealth Games simply act to cover history up.

End credits

Kamila Hyat is a freelance columnist, human rights activist, and former newspaper editor, based in Lahore.

This is a Global Southasia (formerly Sapan News) syndicated feature available for republication with due credit to sapannews.com.

This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Global Southasia (formerly Sapan News) AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word?
Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

By Jaspal Singh / Global Southasia

BOSTON: A friend from Oxford sent a message on 12 August, that Amin Mughal ji had passed away that evening. I was out at the time and saw the devastating news while checking my inbox on my iPad. Shocked and trying to digest the message, I forwarded it to friends, who I thought would want to know. A flood of memories came to mind.

Messages of condolences started pouring in from across the world. Two years ago when Prof. Manzur Ejaz – who passed away last year – and I called Mazhar Tirmazi, a poet and writer in London, and he had informed us that they had a big celebration for Amin Mughal’s 90th birthday and that Mughal Sahib was in good spirits.

Mazhar told us that Amin Mughal had said that the lights across the horizon reminded him of Kotli Loharan, the place he was born near Sialkot in 1935.

I met Mughal Sahib more than 40 years ago in London. There was a conference about the Sikh genocide in Punjab, Punjabi language and culture at the London School of Economics. A friend who was at LSE introduced me to him. We had a long chat and it seemed like I had known him for a long time.

We had differences of opinion on many things, such as about the Congress government in India, the state of human rights in India, the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan, the Labour Party and liberal democracy, but he was always very warm. Over the years we met at many meetings, friends’ homes and conferences.

Anybody who was part of any people’s movements who came in touch with him, became his friend and fellow traveler. He was a prolific writer, teacher and speaker. Whether it was a people’s movement in Britain, Southasia or other parts of the world, Mughal Sahib was there and lent his voice.

He was a humanist at heart and fought all his life for the rights of the people. He was imprisoned many times in Pakistan for his views, before he left for England in 1984, seeking political asylum. However, he never accepted British nationality.

“His small Finchley flat, crowded with books, became an unofficial university for visiting writers, activists and political dissidents from both sides of the border,” as his younger friend and former colleague Dr. Ikramul Haq writes in The Friday Times.

He always argued and worked tirelessly for peace in Southasia and people to people contacts amongst all the people.

Mazhar Tirmazi told me that Amin Mughal’s nephew had taken his body to Birmingham, where the funeral was held.

Amin Mughale impacted people’s lives across several generations, which is very obvious from his social media presence in recent years.

Mughal Sahib, rest in peace. We will miss you, as will all those who are fighting for a new world and a new Southasia.

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Jaspal Singh is a Punjab and Vedic scholar based in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He is a community organiser and cultural activist who has helped create dialogue and connections throughout the Southasian community, via cultural and educational initiatives. In 2022, he was one of the organizers of the Kabir Festival in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

This is a Global Southasia (formerly Sapan News) syndicated feature available for republication with due credit to sapannews.com.

This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Global Southasia (formerly Sapan News) AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word?
Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

Ends

Thank you,

Regina Johnson
Coordinating Editor
Global Southasia

By Aamir Butt / Global Southasia

Come let us talk about your visit now that you have come to me
Now that you have come to me, what should I present to you
As besides my love and loyalty I have nothing else to offer
Except for a forlorn hope, nothing else to offer.

These are lines from a poem by great poet and humanitarian Ali Sardar Jafri, written after meeting his old friend Faiz Ahmed Faiz, another poet and humanitarian in 1966 in Cairo.

This was probably the first time they had met after the 1947 Partition.

Their meeting took place a few months after the 1965 Pakistan-India war, at a literary event both were attending in Cairo.

They had known each other for 30 years and had been comrades-in-arms during the pre-partition days of Progressive Writers Movement. Now they were citizens of different countries who had fought wars in which soldiers from both sides had killed each other.

Here are the lines in Urdu, followed by a transliteration:

آؤ آنے کی کریں باتیں کہ تم آئے ہو

اب تم آئے ہو تو میں کون سی شے نذر کرو

کہ مرے پاس بجز مہر و وفا کچھ بھی نہیں

ایک خوں گشتہ تمنا کے سوا کچھ بھی نہی

(aao aane kī kareñ bāteñ ki tum aa.e ho
ab tum aa.e ho to maiñ kaun sī shai nazr karo
ki mire paas ba-juz mehr o vafā kuchh bhī nahīñ
ek ḳhūñ-gashta tamannā ke sivā kuchh bhī nahīñ)

Both poets never wavered from their principles that we need a fairer world, always hoped that Pakistan and India would one day live in peace.

An Indo-Pak mushaira

When they met in Cairo, the atmosphere between their countries was still tense. When Faiz Sahib was invited to an event at the Indian embassy he declined. However, when local students asked him to be part of an Indo-Pak mushaira he agreed, as did Ali Sardar.

It was on this occasion that Ali Sardar recited this poem which stole the show and became forever associated with Faiz Sahib.

The poem creates a perfect blend of melancholy and happiness. It is about separations and meetings and the fact that sometimes those who live far away from us are closer to us than those who we see every day.

I was reminded of this incident and of the poem after reading a moving article on the friendship between Syed Babar Ali and Sardar Harcharan Brar by Beena Sarwar, published by Global Southasia (formerly Sapan News).

The relationship between Syed Babar Ali and Sardar Harcharan Brar was another such friendship. They became friends during their boyhood in Lahore, and although Harcharan Brar had to leave Lahore in 1947, their friendship endured and its legacy remains, long after Brar Sahib passed away in 2009.

I was reminded of another such friendship, that between the iconic writer Saadat Hasan Manto and the actor Shayam Sunder. Of course, Manto and Shayam were not friends during their boyhood -- that was when Manto lived in places which later became India, while Shayam lived in places that became Pakistan.

The two met much later in Bombay where they had relocated to seek their fortunes in the film industry, Manto as a script writer and Shayam as an actor.

Shayam became famous soon after partition but tragically died in 1951 in an accident while shooting a film. His wife Mumtaz known as Taji, moved to Pakistan with their son and daughter. The daughter Sahira Kazmi is a famous television actor and director.

The friendship between Manto and Shayam had survived the Partition but as Manto wrote in the obituary he penned on Shayam’s passing, it was never the same after 1947.

When he read about Shayam’s death in the newspaper, Manto was confined to an asylum in Lahore for detoxification. He wrote an article titled, ‘Murli key Dhun’ (Rhythm of the flute) as an obituary.

Shayam and Lahore

Shayam had briefly visited Lahore the year before his death. Manto writes about the visit:

‘Shayam was in a strange state of mind. He was very aware of his presence in Lahore. The Lahore whose various streets used to be sprinkled with his romances. The Lahore whose distance from Amritsar had suddenly become several thousand miles, and where was his Rawalpindi, where he had spent his days of boyhood? Lahore, Amritsar and Rawalpindi were all where they used to be, but those days and nights that Shayam had left here were no longer there. No one knows where the mortician of politics had buried them.’

These words resonate with the closing lines of Ali Sardar’s poem written after his meeting with Faiz, shared above.

Manto ends his obituary of Shayam with these lines:

“Today is 15th of August, the day India and Pakistan got their independence. On both sides there are celebrations, and at the same time preparations for war. I ask the soul of Shayam, ‘Dear Shayam, I left Bombay Talkies, can Pandit Nehru not leave Kashmir... Isn’t it a heptula situation!’”

‘Heptula’ was a meaningless word that Manto had coined to use for something rather absurd.

One wonders, isn’t this the reason for all conflicts? That people take a stance and refuse to budge from it, regardless of how much suffering and pain this causes. Isn’t this obstinate behaviour that is responsible for the ongoing animosity between India and Pakistan?

To me, it all feels very heptula.

End credits

Aamir Butt is a UK-based retired medical professional from Pakistan and the author of two books, ‘Lahore: Places, People, Stories’ (2024) and ‘Evolution of Progressive Urdu Poetry in Lahore’ (2025), both published by Aks, Lahore. Parts of this piece were originally published on his Facebook page

This is a Global Southasia (formerly Sapan News) syndicated feature available for republication with due credit to sapannews.com.

This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Global Southasia AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word?
Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

This year marks the fifth anniversary of Sapan News, soft-launched on 12 August 2021, initially nested in the Southasia Peace Action Network (Sapan) website. We have now transitioned to our new name: Global Southasia. Same tagline: Beyond the Headlines. Here’s founder editor Beena Sarwar on how the journey began, and Associate Editor Pragyan Srivastava on the rationale behind the name change.

Several of the articles we recently published commemorate the 79th anniversary of the simultaneous Independence and Partition of the region in 1947.

Read Beena Sarwar’s piece on a friendship Partition could not divide, about Syed Babar Ali and Harcharan Singh Brar, and the attempts of peace marchers to jointly celebrate Independence Day at the Attari-Wagah border, which the authorities have refused to allow for several years now.

Read also young Afghan writer Sola Mahfouz’s reflections on an ‘unfinished conversation’, with insights from Nayanika Mahtani, co-writer of acclaimed Indian director Imtiaz Ali’s latest film Mein Vaapas Aaunga (I Will Return), starring Naseeruddin Shah and Diljit Dosanjh.

Event alert: On Sunday 30 August, join Nayanika Mahtani and Salima Hashmi in conversation with Urvashi Butalia, hosted by Sapan (Time: 9 am ET / 2 pm UK / 6 pm Pk / 7 pm Bangladesh).

Register for Zoom session here

Or watch live at YouTube.com/southasiapeace

Cricket anyone?

Chicago based writer Mayank Chhaya talks to record-holding cricket player Jalal-ud-Din about his one-day international ‘hat-trick’, and how curiosity, opportunity, and a new generation could boost cricket across the U.S.A.

Nuclear threats and hypernationalism

Civilian nuclear proliferation?

#NeverForget. This August marked the 81st anniversary of America’s nuclear bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Soumya Dutta of MAUSAM (Movement for Advancing Understanding of Sustainability And Mutuality) and Friends of the Earth India, writes about Southasia’s nuclear tightrope and the expansion of civilian nuclear programmes in India, Pakistan — and now Bangladesh.

A political cartoonist speaks up

Dealing with adrenaline-fueled hypernationalism: Political cartoonist Ahktar Shah in Islamabad remembers a late-night shared taxi ride in Islamabad on the anniversary of the death of a dictator and how a simple counterargument silenced the heated war council in the cab’s back seat.

Families of cross-border incarcerated fisherfolk along with rights bodies appeal to India, and Pakistan to release, repatriate incarcerated cross-border fisherpeople, reports Beena Sarwar.

‘The Mohenjodaro girl’

London-based journalist and PhD candidate Azra Syed on Sapan’s July online discussion about an ancient civilisation, an altered textbook image, and dance, raising larger questions about women’s visibility, bodily autonomy and whose authority history remembers: Invisible women: Who gets to define Mohenjo-daro’s ‘Dancing Girl’?

Media Mirror

The latest offering in our Media Mirror section, a public service initiative, is ‘A letter from Lahore for Abhijeet Dipke: We watch with wonder and longing, by Ehtesham Hassan first published in Scroll, India, reproduced with permission.

See our Press Statement: Access is not a threat: A call to lift reciprocal news bans in India and Pakistan.

Please credit the original publication and Global Southasia when sharing or republishing.

A youthful gathering

The Doyens of Peace hosted the second gathering of Southasian youth on 12 August. The program honours Adm. Ramdas, former Chief of Indian Navy, labour rights and peace activist Karamat Ali, and filmmaker Tapan Bose for their lifelong work for peace in Southasia — all initial endorsers of the Southasia Peace Action Network Founding Charter. Participants from across Southasia created 190 videos on the theme ‘Digital Stages – Shared Heritage: Youth Connecting Southasia through Culture and Tech’, streamed at a marathon online session. Watch here.

Thank you for reading our newsletter — we hope you’ll keep coming back for more stories, insights, and inspiration!

With gratitude,

Regina Johnson
Coordinating Editor
Global Southasia (formerly Sapan News)

PERSONAL POLITICAL

By Beena Sarwar / Global Southasia

A few days before his 100th birthday on 30 June this year, Pakistan’s legendary industrialist, educationist and philanthropist Syed Babar Ali granted a rare video interview to freelance journalist Shumaila Khan at his residence in Lahore.

The interview was facilitated by a visitor to Pakistan from India -- Dr. Tarunjit Singh Butalia, who has been engaged in facilitating inter-faith dialogue and building people-to-people connections across the India-Pakistan border for decades.

With roots in Butala village near Gujranwala on the Pakistani side, he is also an honorary envoy for Aitcheson College, whose father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were alumni. Had it not been for the division, he too would have attended this institution, he told me over a call from Lahore, where he was cooking biryani for guests while staying on the College premises.

We had met at the Lahore Literature Festival in February this year during one of his frequent visits to the city. An American passport holder who teaches civil engineering at Ohio State University, he has no issues obtaining a visa to Pakistan despite his Indian origins. This is sadly not the case for most applicants.

A most moving interview

The interview he helped Shumaila with, for BBC Punjabi, was “the most moving” she has ever conducted, she told me over a call, because of how the centenarian remembered Sardar Harcharan Singh Brar, his childhood friend and a former Indian Punjab chief minister and later governor of Haryana and Odisha.

“Politics wasn’t the story,” she said. “Friendship was”.

She was struck by how their friendship “survived everything that should have divided them.”

In the years leading up to the independence and partition of India in 1947, Brar leaned toward the Congress Party while Ali supported the Muslim League.

“We debated politics, but we never allowed disagreements to affect our friendship,” Babar Ali told her.

CAPTION: Babar Ali, interview with Shumaila Khan, BBC Punjabi, published 21 June 2026.

Ali and Brar became friends from their first meeting in third grade at Aitchison College. They remained close while studying there, 1934 to 1943, and then at Government College (now University), Lahore.

“We lived like brothers,” said Babar Ali. “My mother observed purdah, but not from Harcharan.”

More than half a century later, on 10 June 2026, in a powerful symbolic gesture, Babar Ali got their alma mater to name a classroom after Brar. A plaque with his name is fixed outside classroom No.108 of the Senior School; his photograph wearing the college blazer hangs inside.

This friendship “is a source of inspiration for young Pakistanis and Indians who will be the leaders of South Asia of tomorrow,” commented Dr. Butalia.

Brar’s daughter Kanwaljit “Babli” Kaur, 73, traveled from Chandigarh, India, for the inauguration along with her friend Jyoti, and was present at Shumaila’s interview with her ‘chacha’ (uncle) as she calls Ali.

He had honoured her father many times, she told Shumaila.

When Babar Ali built a library in Aitcheson in 1989, he personally called Brar, who was then Chief Minister of Punjab, India, and asked him to inaugurate it -- which Brar did.

Ready to die for Lahore

Brar had earlier attended the Aitchison College centenary celebrations in 1986, along with other alumni from India. “General Zia-ul-Haq invited them all to Islamabad,” recalled Babar Ali, recounting his friend’s words in response to a question from Gen. Zia:

“If I could be certain that after death I would be born again in Lahore, I would be ready to die today.”

He also told Shumaila how his friend got married. “One day at Government College, Harcharan came to me with a newspaper and said, ‘There’s a girl who is a very good athlete, and I want to meet her. We discovered she belonged to a Jat family and was the niece of Sardar Partap Singh Kairon. Her father and uncle were both in prison at the time because of their support for the Congress movement.”

They found someone who could visit the jail and convey a marriage proposal on Harcharan’s behalf. The imprisoned men replied that they would make a decision once they were released. The wedding duly took place afterwards “and we celebrated it,” Ali told Shumaila.

The most emotional moment for Shumaila came when Babli Brar spoke about the relationship between the two families. “If my father was like a parent to us, then Babar Sahib was too.”

She said Babar Ali’s support helped her family to bear Brar’s passing in 2009. Saddened by her call informing him of his friend’s death, Ali accepted her invitation to attend the bhog ceremony that takes place after bereavement.

“When I arrived, there were around eighteen thousand people there,” he told Shumaila. “They asked me to speak first because I had been his closest friend.”

‘How Syed Babar Ali’s Family Adopted Punjab CM Harcharan Singh Brar as Their Fifth Son’ — Jugnu Mohsin and Babli Brar, posted 23 June 2026.

They had been so close that when Brar was going to the U.S. for medical treatment, he asked Babar Ali to go with him, saying he didn’t need any other family members.

Dr. Butalia documented their relationship in an article published in Dawn. Babli Brar also talked about it with the journalist Jugnu Mohsin, Babar Ali’s niece, in a video interview recorded during her last visit to Lahore.

On 3 November 2026, Aitcheson will celebrate its 140th anniversary, expected to be attended by several alumni from India.

Meanwhile, a handful of ‘peacemongers’ set out from Jalandhar, in Punjab, India, on 11 August. Covering a distance of 80 km, they aim to reach Amritsar by 14 August. That night, at midnight 14-15 August they will light candles on their side of the border.

“This is the 31st year that this tradition will take place,” Dr. Sandeep Pandey from Lucknow, one of the organisers, wrote in an email.

Things are very different from when stalwarts like the giant Kuldip Nayar initiated this joint celebration. For the past several years, authorities on either side have not allowed the peacemarchers to see or hear each other at the border.

‘Milne Do’

“Even if we are separated by borders, our shared commitment to peace continues to unite us,” says Saeeda Diep of the Institute for Peace and Secular Studies, Lahore, who has been participating in this annual ceremony for years.

Babar Ali echoed these thoughts in his interview with Shumaila: “The tragedy is that our movement across the border has come to a halt. We speak the same language, share the same food, and have so much in common. But because of restrictions on contact, we are drifting apart.”

He concluded with a simple thought: “Just open the doors, and the very next day people will meet each other again.”

The story of his friendship with Harcharan Brar was not simply a story about two men, says Shumaila. “It was a story about a generation whose lives were reshaped by Partition but who refused to let borders define their relationships.”

“Beneath the politics and tensions, many Pakistanis and Indians still carry a deep curiosity, affection, and sense of connection toward one another,” she commented, reflecting observations she has encountered repeatedly in her reporting.

The friendship between Syed Babar Ali and Harcharan Singh Brar, she said, “felt like a testament to that enduring spirit.”

The restrictions on contact may continue keeping people physically apart but the aspiration to meet remains alive, reflected in the slogan #MilneDo – let people meet.

Beena Sarwar is the founder editor of Global Southasia (formerly Sapan News) syndicated features and has worked on people-to-people contact, peace and dialogue for over three decades. beena@sapannews.com.

This is a Global Southasia syndicated feature available for republication with due credit to sapannews.com.

This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Global Southasia AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word?
Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

By Sola Mahfouz / Global Southasia

“Memory is a spiritual concept!” as the late Russian filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky put it

London-based writer Nayanika Mahtani says that her generation inherited both the memory of Partition and the silence surrounding it. Her young adult novel titled ‘Across The Line’, winner of the South Asia Book Award, 2020, grapples with these issues.

The literary scholar Marianne Hirsch uses the term postmemory to describe this relationship to inherited trauma: The generation after a catastrophe does not remember it directly, but receives it through stories, photographs, behaviors, and emotional atmospheres.

Naynaika Mahtani’s grandparents had lived through the rupture. For them, she told me over a video call recently, it was too immediate to speak about. Her parents’ generation looked forward, concentrating on rebuilding their lives.

“And then came our generation, which has the emotional distance, I think, now, to be able to go back without a coloured vision and see it for what it was and tell the story and reclaim that silence.”

Coming from a politically fractured country like Afghanistan, one form of storytelling I am most drawn to is the moment when a nation’s history enters the quotidian life of an individual, when a political rupture becomes the story of one person’s longing. That, to me, is one of the modern forms of tragedy.

I came to Indian cinema through Afghanistan’s own political rupture. By the end of the Soviet war and the civil war that followed, Afghan cinema had been destroyed twice over: First as an artistic tradition, hollowed out by propaganda and censorship, and then as a physical institution, its theaters, archives, and studios damaged or lost to war.

In 2001, television and entertainment had returned to Afghanistan following years of Taliban rule, after the American invasion. The Afghan entertainment scene, such as it was, often felt like a spectacle of progress performed for Western donors. But for many young people, Indian films and television serials became a window into a wider world of storytelling. Like my siblings and cousins, I began following them. Without knowing when it happened, I learned Hindi and Urdu from them.

Ten years after leaving Afghanistan for the United States, that connection continues, but only very selectively. Of the few filmmakers I still follow, one is Imtiaz Ali.

The official trailer of Imtiaz Ali’s film ‘Main Vaapas Aaunga’, just released on Netflix.

Perhaps that is why Imtiaz Ali’s Main Vaapas Aaunga (I Will Return) moved me so deeply. The film follows 95-year-old Ishar Singh Grewal, known as Keenu, whose stroke and dementia return him to his youth in pre-Partition Sargodha and to Afsana, the Muslim woman he loved and called Jiya.

As his grandson Nirvair tries to piece together these memories, the film moves between the present and a Punjab where Muslims, Sikhs, and Hindus once lived together before political borders hardened their identities and drove millions from their homes.

Though the film is framed through one man’s memory, it evokes a much larger history through fragments.

“Memory is not black and white,” says Nayanika Mahtani, who co-wrote the film. “It’s a reconstruction.”

The film places these private memories within a much wider body of testimony. Nayanika Mahtani said that she and Imtiaz Ali conducted interviews and consulted oral histories in India and Pakistan, drawing on The Citizens Archive of Pakistan, the Partition Museum in Amritsar, and the Stanford-linked 1947 Partition Archive.

The Sargodha of the film is also the Sargodha of her family before Partition. The details of Keenu and Jiya’s world came from memories carried within her own family.

Small details in the movie originate from Nayanika Mahtani’s personal memories. The ‘chand bali’, the moon-shaped earring, for example, came from an earring she herself had once lost. Imtiaz Ali transformed it: “He used it as a recurring motif, which basically became this call to a time of innocence, just not letting go of the past, and how that can keep you afloat, even when you know it’s unattainable.”

This is how a lost earring became a vessel for an entire vanished world.

The title itself comes from Keenu’s scream from the top of a moving train carrying him to India, a promise to the love he left on the other side of the new border.

He wants to return home, but home is really the love he left behind: a memory that once gave him comfort and has now become a source of torture. He cannot return to either Jiya or Sargodha. Both are unattainable.

In this way, what began with the absurd decision of a British lawyer drawing a border becomes a lifelong tragedy for ordinary people. Nayanika told me that her grandparents never blamed the people who had once been their neighbors for the violence; they were not the ones engaged in it. “It was orchestrated. It was political.”

Parts of the film are hard to watch. They made me cry and left me reflecting. But still, as each fragment of memory unfolded, I wanted to cross into the screen and remain with the characters before Partition, to stay a little longer in their happy times.

The film moves with sorrowful beauty between the present and the past. Though it is about Partition, it remains relevant today. Then, as now, millions were displaced, leaving their homes on one side of the border for the other, a double tragedy on both sides.

Our present world is still filled with such tragedies. The final song turns directly toward these human experiences. The end credits share the words of an anonymous refugee:

“If I had a choice between leaving my home and dying, I would have gladly chosen death. Unfortunately, I did not have such a choice.”

There is something beautiful about the way art can complete an unfinished conversation, while also using it to engage with the present. I often ask myself: What responsibility do we have towards those who have suffered or are suffering?

Nayanika Mahtani said that when she watched the rough cut alone in Imtiaz Ali’s office, “I felt like my grandparents were sitting with me. I felt like they were there with me.”

She felt that something had finally been said between them.

“I think I came to do this,” she said. “That was my responsibility. That was what I came for.”

But by the end of the movie, the responsibility passes from the artists to the audience. The final song is an imploring, a plea, to embrace the whole shared earth. Ultimately, the film reminds us that human love is what unites us, and that we must keep searching for it, no matter how great the hatred dividing us becomes.

Main Vaapas Aaunga was released in theaters on 12 June, 2026 and has recently been released on Netflix.

End credits

Sola Mahfouz is an Afghan writer living in Boston, drawn to the voice beneath the fractures of existence. A voracious reader of global voices that reflect the multiplicity of human experience, she writes to give shape to what resists expression -- what language forgets but the soul remembers. She is currently working on her first historical novel set in Afghanistan.

This is a Global Southasia (formerly Sapan News) syndicated feature available for republication with due credit to sapannews.com.

This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Global Southasia AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word?
Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

Event alert: Sunday 30 August – The Southasia Peace Action Network will host a conversation titled: ‘Home, love, loss... and ‘dosti’ (friendship), with Nayanika Mahtani, co-writer of the acclaimed film ‘Mein Vaapas Aaunga’ (I will Return), artist Salima Hashmi, author of the memoir ‘Waiting in the Wings / Enter Stage Left’ (2025), and Urvashi Butalia, author of ‘The Other Side of Silence: Voices from the Partition of India’ (1999).

Time: 9 am ET / 6 pm Pk / 6.30 pm India/ 6:45 pm Nepal/ 7 pm Bangladesh.

Register here for Zoom session

Or watch live at YouTube.com/southasiapeace

By Mayank Chhaya / Sapan News

It was a typically hot September day in 1982 in Hyderabad, Pakistan. The Niaz Stadium was agog with excitement as the country’s cricket team was playing against their Australian counterparts in the first of a series of three one-day international (ODI) matches.

Pakistan had batted first and scored 229 runs, losing six wickets in the allotted 40 overs. Australian openers Brian Laird and Graham Wood gave their team a strong start scoring more than 100 runs in partnership. However, soon enough, a 23-year old named Jalal-ud-Din had caught out Wood, bowled by Tauseef Ahmad and that began a steady collapse with the Jalal-ud-Din bowling, claiming the prized wicket of Allan Border as his first.

For the young pacer who had made his international cricket debut barely six months earlier, for Jalal-ud-Din to take Border’s wicket was an impressive feat given Border’s formidable reputation as a batsman (They were called batsmen then. Now the gender-neutral term is batters).

A historic hat-trick

But for Jalal-ud-Din something more historic was in store.

Next, he clean bowled the wicket-keeper Rodney Marsh. And in the very next ball, he had Bruce Yardly caught behind. By that second wicket, Jalal-ud-Din was on the cusp of a hat-trick – taking three wickets, getting three batsmen out consecutively.

The third ball from Jalal-ud-Din whizzed past Geoff Lawson’s bat and uprooted the stumps.

Chicago-based journalist Mayank Chhaya chats with renowned cricketer Jalal-ud-Din and the future of the sport in the U.S.

Leaping in the air, exulting over his three wickets, Jalal-ud-Din did not know then that this was the first instance of a hat-trick in ODI history.

As Jalal-ud-Din looks back at that performance nearly four- and-a- half decades ago, he breaks into a gentle smile. “When you take the first wicket you cannot think that you are going to do a hat-trick,” he says, talking to Sapan News over a video call from Karachi where he is currently training local talent.

When Jalal-ud-Din claimed the second wicket on the second ball with the wicket keeper Wasim Bari catching a nick from Yardly, there was some anticipation in his mind about what could be. “After the second wicket, excitement built up,” he says.

“Normally, I used to bowl outswing, but the next ball came in quickly and kept low,” he says. That beat Lawson’s bat.

Jalal-ud-Din says when a bowler is on a hat-trick the captain of the team would normally set an attacking field, but Zaheer Abbas did not. Abbas, the Pakistan captain, kept a normal field.

“I felt that there should have been more effort since I was on a hat-trick. But it was a combination of my effort and luck that paid off,” he says.

He also remembers without any overt dismay that he was more excited at his hat-trick than his teammates seemed to be. No one seemed particularly excited. It was only later that they learnt that Jalal-ud-Din had taken the first hat-trick in ODI history.

Since retiring, and particularly in the last 20 years Jalal-ud-Din has gone on to become a Level IV qualified cricket coach training both young boys and girls across the United States as well as in Pakistan. He runs the Smart Choice National Cricket Academy (SCNCA), training facility in Houston, Texas, while also traveling frequently to Pakistan to impart training there. Apart from aspiring cricketers, Jalal-ud-Din also trains coaches.

His freelance coaching assignments have taken him to Seattle, Michigan, and Dallas among other cities across the U.S. He began small soon after 2020 when he was appointed a selector for the southwest zone, one of the six cricket zones in America.

Cricket in America?

Over the years he has noticed an uptick in the interest in the game not just as a sport but even as a potential career.

Overall, he is optimistic about the future of cricket in America. A caveat is that several factors need to converge before the sport can gain any kind of popularity comparable to football and basketball.

One challenge is lack of infrastructure. Another is that U.S. Cricket, the organizing body under the International Cricket Council (ICC), does not have enough funds. That means cricket at the grassroots level is not well organized. There is no regular domestic cricket. The U.S. team invites a group of 20-25 players, conducts a camp and then makes a selection, he told Sapan News.

Jalal-ud-Din points out that the selection is not made based on performance in domestic cricket, unlike the major cricket-playing countries which have thriving domestic cricket leagues and matches which take place throughout the year.

Another factor which weighs down the growth of the sport in America is that it is expatriate players from India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh who play much of the cricket here.

Documentary film ‘Leg Before Wicket’ (2008) by Shashi Buluswar.

Ironically, Pakistan and India today barely even have cricketing ties.

The fact that mainstream Americans do not participate in almost any number is a greatly inhibiting factor, says Jalal-ud-Din.

“Also, there is no cricket in schools. That is also a problem,” he adds. In his analysis, unless cricket becomes part of school sports which children of non-Southasian backgrounds also pursue, it is unlikely to become a nationally followed game.

“When they have cricket in schools as well as proper domestic cricket season, they will see growth,” he says.

Jalal-ud-Din is particularly looking forward to how the inclusion of the sport in the 2028 Los Angeles Olympics will boost its popularity among Americans.

“From what I understand, the U.S. government spends money only on those sports which are part of the Olympics. If after the LA Olympics, the government spends on infrastructure, it will have a positive effect,” he says.

In terms of which form of cricket will work well in the U.S., he suggests to begin with, it will have to be the T20 format the duration of which is similar to other major sports such as football and basketball. Test cricket, which lasts five days and which is the core of all serious cricket-playing countries, may have few takers in America. He does not not see any prospect for that format in the near future.

He says that efforts are underway to get U.S. cricket to qualify for Test cricket by 2030. “When you become a Test playing country, you get funds. What the ICC gives U.S. Cricket is for the development of the game. Those funds are not enough to manage a country as big as the U.S. A major chunk of the current funds goes toward paying salaries of foreigners who are part of that system,” he says.

The big picture, he believes, is to create high visibility for cricket which young Americans can watch and get inspired by. If all these factors are managed well, there is no better place to promote cricket than in America, he believes.

This country has a long history of scaling sports to very high levels of success from the standpoint of not just the sports themselves but also their commercial value and viewership.

End credits

Mayank Chhaya is a Chicago-based journalist and writer. He is also a painter. Email: mcsix@outlook.com.

This is a Sapan News syndicated feature available for republication with due credit https://www.sapannews.com.

This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Sapan News AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word?
Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

Intro

The continued expansion of civilian nuclear programmes in India, Pakistan and now Bangladesh deserves careful democratic scrutiny — not because civilian reactors are equivalent to nuclear weapons, but because they enlarge the broader nuclear enterprise requiring stringent security, regulation and long-term stewardship.

By Soumya Dutta / Sapan News

In my three decades of experience as an environmental activist - including in the field of energy, covering nuclear issues for over 16 years, I have rarely seen our region as close to a nuclear flashpoint as it is today.

Southasia today stands at a critical crossroads. India and Pakistan possess growing nuclear arsenals, have fought multiple wars since independence, and continue to experience periodic military crises.

China, rapidly expanding its nuclear capabilities, has become an increasingly influential strategic partner of Pakistan, while India has steadily deepened its defence and strategic partnerships with the United States and its allies.

Meanwhile, Bangladesh is entering the nuclear age through the Russian-built Rooppur Nuclear Power Plant, making three Southasian nations operators of commercial nuclear power reactors.

From a science-based anti-nuclear perspective, these developments cannot be viewed in isolation.

I have seen and done basic studies of the impacts of nuclear fuel cycle in some of India’s nuclear fuel chain operations -- notably around the Uranium mines in Jadugoda in Jharkhand and Tummalapalle in Andhra Pradesh (the oldest and newest uranium mines in India), and the nuclear power plants at Tarapur and Rawatbhata.

These experiences of societal exposure to a “comparably much milder “ nuclear one sends shivers when imagining a feared massive scale-up in case of a nuclear confrontation in our region.

Roz-e- Qaza: Hibakusha Ki Aapbeeti (The Last Day: Story of a Hibakusha), docu-drama by Aisha Gazdar, Films D’Art, 2003.

Civilian nuclear power and nuclear weapons are not exactly the same technology, and it would be inaccurate to claim that every civilian reactor contributes directly to weapons production. Nevertheless, they share large sections -- important parts of the nuclear fuel cycle, scientific expertise, infrastructure and radioactive and fissile materials. As civilian nuclear programmes expand, so do the quantities of fissile and highly radioactive materials requiring secure handling for decades, sometimes even centuries.

In recent years, global scientific and security assessments have become increasingly alarmed by the cumulative direction of these trends. The Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists has repeatedly moved the Doomsday Clock closer to midnight, reflecting the growing convergence of nuclear risks, geopolitical tensions, and climate instability.

In its most recent assessments, the Clock stands closer to midnight than at any point since its creation, underscoring that the probability of catastrophic nuclear escalation is no longer a distant theoretical concern but an intensifying present danger. Southasia, as one of the most densely populated nuclear flashpoints on Earth, sits directly within this tightening arc of global risk.

In a region already marked by geopolitical rivalry, climate stress and unresolved territorial disputes, this expanding nuclear landscape deserves far greater public scrutiny.

Under the shadow of nuclear war

India and Pakistan have fought four wars since 1947 and experienced numerous other military confrontations, despite both becoming declared nuclear weapon states in 1998. Crises such as Kargil in 1999, the 2001–02 military mobilisation, the 2019 Balakot episode and the 2025 confrontation following the Pahalgam attack illustrate how rapidly small conventional conflicts can escalate between nuclear-armed neighbours.

According to the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute (SIPRI), both India and Pakistan continue to modernise their nuclear arsenals and delivery systems. Their relatively short missile flight times leave little room for political leaders to verify information or prevent accidental escalation during a crisis.

The danger extends well beyond Southasia itself. Studies led by atmospheric scientists and climate researchers Alan Robock, Owen Toon, Lili Xia and colleagues -- while criticized as over projection -- have shown that even a limited regional nuclear war involving a fraction of the existing arsenals could inject millions of tonnes of soot into the upper atmosphere.

The resulting reduction in sunlight could cool the planet slightly, disrupt rainfall, shorten growing seasons and threaten global food production for a few years. That will be very challenging to deal with in our heavily climate change-impacted region. The International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War (IPPNW) has warned that hundreds of millions of people worldwide could face food insecurity following such a conflict.

In other words, there is no such thing as a purely regional nuclear war.

The Doomsday Clock’s movement closer to midnight reflects precisely this reality : that the combination of nuclear modernisation, geopolitical mistrust, and reduced diplomatic guardrails is steadily eroding the margin for error. In Southasia, where decision times in a crisis may be measured in minutes, this shrinking buffer becomes especially dangerous.

Civilian nuclear power

Supporters of nuclear (fission) energy argue that civilian nuclear power should not be linked with nuclear weapons. Technically, they are correct -- commercial power reactors are designed to produce electricity, not bombs. Most civilian reactors operate using either non-enriched (PHWRs in India) or low-enriched uranium (LWRs) that cannot be directly used in nuclear weapons.

However, the broader nuclear fuel cycle contains technologies and materials that have dual-use characteristics. These include uranium mining, uranium conversion, enrichment technology, fuel fabrication, reactor operations, spent fuel management, plutonium-bearing spent fuel, reprocessing technologies and specialised nuclear engineering expertise.

The International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) maintains extensive safeguards precisely because these technologies require rigorous international oversight. Reactor-grade plutonium produced in commercial reactors is generally not the preferred material for modern nuclear weapons because of its isotopic composition. Nevertheless, technical studies, including those cited by the International Panel on Fissile Materials (IPFM), recognise that reactor-grade plutonium is technically capable of being used in a nuclear explosive device, although doing so presents substantially greater engineering challenges than using weapons-grade plutonium.

The issue, therefore, is not that civilian reactors automatically become weapons programmes. Rather, expansion of civilian nuclear infrastructure inevitably increases the volume of sensitive nuclear materials, radioactive waste and specialised facilities that must remain securely protected throughout their operating lifetimes and long after reactor closure.

In a world where the Doomsday Clock is already positioned alarmingly close to midnight, even incremental increases in the global stockpile of fissile materials and high-consequence infrastructure add to the systemic risk burden that humanity collectively carries.

Bangladesh enters the fray

The near completion of Bangladesh’s Rooppur Nuclear Power Plant represents a significant strategic development for Southasia.

Constructed with Russian assistance and operating under IAEA safeguards, Rooppur is expected to provide ‘low-carbon electricity’ for Bangladesh; Russia has agreed to take back much of the spent nuclear fuel under existing arrangements.

Even so, Bangladesh will become responsible for operating complex nuclear installations, maintaining nuclear security, training specialised personnel and managing radioactive materials throughout the plant’s lifetime.

For environmental groups, Rooppur symbolises the continued expansion of the nuclear enterprise into one of the world’s most densely populated and climate-vulnerable regions. In a global context where the Doomsday Clock signals rising existential risk, adding new nuclear infrastructure in fragile geopolitical environments raises further questions about long-term cumulative safety and governance capacity.

The SHANTI Act

India’s recent amendments to its nuclear energy framework through the SHANTI (Sustainable Harnessing and Advancement of Nuclear Energy for Transforming India) Act have generated significant debate among scientists, legal experts and environmental organisations.

Supporters argue that greater private-sector participation can accelerate reactor construction, attract investment, improve manufacturing capability and help India meet its clean-energy and energy-security objectives.

Opponents raise a different set of concerns: Expanding private participation could increase the number of companies (many private profit-centric) involved in manufacturing, transporting, constructing and servicing components within the nuclear sector. While nuclear materials would continue to remain subject to government control and regulatory oversight, a larger commercial ecosystem may complicate regulation, physical security, emergency preparedness and long-term accountability.

I am not claiming that the SHANTI Act itself will lead to nuclear weapons proliferation. Civilian facilities remain governed by India’s atomic energy legislation and applicable IAEA safeguards where relevant.

Nevertheless, enlarging the commercial nuclear industry inevitably increases the scale of sensitive infrastructure and radioactive materials requiring continuous oversight.

From this perspective, the principal concern is not immediate proliferation but the gradual expansion of long-term nuclear risk in pursuit of commercial profit, at a time when global risk indicators — including the Doomsday Clock — are already signalling heightened vulnerability.

Escalation risks

The suspension of cooperation under aspects of the Indus Waters Treaty following the 2025 Pahalgam attack introduced another potentially destabilising factor into India-Pakistan relations.

Pakistan depends overwhelmingly on the Indus river system for agriculture, drinking water and hydropower. Although India currently possesses limited infrastructure to significantly alter river flows on a large scale, the political symbolism surrounding water has heightened strategic mistrust.

Climate change further amplifies these risks. Himalayan glaciers are retreating, extreme rainfall events are becoming more frequent, devastating floods continue to affect both countries and prolonged droughts are increasing. Water insecurity is therefore becoming increasingly intertwined with national security.

When military rivalry, climate stress and water disputes converge, the risks of political miscalculation inevitably grow. In a world already judged by leading scientific institutions to be approaching unprecedented levels of existential risk, such regional stressors do not remain local; they compound global instability.

New strategic competition

Southasia’s nuclear future cannot be understood without recognising broader geopolitical competition.

China remains Pakistan’s principal strategic partner, providing military assistance, supporting civilian nuclear projects and maintaining close diplomatic coordination. India, meanwhile, has strengthened strategic cooperation with the United States, Japan, Australia and several European partners through Indo-Pacific security initiatives.

Each side interprets the other’s partnerships through the lens of national security, creating a classic security dilemma. Actions intended by one country to enhance deterrence are perceived by others as threats requiring further military modernisation.

This competitive dynamic fuels both conventional and nuclear arms races, reinforcing the very conditions that have contributed to the Doomsday Clock’s movement closer to midnight.

A different energy future

None of these concerns imply that nuclear power provides no benefits. Nuclear reactors generate electricity with ‘relatively low operational carbon emissions’ and can contribute to reducing fossil fuel dependence.

However, there are valid arguments that rapidly declining costs of solar energy, wind power, battery storage, modern electricity grids, energy efficiency and demand-side management now offer safer and cheaper pathways towards decarbonisation without continuously expanding inventories of fissile materials and highly radioactive waste.

Southasia possesses exceptional renewable energy resources. Investing more heavily in decentralised renewable systems could simultaneously improve energy access, reduce greenhouse gas emissions and avoid many of the long-term environmental, security and waste-management challenges associated with nuclear expansion.

In a period when global scientific consensus is warning — through instruments like the Doomsday Clock — that humanity is edging closer to systemic catastrophe, energy choices cannot be separated from questions of existential risk management.

Southasia today combines nearly every ingredient associated with nuclear risk: historical conflicts, unresolved territorial disputes, expanding nuclear arsenals, climate change, water insecurity and intensifying geopolitical rivalry.

Against this backdrop, the continued expansion of civilian nuclear programmes in India, Pakistan and now Bangladesh deserves careful democratic scrutiny — not because civilian reactors are equivalent to nuclear weapons, but because they enlarge the broader nuclear enterprise requiring stringent security, regulation and long-term stewardship.

The scientific evidence assembled by organisations such as IPPNW, SIPRI, the IAEA and the IPFM demonstrates both the catastrophic humanitarian consequences of nuclear war and the complexity of managing nuclear materials safely. The Doomsday Clock’s movement closer to midnight further reinforces the urgency of these warnings, highlighting that the world is operating with shrinking margins for error.

The most durable path to regional security lies not simply in stronger deterrence, but in renewed diplomacy, arms-control measures, confidence-building between neighbours and restoration of cooperative water governance.

We need accelerated investment in renewable energy and a long-term commitment to reducing the role of nuclear technologies in one of the world’s most densely populated and climate-vulnerable regions.

End credits

Soumya Dutta is a trustee of MAUSAM (Movement for Advancing Understanding of Sustainability And Mutuality), an executive member of Friends of the Earth India, a former advisory board member of the UN Climate Technology Centre and Network, and a member of the national working group of National Alliance of People’s Movements. He was the founding co-convener of South Asian People’s Action on Climate Crisis, former board chair of Green Peace Environment Trust, advisor to Indian Community Activists’ Network and National Platform for Small Scale Fish Workers, and founding organising secretary of Bharat Jan Vigyan Jatha. He is also a founding member of India Climate Justice, and a former Ashoka Fellow.

08 August 2026: Corrected sentence: 'These experiences of societal exposure to a "comparably much milder " nuclear one sends shivers when imagining a feared massive scale-up in case of a nuclear confrontation in our region' (the word "confrontation" replacing "contribution").

This is a Sapan News syndicated feature available for republication with due credit https://www.sapannews.com.

This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Sapan News AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word?
Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

By Beena Sarwar / Sapan News

BOSTON: As India and Pakistan get ready to mark their respective Independence Days, the families of imprisoned fisherpeople on either side of the border along with various organisations have jointly written to the Prime Ministers of India and Pakistan demanding “the immediate release and repatriation of all imprisoned fisherpeople who have completed their sentences and nationality verification” as a goodwill and humanitarian gesture.

The letter also calls for accountability for continued detentions despite completion of prison sentences, which is in violation of the bilateral Agreement on Consular Access, 2008.

Section 5 of the Agreement categorically states: “Both Governments agree to release and repatriate persons within one month of confirmation of their national status and completion of sentences.”

“Unfortunately, this provision has not been implemented in letter and spirit,” says a press statement issued jointly on Friday by the Pakistan-India Peoples’ Forum for Peace and Democracy (PIPFPD), the National Fishworkers Forum, the Pakistan Fisherfolk Forum and families of Imprisoned Fisherpeople.

The letter urges both governments to implement mechanisms to prevent such delays in the future, and to pursue a ‘No Arrest Policy’ for fisherpeople who inadvertently cross the maritime boundary while pursuing their livelihoods. This is something that activists have long been calling for.

The number of arrests have declined significantly over the past couple of years -- nearly 750 fisherfolk were imprisoned in jails across Pakistan and India in April 2023.

The statement suggests that this is because “fisherpeople avoid going towards the International Maritime Boundary Line to catch fish”.

According to the press statement there are “shocking” stories about Indian fisherpeople arrested by Pakistan and vice versa.

“Their prolonged incarceration deprives them and their family members of basic human rights and causes severe hardship to their families,” subjecting them to “ economic and emotional distress,” says the statement, urging that the arrest and detention of fisherpeople be viewed from a humanitarian perspective.

As many as 198 Indian fisherpeople are currently imprisoned in Pakistan, including 178 who have completed their sentences but continue to remain in custody, according to the data released in the statement.

“Every year, an estimated four to five Indian fisherpeople die while imprisoned in Pakistan. In March last year, an Indian fisherperson also died by suicide in prison,” says the statement.

10 August 2026: Intro updated to correct the number of Indian fisherpeople detained in Pakistan, 178 (not 78).

A Sapan News syndicated report available for republication with due credit to sapannews.com

Personal essay

By Ahktar Shah / Sapan News

The early 1990s were a turbulent chapter for Pakistan, marked by deep political uncertainty and renewed military tensions with India.

Democracy was attempting to find its footing in the aftermath of the military dictator General Ziaul Haq’s death in a mysterious C-130 mid-air explosion of 1988. Although Benazir Bhutto was in office, many believed that the challenges facing the country extended far beyond the capacity of any single government.

Cut to the night of August 17, 1990, the second death anniversary of General Zia. As was customary in those days, after work, I went to a friend’s place where several of us would gather in the evenings. This was near Faisal Mosque, Islamabad, where the remains of Gen. Zia was buried.

Our gathering that evening featured the usual spirited discussions, accompanied by a generous measure of liquid refreshments. Afterwards, as everyone headed home, I made my way to the taxi stand.

Ordinarily, several drivers would be waiting for us, familiar with our routines and departure times. That evening, however, the city was unusually crowded. Thousands had gathered to commemorate General Zia’s death anniversary at the Faisal Mosque. Supporters from across the country, Pashtuns, Punjabis, Afghans, and many others, had descended upon Islamabad, filling the streets and public spaces.

To my surprise, the taxi stand was deserted. Not a single cab was available. Instead, it was occupied by groups of visitors attending commemorative events. For a moment, I considered returning to my friend’s house. Just then, a passing taxi slowed down, and I heard someone call out my surname: “Shah-jee!”

It was one of the regular drivers from the stand. Relieved, I greeted him and climbed aboard, only to discover that I had joined a shared ride. Besides the driver, three other passengers occupied the back seat. They were returning to Rawalpindi after attending the day’s commemorations for the departed dictator.

The vehicle itself was a weary old Morris Minor, whose mechanical sounds often seemed to possess a personality of their own. After exchanging greetings, we began our journey toward Rawalpindi. Before long, the conversation turned to politics, a perfectly ordinary occurrence in Pakistan, where political discussions can emerge anywhere, from drawing rooms to tea stalls and, apparently, shared taxis.

The topic of the evening was the familiar one: Tensions with India. Troops were facing each other across the border in yet another military standoff.

The atmosphere inside the cab quickly transformed into an impromptu strategic forum. One passenger after another argued passionately that the time had come to teach India a lesson. The Soviet Union had recently withdrawn from Afghanistan, and in their minds, victory over one superpower had paved the way for confronting another regional rival.

The enthusiasm was intense. Each speaker seemed determined to outdo the previous one in patriotic fervour. I chose to remain silent, partly because I was in no condition to contribute eloquently and partly because silence often provides the best seat from which to observe.

Meanwhile, the driver had become so engrossed in the debate that he frequently turned around to address the passengers instead of watching the road. Every time he slowed down to make a point, the aging Morris responded with alarming mechanical protests. The engine hummed, rattled, and groaned in apparent disagreement with both the driver’s politics and his driving technique.

As the journey progressed, I learned that the passengers were Kashmiris and not Afghans, as I had initially assumed. Their discussion became increasingly animated as we crossed the elevated roads near Islamabad’s H-9 sector. Eventually, the driver noticed my prolonged silence.

“Shah-jee,” he asked, “You haven’t said a word. What do you think?”

Everyone fell silent and turned toward me, expecting confirmation of their views.

Instead, I offered a different perspective.

“I don’t think we can afford a war,” I said. “Both countries possess nuclear capabilities. Things are no longer as simple as they once were.”

The reaction was immediate.

To the others, my caution sounded like weakness. They dismissed my concerns and accused me of lacking courage. One particularly enthusiastic young man challenged me directly.

“What if nuclear weapons are used?” he asked. “We will die anyway. Are you afraid of death?”

It was a classic no-win situation. Any answer would simply provide fresh ammunition for further ridicule.

Then an idea occurred to me.

“You’ve misunderstood nuclear weapons,” I replied with complete seriousness. “They don’t kill you. They make you impotent for the rest of your life.”

The effect was extraordinary.

The heated hypernationalism debate vanished instantly. Silence descended upon the cab. For several moments, the only sound was the steady hum of the Morris Minor’s engine.

Finally, after a long pause, the driver broke the silence.

“War is a terrible thing,” he said thoughtfully.

And with that, the argument was over.

The remainder of the journey passed in remarkable peace. No more strategic analyses. No more declarations of glory. No more enthusiastic calls for conflict.

That evening taught me an important lesson. Convincing extremists to reconsider their positions is sometimes possible. When logic fails, ideology fails, and patriotism fails, it may take identifying the one concern that speaks directly to their most treasured self-interest.

As it turned out, the psychology of war could be surprisingly complex — but the psychology of men was often remarkably simple.

End Credits

Akhtar Shah started career as advertising agency illustrator in 1982 from Lahore, joined Muslim newspaper in 1986-87 as editorial cartoonist, moved to the News in 1994 as its editorial cartoonist and remained there till retirement in 2016, started writing memoirs and brief writeup a short period back.

This is a Sapan News syndicated feature available for republication with due credit https://www.sapannews.com.

This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Sapan News AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word?
Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

By Azra Syed / Sapan News

I have visited both Mohenjo-daro and Harappa, two of the great urban centres of the Indus Civilisation, located in present-day Pakistan. Standing among their brick ruins, I was struck by how much had survived in material form — and how much of the human life once lived there remains beyond our reach.

Years later, watching Omar Khan’s documentary Mohenjo-daro: Unsealing an Ancient Indus City returned me to that tension: How much an ancient city can reveal, and how much it continues to withhold.

Mohenjo daro: Unsealing an Ancient Indus City documentary

Bricks endure. Drains can be mapped. Seals can be catalogued. Metal objects can be preserved and displayed. We can trace evidence of trade, craftsmanship and organised urban life. However, it does not always tell us who performed which tasks, how labour was divided, who controlled resources, or how authority operated inside homes and communities.

Affection, fear, domestic labour, negotiation, aspiration and resistance rarely leave orderly evidence. And when we ask about the women who inhabited those streets and homes, certainty gives way to silence.

An online session hosted by the Southasia Peace Action Network recently brought filmmaker Omar Khan into conversation with Sudeshna Guha, a historian of the archaeology of the Indus Civilisation, and author and poet Sehba Sarwar.

Dancer and activist Sheema Kermani in Karachi, Lahore-based artist and educator Salima Hashmi joining from Sri Lanka, Indian peace activist Lalita Ramdas, feminist Khushi Kabir in Dhaka, and Nepali journalist Namrata Sharma were among the participants who offered comments.

The discussion moved through Mohenjo-daro’s urban planning, the still-undeciphered Indus script, debates about its decline, and the danger of projecting modern national identities onto a civilisation that predates India and Pakistan.

The Southasia Peace Action Network 26 July discussion on Harappa Films’ award-winning documentary ‘Mohenjo daro: Unsealing an Ancient Indus City’ Moderated by Beena Sarwar with speakers: Omar Khan, Sudeshna Guha, and Sehba Sarwar

The temptation to let Mohenjo-daro and Harappa’s surviving architecture speak for the whole civilisation is understandable but that cannot easily reveal who held authority within its homes, whose labour sustained daily life, or whose choices were respected.

I kept returning to another question: What do we know about the women who lived there?

The honest answer is that we do not know.

That uncertainty is one of the documentary’s strengths. It distinguishes what the archaeological record reveals from what it continues to withhold. Sometimes, what we cannot recover from history is as revealing as what survives.

A body interpreted by others

The small bronze figure known as the ‘Dancing Girl’—a label coined by archaeologist John Marshall after Ernest Mackay unearthed the figure at Mohenjo-daro in 1926—is among the most recognisable objects associated with the Indus Civilisation.

She stands with one hand on her hip and one arm covered in bangles. Her posture has been described as confident, defiant and self-assured. Yet even her familiar name is an interpretation. We do not know if she was a dancer, or whether she represents a real person, a performer, a worker, a deity or an artistic imagination.

Generations of archaeologists, historians, governments, artists and members of the public have projected meanings onto her.

That urge to interpret — and sometimes control — her body came to the fore when an altered image appeared in a new Indian school arts textbook. The figurine’s bare torso had been shaded over, making her appear clothed. Criticism from historians and academics led to India’s National Council of Educational Research and Training announcing on 16 June 2026 that the original image would be restored in the digital edition and in future printings.

The controversy was about more than a textbook illustration. A body cast in bronze thousands of years ago had been subjected to the moral anxieties of the present. Someone had decided that the past itself needed to be made more “appropriate” for contemporary eyes.

This is where visibility meets autonomy. A woman’s body may be highly visible, but not on her own terms. Others name it, interpret it, judge it, cover it and decide what it is permitted to signify.

Autonomy is not only freedom from physical restraint. It is the power to define oneself, make choices, control one’s body and labour, claim resources, participate in decisions and be recognised as a full social actor rather than a symbol belonging to others.

We do not know whether women in Mohenjo-daro possessed such autonomy. But the controversy surrounding the bronze figure shows how readily authorities claim the power to define a female body.

Sehba Sarwar’s poem, ‘you live within us / mohenjodaro’s girl’, addresses the figurine as one who tells ‘the truth of women’s strength and resistance’. Sheema Kermani noted that the figurine’s posture opens a dance performance initially choreographed by her teacher, Guru Ghanshyam, which she later carried forward. Salima Hashmi invoked Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s English poem The Unicorn and the Dancing Girl, reflecting on Mohenjo-daro’s timelessness: “Time past is time present… we are so privileged to be in the continuum of that time.”

Their contributions moved the conversation from archaeology to art, memory and the ways an ancient female body continues to be interpreted, covered, reclaimed and brought to life in the present.

They also prompted a deeper question: While we debate the covering of one part of one ancient woman’s body, what about the countless women whose entire lives have disappeared?

Beyond the famous figurine

The ‘Dancing Girl’ is visible because bronze survived. Yet the absence of comparable evidence about other women does not mean they were absent from the civilisation, nor does it prove that they were oppressed, powerful or equal. Absence of evidence cannot responsibly be converted into evidence for whichever version of the past we prefer.

This does not mean women were absent from the civilisation. Nor does it prove that they were oppressed, powerful or equal. Absence of evidence cannot responsibly be converted into evidence for whichever version of the past we prefer.

Ancient civilisations are often recruited to validate modern political positions. Some imagine a lost golden age of gender equality. Others project contemporary ideas about modesty, hierarchy, religion or family order backwards onto people who cannot answer us.

Both approaches make the past serve the politics of the present.

A gender-conscious reading should not manufacture a feminist civilisation for which we lack evidence, nor assume that today’s restrictions existed in the same form thousands of years ago. It should ask why some forms of human experience are easier to recover than others.

The greatness of an ancient city is often measured by celebrating those who planned streets, engineered water systems, standardised weights and constructed public buildings.

But a civilisation is not sustained by engineering alone. It also depends upon the repetitive, intimate and frequently unrecorded work of keeping people alive: preparing food, raising children, producing clothing, maintaining living spaces, sharing knowledge and caring for those who are ill, elderly or vulnerable.

Across many societies, much of this labour has been assigned to women. We cannot assume that Mohenjo-daro followed the same arrangements. But the wider historical pattern helps explain why caring and domestic labour has so often been undervalued in accounts of political and economic achievement.

The question is not simply whether women appear in history. It is how they appear—and whether they are granted authority over their own meaning.

Are they recognised as historical actors or displayed as decorative figures? Do we encounter them as workers, thinkers, creators and decision-makers—or as symbols onto which ideas of beauty, purity, shame and civilisation are projected?

The male figure known as the ‘Priest-King’ is also surrounded by uncertainty. We do not know whether he was either a priest or a king. Yet the masculine title grants him religious and political authority, while the female figure is identified through her body and presumed performance.

One is imagined as governing.

The other is imagined as dancing.

The contrast may reveal less about the social order of Mohenjo-daro than about our own habit of assigning authority to men and embodiment to women.

A history older than borders

The Indus Civilisation cannot be contained within one modern national story. It flourished across areas now divided between Pakistan and India, long before either state existed.

The Sapan gathering reflected that shared inheritance: a filmmaker from Pakistan, a historian from India, and artists, activists and participants across Southasia* and its diaspora discussing a civilisation that predates the borders separating us.

Archaeology can become another territory over which nations compete — whose civilisation, whose artefact, whose dance, whose history?

Mohenjo-daro offers Southasia an opportunity to look backwards without dividing the past into national possessions, and to recognise that the region’s cultural memory is older and more interconnected than its states.

The Indus script remains undeciphered. We cannot read the words its people used to describe themselves, or know what they called their city, their political arrangements or the bronze figure that now travels through museums, textbooks, films, poetry and dance.

That uncertainty should produce humility. Responsible public history must distinguish evidence from interpretation and interpretation from imagination. Artists can enter those silences differently: A poem or dance performance need not claim to reconstruct an Indus woman’s life but can ask what an ancient object awakens in the present.

Perhaps that is why the ‘Dancing Girl’ remains so compelling. She cannot explain herself, while archaeologists, textbook editors, historians, nationalists, poets, dancers and journalists attempt to explain her.

Mohenjo-daro also asks how future generations will understand us.

Will they encounter women mainly through laws passed about them, crimes committed against them, images circulated of them and arguments conducted over their bodies? Or will they find women’s own journalism, scholarship, testimony, organising, art and accounts of everyday life?

Across Southasia, women continue to be treated as bearers of family honour, religious identity, cultural authenticity and national pride. Their autonomy is often treated not as their own, but as territory over which families, communities and institutions claim authority.

Visibility alone is not liberation. A woman may be highly visible as an image, controversy, victim or symbol, while remaining unseen as a complete human being with knowledge, judgement and the right to define her own life.

The answer is not to make assumptions about the women of Mohenjo-daro, but to recognise the silence surrounding them — and ensure that we do not reproduce it around women living now.

The ancient bronze figure survived because metal endured. Her uncertainty reminds us of all the women history cannot show us.

The task before us is to make sure that women’s lives — and their authority over their own stories — are not left among the ruins.

Azra Syed is a journalist, author, and PhD researcher at SOAS, University of London. Her doctoral research examines misogyny as political radicalisation across Southasia and diaspora contexts, with a focus on digital hate and honour-based violence.

This is a Sapan News syndicated feature available for republication with due credit https://www.sapannews.com.

This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Sapan News AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word?
Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

We are excited to share that Sapan News is preparing for a name that better reflects our mission: Global Southasia. This change doesn’t alter our commitment to rigorous, cross-border journalism; rather, it clarifies it. We are emphasizing our focus on Southasia and its global diaspora. We’ll keep mentioning this shift in each newsletter as we roll it out gradually.

New paths

What happens when Pakistani and Indian creatives meet abroad? Find out in Sarim Kidwai’s article How a new film by a Boston-based immigrant is dismantling the model-minority concept. One of the artists for the hand-drawn animated film The Glassworker, he met up with filmmaker (Jam Boy, 22 min.) Sriram Emani, who also founded Indian Raga, in Boston. Why is it only in these situations that people remember that their ideas of home are the same?

After youth-led movements reshaped politics in Sri Lanka, Bangladesh and Nepal, India’s Generation Z has achieved something unprecedented without seeking regime change. New Delhi based journalist Rohinee Singh walked amongst the protestors at the recent ‘Cockroach Jayanta Party protest and learned How India’s Gen Z forced Modi to blink.

Readers’ corner

Azra Raza and ‘The First Cell’

Well known for her poetry recitations, Dr. Azra Raza, author of ‘The First Cell’, shared perspectives about her professional passion as a practicing oncologist at a book talk hosted by the online book club Readers Without Borders in collaboration with the Southasia Peace Action Network, Sapan. The bottom line: “Prevention is better than cure”. Yours truly, Regina Johnson, had the pleasure of participating. Read my article for Sapan News here: Paradigm shift needed in cancer research: Capture and kill the ‘first cell’.

The ‘Ibn-e-Safi phenomenon’

What lies behind the unprecedented cross-border popularity of the architect of Urdu noir? Scientist, poet and documentary filmmaker Gauhar Raza in New Delhi delves into this question, drawing upon childhood memories from summers in Allahabad, birthplace of the wildly popular and prolific detective novelist known as Ibn-e-Safi (given name Asrar Ahmed). Visiting relatives whose house included a storeroom full of Ibne-e-Safi’s books, Dr. Raza, like many, learnt to read Urdu because of Ibn-e-Safi’s riveting stories that generated a cult following.

Media Mirror

In response to the ongoing media ban that prevents readers in India and Pakistan from accessing news sites from each other’s countries, the Sapan News Media Mirror, a public service initiative, shares selected articles with permission. See our Press Statement: Access is not a threat: A call to lift reciprocal news bans in India and Pakistan.

Recent Media Mirror stories include two from the peace and justice worker Harsh Mander:

• The quiet stories of faith and forgiveness across India: The first Rehmat festival brought together accounts of courage, aching compassion, heroic solidarity and tender forgiveness. Originally published in the Wire

• Extending a legacy of compassion and service to humanity — Keynote address on Albert Schweitzer Day. Originally published in Scroll.

Also see senior researcher Christophe Jaffrelot’s take on How a 1970s movement in India connects with today’s ‘cockroach’ protests, originally published in The Wire.

Shoutouts

A documentary rollout

The latest film by award-winning filmmaker Mohammed “Mo” Ali Naqvi, a Sapan Founding Charter endorser, premieres August 28 in New York before playing in theatres across the U.S.A. - details here. The documentary, collaboratively made with the impacted community, recounts the harrowing 2023 story of a high-altitude cable car trapped in north-western Pakistan, when a wire snapped, leaving eight passengers — six of them schoolboys on their routine commute to school — dangerously hanging 900 feet above ground.

“At its core, the film is built around a universal idea: that in moments of crisis, no one survives alone. When people who have every reason to distrust one another choose to work together, extraordinary things become possible,” says Naqvi in his director’s note

A gendered Southasian vision

Shoutout to the pioneering women-led digital magazine eShe, founded by journalist and ace editor Aekta Kapoor in New Delhi, 2017, a Sapan founder member who also launched the SouthasianUnion website in 2021. The magazine launched in America last year in collaboration with two other Sapan founder members who, together with other volunteers, were critically helpful with Sapan News in its formational stages, Shailaja Rao in Seattle, and Sarita Bartaula in Washington, DC, former Sapan News ‘Lead strategy and development’. We wish them all the best.

Endorse the Sapan Founding Charter

Our Social Media Pledge

Members of the eShe team have also taken our Social and Digital Media Ethics and Responsibility Pledge - have you?

Go to the Social Media Pledge

Thanks for reading. Every other week, we aim to bring you a curated digest of the stories, developments and highlights from recent offerings. Until then, thank you for being with us.

With gratitude,

Regina Johnson
Coordinating Editor
Sapan News

Invest in our journalism! Donate today

Thank you!

By Sarim Kidwai / Sapan News

Tempers between India and Pakistan had barely cooled following the brief but dangerous military confrontation between the two nuclear powers in May 2025, when an Indian and a Pakistani met for coffee in Boston, bonding over a shared love for films.

Over that coffee session, I – a Pakistani creative – and Indian writer-director Sriram Emani talked about his new short film, Jam Boy.

I had met Sriram in 2025 at the Boston Asian American Film Festival and saw Jam Boy (run time 22 minutes) at a private screening later. The film is an introspective science-fiction allegory about the psychological cost of belonging to America’s “model minority.”

Its title comes from a disturbing colonial urban legend: In one version of the story, British golfers in India would have a local servant smeared with jam and stationed nearby, turning his body into a human lure for mosquitoes.

Whether literal history or apocryphal folklore, the image captures a recognizable colonial arrangement: One person is dehumanized so the other can remain comfortable.

Trailer: Jam Boy, by Sriram Emani, 2026.

The optics of our meeting carried their own irony. Here were two caramel-skinned fellows with the same jet-black hair, our names almost anagrams of one another, sitting on neutral Bostonian ground while belonging to opposite sides of an inflamed border. While we knew the quarrels of our sister nations all too well, I doubt any eavesdropper overhearing our conversation would have been able to tell us apart.

That irony became an appropriate entry point into Jam Boy. Sriram’s film distills the conflict between preserving cultural memory and pursuing opportunity in the West, a rock-and-a-hard-place dilemma familiar to Southasians regardless of which side of the Pak-India feud you fall into.

Beyond the explosive news pundits and cricket rivalries lies the shared condition of sacrificing connections with family and trading traditions once you’re part of the Southasian pack hoping for a career in corporate America.

What differentiates the film is how it reverses the conventional immigrant narrative. Many stories concentrate on crossing the border, securing the visa, and finally attaining the elusive “American Dream”.

Sriram’s protagonist, an indispensable Indian coder that he himself plays, faces a different terror as he fights for the chance to finally go “back home” to India after proving his worth to his new-found nation.

Taking the shape of speculative fiction rather than the grounded immigrant stories we are used to seeing, the world of Jam Boy shows us a near-future America and an opaque credit system that determines whether Sriram can work, travel, or visit his ailing mother.

He follows the rules with the belief that good performance will eventually earn him his freedom. However, the demands of his worth grow deeper the more utility he exhibits, and his goal remains elusive, continuously moving further away.

The film’s power comes from how little exaggeration it actually needs. While the flashy algorithms, bureaucratic restrictions and invisible ceilings are heightened in the body of the film, any immigrant watching it will recognize the feeling of suffocation and entrapment that kick in right at the beginning when we see Sriram’s character reveal his goal of being able to visit his home.

At its thematic core, Jam Boy dismantles the model-minority concept and reframes the immigrant’s idea of success in the West as little more than evidence of compliance with the status quo. The immigrant is praised for being useful, productive, and undemanding while the system quietly discourages dissent. Acceptance is only feigned at the cost of making oneself smaller.

If you gave image and music to the conversation Sriram and I shared at the coffee shop, it may well result in something like Jam Boy itself. The current socio-political sentiment that shrouds immigrants in the U.S. would lead you to believe that we are simply opportunists looking to impose our presence within the country with no intention of leaving. Nothing is further from the truth.

The new nuance that remains invisible in media narratives around immigrants does not have to do with the challenge of making it to the West. It is about the freedom to be able to move freely back to where we came from, once we are established here. Common conversations such as our longing for chai hangouts and time with family members is often followed by talk about visa types, citizenship processes and the latest national travel restrictions.

So, it’s no wonder that Jam Boy has received acclaim at festivals and in critical conversations. The film arrives at a time when the telling of the ‘resilient’ immigrant narrative no longer gels with the modern zeitgeist.

Sriram’s film is uncomfortable, claustrophobic, and deliberately unresolved because the experience it depicts rarely ever offers a clean resolution. It articulates a struggle that remains underrepresented: Not the struggle to enter, but the struggle to remain whole once inside.

The film had its world premiere at the DC Independent Film Festival in February this year, where it won the Best Film award. It also screened at the Boston International Film Festival in April, where it won the Indie Soul Special Recognition award.

Sriram and I have remained in touch, and we continue to support each other in our endeavors. The image of an Indian and a Pakistani sitting together stays with me, chatting not as representatives of rival nations but as two creatives trying to remain whole in a country that often flattens our differences anyway.

Jam Boy represents a much-needed question for our diaspora, about why it takes a third aggressor for us to see the common struggles that we share, and why it is only in these situations that we remember that our ideas of home are the same.

End Credits

Sarim Kidwai is a marketer, storyteller, and artist, born and raised in Karachi, Pakistan. Since getting an early start at age 16 as an artist for the critically acclaimed film ‘The Glassworker’, he has expanded his practice to the United States where he currently works at the intersection of film, business and marketing, while studying at the Business of Creative Enterprises, class of 2027, at Emerson College, Boston.

This is a Sapan News syndicated feature available for republication with due credit https://www.sapannews.com.

This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Sapan News AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word?
Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

By Rohinee Singh / Sapan News

New Delhi: The past few years have witnessed the emergence of a new political force across Southasia: Generation Z.

In Sri Lanka, youth-led protests against economic collapse forced President Gotabaya Rajapaksa to flee the country. In Bangladesh, students spearheaded a movement that ended Sheikh Hasina’s long rule. Nepal has repeatedly witnessed young people leading street protests that reshaped governments and altered the country’s political trajectory.

Now, the question being asked in political circles is whether India has entered its own Gen Z moment.

Unlike the movements in Sri Lanka, Bangladesh or Nepal, India’s youth were not demanding regime change. They were not marching against inflation or economic collapse, nor were they calling for the overthrow of the government. Their demand was remarkably simple: Accountability for the alleged leak of the National Eligibility cum Entrance Test (NEET), India’s highly competitive medical entrance examination, and the resignation of Union Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan.

Yet within just thirty days, they achieved what India’s parliamentary opposition had failed to accomplish in more than twelve years.

On 25 July, Pradhan resigned.

For Prime Minister Narendra Modi, the resignation was more than the loss of a cabinet colleague. It marked a rare political retreat.

Since Modi became Chief Minister of Gujarat in 2001, he has cultivated an image of unwavering authority and a refusal to bow before public pressure. Across nearly 24 years in executive office, only once before has sustained public outrage forced the resignation of a minister from his government: M.J. Akbar, who stepped down as Minister of State in 2018 after multiple allegations surfaced during India’s #MeToo movement.

There have been policy reversals, most notably the repeal of the three contentious farm laws in 2021 after farmers maintained an encampment outside Delhi for more than a year. But that retreat came only after one of the longest protest movements in independent India.

This time it took barely a month.

A movement driven almost entirely by students, amplified through social media and culminating in dramatic confrontations with police on the streets of Delhi, forced the country’s most powerful political leader to blink.

For perhaps the first time since Modi rose to national prominence, India’s youngest citizens demonstrated that organised street mobilisation could still compel a government long regarded as politically invincible.

Protest nobody saw coming

Narendra Modi was among the world’s earliest political leaders to understand the power of social media. His 2014 election campaign transformed Facebook, Twitter and later Instagram into political instruments that helped him communicate directly with millions of young Indians while bypassing traditional media.

Twelve years later, that same digital ecosystem became the source of his first major political setback.

A parody social media account called Cockroach Janata Party (CJP), launched only weeks earlier, unexpectedly became the organising platform for one of the most significant youth protests India has witnessed in recent years. What began as satire quickly evolved into a movement that resonated with students across the country.

Its founder, Abhijit Dipke, emerged as an unlikely face of the agitation demanding accountability for examination paper leaks and calling for the resignation of Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan.

Within weeks, what the political opposition had failed to achieve through Parliament, election campaigns and repeated criticism was accomplished by memes, Instagram reels, anonymous volunteers and students carrying handwritten placards.

By the time Dipke announced from the protest stage that the minister had resigned, thousands had gathered at Delhi’s Jantar Mantar while demonstrations had spread to cities across India.

Senior journalist and Modi biographer Nilanjan Mukhopadhyay believes the episode represents one of the most significant setbacks of Modi’s political career.

“This can be seen as Modi’s biggest setback in his entire political career. A man who did not give in to any public pressure was forced to bow. In the past, he has always responded on his own terms and at a time suited to him,” Mukhopadhyay told Sapan News.

Mukhopadhyay, author of Narendra Modi: The Man, The Times (2013 Tranquebar), argues that politically the Gen Z movement posed a deeper challenge to Modi than even the aftermath of the 2002 Gujarat riots because it punctured the carefully cultivated perception that he never yields to public pressure.

From the protest site

An hour before Dipke climbed onto the makeshift stage to announce that the minister had resigned; two young volunteers remained busy treating exhausted students. Many of the students at the sit-in had been on hunger strike for more than a week.

Twenty-four-year-old Priyanu, from Haryana, spends months navigating merchant ships across the world’s oceans. Beside him stood Arham, a newly qualified engineer and mountaineer.

One belongs to the sea. The other belongs to the mountains. Both had received first-aid training through their professions.

Now those skills were being used to treat dehydration, bruises and injuries sustained during clashes with Delhi Police.

“We never imagined our training would be used like this,” Priyanu said while handing oral rehydration salts to a student struggling in Delhi’s July heat. “People think we are here because protesting is fashionable. We are here because if this can happen to NEET today, tomorrow it can happen to any examination.”

Nearby stood Rajat, who had travelled from Prayagraj in Uttar Pradesh. He carried a fading bruise on his shoulder, the result of the 20 June police baton charge.

Standing beside him, his friend Sudhanshu seemed almost disappointed.

“I missed getting hit,” he laughed. “Rajat will become popular back in college.” He paused before adding another explanation. “I’ve got FOMO.” Fear Of Missing Out.

That expression perhaps best captured what the authorities failed to understand. Every measure intended to discourage participation achieved precisely the opposite.

The government shut down metro stations around the protest venue. Students walked.

Police resorted to baton charges and tear gas. Larger crowds arrived the next day. Those who had watched the confrontations online wanted to become part of them. Instead of creating fear, the police action created participation.

Students were seen standing smiling before police barricades. Many were posing for selfies with riot-control vehicles. Others posted photographs beside policemen carrying shields and batons.

Police officers whom earlier generations might have feared were addressed casually as “Bro.”

“Bro, why do you look so serious?” Ashita asked one policeman while positioning herself for a selfie.

A senior Delhi Police officer, requesting anonymity because he was not authorised to speak publicly, admitted that the administration had fundamentally misunderstood the movement.

“We treated this as a conventional law-and-order problem. We thought these young people would disperse after police action. Instead, every baton charge became content for social media. Every barricade became a photo opportunity. We realised too late that this generation responds very differently to fear.”

Fear disappeared

That is why many observers say that this protest has ended the fear factor, on which Modi had built his aura to suppress dissent.

Public demonstrations that once defined India’s democratic tradition became increasingly rare as successive movements were branded “anti-national,” “Urban Naxal” or members of the so-called “Tukde Tukde Gang” -- perjorative for “break up gang” as in “anti-nationals” trying to break up the country

Author and journalist Prabhakar Mishra believes the NEET protests marked a turning point.

“Protest was always romanticised until fear overtook it. After more than a decade, we are seeing people let go of that fear. This generation simply isn’t bothered.” The placards reflected that confidence.

In India, since inception, there had been an unwritten rule in newsrooms and with opposition not to target the seat of the president, prime minister, chief justice and service chief. They have been treated as holy cows.

But this was perhaps the first time that Prime Minister Modi was subjected to ridicule.

Several mocked the carefully crafted political narratives that had helped build the Prime Minister’s image. For years, Modi proudly described himself as the son of a tea seller.

Generation Z responded with humour.

“Chai banao, desh hum chala lenge.“ (You make the tea. We’ll run the country.)

Another poster borrowed Amitabh Bachchan’s iconic dialogue from the 1988 film Shehenshah before adding a constitutional twist.

“Rishte mein toh hum tumhare malik hain. Naam hai We, the People of India.” (In this relationship, we are your masters. Our name is We, the People of India.)

The reference to the opening words of India’s Constitution was deliberate.

While not affiliated with the organizers, a crowdsourced public archive of the posters, placards and photographs called Democracy by Design allows users to save them for future reference.

Different from Bangladesh, Nepal and Sri Lanka

Comparisons with neighbouring countries are inevitable, but they can also be misleading.

The youth-led movements in Sri Lanka, Bangladesh and Nepal emerged from broader economic crises and political demands that eventually challenged governments themselves.

India’s Gen Z movement was fundamentally different. Its objective was not to topple the government but to repair institutions.

“We have not gathered here to overthrow the government,” Akash told Sapan News, adjusting the handwritten placard resting beside him. “All we are asking is to fix accountability and make education affordable and employable. If examinations lose credibility, what future do we have?”

Around him, students spoke less about ideology than opportunity. Their posters reflected anger, frustration, and humour in equal measure.

Why Modi blinked

Since 2014, the Bharatiya Janata Party has successfully countered many protest movements by portraying demonstrators as politically motivated, anti-national or disconnected from ordinary Indians.

This time that strategy proved far more difficult.

The protesters were overwhelmingly middle-class students between seventeen and twenty-five years of age. They represented different castes, religions and regions. Many came from families that traditionally voted for the BJP.

Most importantly, they will cast their first votes in the 2029 general election.

“My parents support the BJP,” said Kriti from Lucknow, who turns eighteen later this year. “But I will read the election manifestos before deciding whom to vote for.”

Avyan was more direct.

“After all this, it definitely won’t be the BJP for me,” he said. “At least Rahul Gandhi can speak in English.”

Whether such views ultimately translate into electoral outcomes remains uncertain.

But Mukhopadhyay believes the BJP has encountered an unfamiliar political challenge.

“The BJP’s politics of religious polarisation has taken a beating. These first-time voters are unlikely to forget this episode. Winning them back will not be easy.”

The NEET protests may not produce a change of government. They may not immediately alter India’s political landscape. Yet they have revealed something important about the country’s youngest generation.

Generation Z has shown that it can organise without established political parties, mobilise through humour instead of ideology, and confront authority without apparent fear. It is digitally native, politically irreverent, and remarkably difficult to intimidate.

If Sri Lanka, Bangladesh and Nepal demonstrated how youth movements can bring governments down, India has shown something different.

Its youngest citizens compelled one of Southasia’s most powerful leaders to retreat without demanding his removal. For Narendra Modi, who has spent nearly a quarter-century cultivating an image of political invincibility, that may prove to be the most consequential political message of all.

Jantar Mantar: India’s Hyde Park

For anyone following Indian politics from outside the country, one place appears repeatedly whenever protests erupt in New Delhi: Jantar Mantar.

Whether they are farmers demanding fair prices, pensioners seeking justice, government employees, minorities, women, students or environmental activists, almost every major demonstration eventually converges on this stretch of road in the heart of the capital.

Jantar Mantar is the name of a monument that was built in 1724 by Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh II as an astronomical observatory where giant masonry instruments measured the movement of the sun, moon and stars centuries before telescopes became commonplace. The road outside the monument’s walls tells another story.

Soon after Independence, the Indian National Congress established its national headquarters at 7, Jantar Mantar Road, transforming the neighbourhood into New Delhi’s busiest political corridor. First Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru used to sit in this office frequently, dividing time between his official work at South Block as head of government and attending to party issues in this Jantar Mantar building.

The road became a site to vent anger against ministers and MPs to draw Nehru’s attention.

But over time, protesters shifted to Boat Club near India Gate, as the Jantar Mantar Building changed hands and no longer remained the Congress party’s headquarters. But in 1993, the government banned demonstrations at Boat Club lawns in 1993 after massive farmers’ rallies paralysed the capital and redesignated Jantar Mantar Road as a protest venue.

Parliament lies barely two kilometres away, close enough for demonstrators to be heard without bringing government functioning to a halt.

Over the past three decades, Jantar Mantar has evolved into India’s democratic town square like London’s Hyde Park.

Inside its walls stand scientific instruments once used to observe the heavens. Outside its gates gather citizens trying to move governments on Earth.

This summer, it became Generation Z’s classroom in democracy.

End Credits

Rohinee Singh is an independent journalist and author based in New Delhi, with more than 18 years of experience across national and international media. She writes on politics, governance, and issues of regional and global relevance for leading domestic and international outlets, in both English and Urdu. She is also engaged in India-Pakistan Track II peace initiatives and reconciliation efforts.

This is a Sapan News syndicated feature available for republication with due credit https://www.sapannews.com.

This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Sapan News AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word?
Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.

By Gauhar Raza / Sapan News

My parents were voracious readers, so it was natural for us siblings to develop a desire to step into the world of books early on. We grew up on the Aligarh Muslim University campus and spent summer vacations in Allahabad (now Prayagraj) with our maternal and paternal aunts – Khala and Phuphi who lived just a staircase and a door apart from each other.

Their houses were large, with plenty of room and open space, and the freedom to have a wonderful time. Little did we know that these were not just vacations, our elders were educating us far beyond the four walls of a school.

And that is how we were introduced to the detective novelist Ibn-e-Safi whose stories appeared in a tantalising series called Jasoosi Dunya (The Spy World) and achieved unprecedented popularity. What I witnessed in Aligarh on publication days was not unique. Long queues formed outside bookstalls in cities from Karachi to Lahore, from Delhi, Lucknow and Allahabad, to Meerut, Agra, Kanpur, and beyond – testimony to the geographical spread of what I call the “Ibn-e-Safi phenomenon.”

The publications were independent books. It did not matter which one you read first. Most appeared after a month, but between some, the gap was longer.

Allahabad summers

Our maternal uncle, Khaloo Abba, Nawab Mahmood Agha, had a large circle of friends; writers, poets, politicians, teachers, businessmen, and even judges. They would gather to chat in the evenings, some regularly and others occasionally, in the open courtyard, in the mardana part of the house reserved for men. They discussed every topic under the sun till late into the evening. We children were expected to arrange the chairs for them in a circle, keep their huqqas (water pipes) warm, and continuously serve tea and water.

As we learned to read Urdu, I realised that books fell into two categories: For children and for adults. Copies of publications lying around included titles that we children were not encouraged to read, Jasoosi Dunya, and Rumani Dunya (The Romantic World). The office of the publisher for both, Nikhat Publications, was barely a hundred paces away. One summer in Allahabad, I asked my mother what these books were about.

“Why don’t you read one?” she responded. “Read Jasoosi Dunya, not the romantic ones.”

I didn’t know the difference, but it felt like I had received a graduation certificate. I was now a member of the book club my older siblings and cousins belonged to. I must have been in class six or seven. As a slow reader, it took me two days to finish one volume, but I found it difficult to stop once I started.

Soon, Ibn-e-Safi’s novels introduced me to the fascinating characters of Imran, Sir Rahman, Zafrul Mulk, Safdar, Julia, Tanvir, and Suleman. I loved Imran, the central character, but the others also left a deep imprint.

Sir Rahman was Imran’s father, the Director General of the Central Intelligence Bureau. His boss. Zafrul Mulk was another intriguing character, he could disguise himself as Imran and mimic his voice and walk and act like him so convincingly that even Imran’s own team members could not tell the difference. I also loved Suleman, the caretaker and cook who somehow never cooked a proper meal for Imran!

The Faridi and Hameed series I found later were just as addictive, but they never evoked the same enthusiasm in me. Eventually, I read all Ibn-e-Safi’s detective novels, many of them more than once.

The excitement of visiting Allahabad during vacations was augmented by the fact that Nikhat Publications stored copies of Jasoosi Dunya and Rumani Dunya in a room in Khala’s house. Abbas Husaini, the publisher and owner of Nikhat Publications, and Syed Mujawir Husain Rizvi, the writer of the Rumani Dunya series, were neighbours and regular visitors to the evening discussions. Their children were friends with my brothers and cousins.

The dark, spacious room where the books were stored was always locked, but pushing in the heavy, old-style two-part door created just enough space along the chain to peep inside. We younger kids made a game of seeing who could use a bamboo stick to fish out a book we hadn’t read. This stealth operation would be carried out after lunch, when the elders retreated for their afternoon nap. Whenever our “theft” was discovered, a half-hearted scolding followed, and we were instructed to return the book after reading it, which we always did. After all, it is practically a universal law that “stealing a book is not theft.”

Coming back to Jasoosi Dunya, both in school and later at university, I found many friends and even a few teachers who were hooked on it.

One friend in Aligarh had an unmatched love for the series. Whenever a new one arrived, he would head straight to Anwar Book Depot, ask for two or three books including the new Jasoosi Dunya, and stand there for two hours or so until he finished reading it from cover to cover. He couldn’t afford to buy the books, so he developed a rapid reading habit purely for this purpose! Eventually, Anwar Sahab, the shopkeeper, stopped giving Jasoosi Dunya to him.

Personally, I owe my fluency in reading Urdu to Ibn-e-Safi, and I am certain this holds true for most Urdu readers of my generation. My mother understood how vital this was when she allowed me to read Jasoosi Dunya, it was the first major step in developing a lifelong reading habit. Ibn-e-Safi’s ability to seamlessly blend international espionage, science fiction tropes (like mind-control rays and advanced chemistry), and deep-rooted Eastern values gave his work a universal appeal that transcended borders.

A quiet revolution

Even a cursory look at literary history tells us that in the mid-20th century, the Southasian literary landscape was dominated by sweeping romances, historical epics, and heavy socio-political realism. Even popular writers considered it undignified to write detective novels.

Yet, beneath the surface of this traditional literary world, a quiet revolution was brewing in the realm of popular fiction. The pioneer of this revolution was the extremely creative and prolific Asrar Ahmad. Although he adopted more than one pen name while writing poetry and articles, he ultimately became Ibn-e-Safi to his readers. During my Allahabad days, I heard from many people that he would dictate an entire novel in one sitting. The book was sent for publication without editing or revision. I never believed it.

He did not merely write detective fiction; he single-handedly built the genre for Urdu readers, transforming it into a cultural phenomenon that remains unmatched. Long before Indian cinema mastered the technique, his characters, first Sing Hi and later Imran, had already learned to duck approaching bullets.

Despite his immense popularity, his books were never accorded the status of “high literature” during his lifetime.

His popularity was unprecedented.

Once, an interviewer asked him where he thought his books should be placed, in a bookshelf holding philosophical memoirs literary histories political-religious ideological critiques like Abul Kalam’s Ghubar-e-Khatir, Muhammad Husain Azad’s Ab-e-Hayat, and Maulana Maududi’s Khilafat-o-Mulukiyat.

Avoiding the literary comparison, he placed his books high on the popularity scale, responding: “My books are not kept on shelves; readers keep them under their pillows,” recounted by his son Ahmad Safi.

Ibn-e-Safi acknowledged that the publishing of Urdu detective novels began with translations from other languages, mainly English, with the pioneering detective fiction writer Munshi Tirath Ram Firozpuri (1885–1954) topping the list of translators. However, these translations were literal, and did not gain much popularity; the language was crude, and readers could not grasp what the author wanted to convey.

There is no dearth of books and articles about Ibn-e-Safi’s life and literary legacy. Born on 26 November 1928, in the United Provinces of British India, he became a teacher and poet by training. His entry into detective fiction was fuelled by a unique challenge. Legend has it that during a literary debate, a colleague remarked that popular Urdu literature was solely sustained by cheap, vulgar romances. Ibn-e-Safi disagreed, counter-arguing that readers only turned to such material because thrilling, clean, and intellectually stimulating alternatives did not exist.

To prove his point, he began writing under the pseudonym Ibn-e-Safi (meaning Son of Safi). His literary empire rested primarily on two monumental, long-running series that spanned over 240 novels in total.

He was by no means the first author to write detective novels in the region. By the turn of the last century, several such novels had already appeared in Bangla and Urdu. Historians tell us that Riyanath Mukhopadhyay was the first writer to serialise crime and detective stories in an Indian language (1890). Panchkori Dey was probably the first to write full-length original detective novels in Bangla (1900). In Urdu, Zafar Omar wrote Neeli Chhatri (The Blue Umbrella) in 1917, which is widely considered the first original detective novel in the language.

However, Ibn-e-Safi was the first to serialise detective novels in Urdu, and once he started, there was no stopping him. Over 28 years, he wrote roughly nine books per year. It would be fascinating to calculate how many words he wrote per day on average. I am certain he had little time to mull over, refine, or finalise the plot of a book before starting to write; the two processes of thinking and writing must have occurred synchronously.

Universal appeal

The first Jasoosi Dunya book was launched in 1952, introducing the iconic duo of Colonel Faridi and Captain Hamid. As I remember, Faridi had a rather dry personality, the quintessential aristocrat-detective: Highly educated, deeply philosophical, stoic, and wealthy, with a mysterious personal life (and a penchant for keeping pet lions). Hamid, his trusted companion, provided the perfect foil, spirited, impulsive, and deeply human.

Together, they navigated complex criminal webs that blended urban crime with global espionage. Though Faridi was portrayed as the hero, the novels often revolved around Hamid. His simplicity and his conversations with Qasim, reminiscent of Obelix in the Asterix series (launched later, in 1959), kept readers glued.

In 1955, Ibn-e-Safi created Ali Imran, arguably the most beloved character in Urdu fiction. Some critics believe that he merged the two characters, Faridi and Hamid, to create Imran. I disagree with this simplistic view. Imran is a very complex character who reflects Ibn-e-Safi’s extraordinary creativity and ingenuity.

On the surface, Imran is an eccentric, goofy, and seemingly buffoonish young man holding a doctorate in criminology, constantly ridiculed by his family and peers. However, this persona is a brilliant facade. In reality, Imran is “X-2”, the secretive, razor-sharp chief of the Secret Service. The contrast between his hilarious, witty dialogue and his lethal, tactical genius made the Imran Series an instant, roaring success. A comparative study of the two series would require an entire book, so I will leave that here.

While often categorised as “pulp” or popular fiction, Ibn-e-Safi’s work transcended the typical boundaries of the genre in several profound ways. His prose was immaculate. He wrote with a conversational tone with highly sophisticated vocabulary, making his novels a gateway for younger generations to fall in love with the Urdu language. He was a devout Muslim, a believer not favourably predisposed toward ‘progressive’ writers, yet he weaponised literature for social reform.

Ibn-e-Safi maintained a strict personal rule: his stories never relied on vulgarity, graphic sexual tones, or cheap gore. He wanted his books to be read aloud in family living rooms. His villains were rarely caricatured bad guys; they were products of societal failure, greed, and psychological trauma. Through humour and satire, he frequently mocked the hypocrisy of the elite, the corruption of bureaucracy, and the decay of post-colonial morality.

Ibn-e-Safi passed away on 26 July 1980, but his universe never died. Decades later, his books continue to be reprinted, digitised, and translated into English and other languages. He achieved what few writers ever do: he created an escape world so vivid, witty, and intellectually vibrant that generations of readers continue to seek refuge in it.

He remains the undisputed King of Urdu Noir, a man who proved that suspense did not need to be crude to be captivating, and that popular fiction could hold a mirror to the soul of a society, which any piece of literature is expected to do.

While detective novels rely on elements of surprise and suspense, the finest literary classics also possess these qualities. Like many others, I consider Ibn-e-Safi’s writings to be an integral part of Urdu literature. Maybe I’m biased, but I have never been ashamed of my biases. Only an undiscerning reader could be unbiased.

Ends

Gauhar Raza is a New Delhi-based scientist, author, poet, and documentary filmmaker who, since the 1980s, has been a prominent figure in the National Science Movement and has conducted extensive large-scale surveys in India and internationally. He was the founding editor of the Journal of Scientific Temper and has served as Chief Scientist at the Council of Scientific and Industrial Research, India. His best-selling book ‘From Myths to Science’ (Penguin Random House India) has been translated into various Indian languages and will be released in the US on 1 September 2026.

This article was written and edited by humans. Click here for the Sapan News AI policy.

Why ‘Southasia’ as one word?

Because our histories entangle, our struggles intersect, and our futures are bound together. It is not just a spelling choice, it’s a political and poetic one.