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The Junaid Jamshed not many knew

Sitting here, writing a blog that is an obituary for Junaid Jamshed. This is surreal. It is unbelievable. And is an unpleasant and painful task, but one that I must carry out as someone who knew him well. Because he would have liked me to write this. For two reasons: Firstly, Junaid, or JJ, or Jay as close friends called him, was a people’s person. He did not mind the attention. He was used to it from a very early age. I remember asking him, during one of the three interviews of his I did spanning over two decades, whether he was so used to attention as a celebrity that even when he came towards religion, he enjoyed the adulation. He laughed and did not deny it. So he would be ok with this. But secondly, and more importantly, he would appreciate that the correct, and the factual, and the good is written about him. Junaid was not as guarded with the media as I initially thought…not guarded enough. His utterances often got him into trouble – he did not weigh words as one would expect from someone who had spent most of his life under the spotlight. So he ended up saying things that ruffled so many feathers at both ends of the spectrum. More than three years ago, after I met him and Shahi Hasan at Shahi’s studio for a feature story, he had later requested me to write about the other side of him. “People just see me as the person who stops women from driving cars and wants to deny women independence. I’m not like that! And there is more to me. Can you write something positive about me?” he had said. I had told him that journalism is something I do with honesty, and I will not write positive stuff unless I find positive stuff about him worth penning. He agreed. I did end up writing some positive stuff after all. That is what I am doing once again right now. He would have wanted this.

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So there is stuff about Junaid we all know but then there is stuff that we all don’t know.

Like the fact that he was big on not just charity but in particular about mother and child health, and had raised money and set up many medical care centres for maternal health. “The year was 2003. I remember reading somewhere that a woman travelling from Jhang to Faisalabad on a tonga in full-term labour died because no maternal health facility was close by. That story shook me. Pakistan’s women should not have to go through this,” he had said in that interview. During the interview, I had shared with him about the good work being done at the Koohi Goth Fistula Hospital. He started working on gathering both funds and support for the cause, and then raised enough money to support and cover the cost of some major projects the hospital needed funds for. Those getting treatment don’t even know that the person who helped give them a new lease of life is Junaid. The many unnamed individuals and families he was helping through his charity work will be hard hit at the loss.

Like the fact that he always, always struggled with his inner self after having chosen the path that he chose. I recall another pointed question I had asked, jestingly. “So the beard is your choice. But why not trim it?” “Yeh mat bolo (Don’t say that). It’s not easy,” he replied, and I felt guilty I ever asked that. An excerpt of the interview went like this:

“Sitting in Shahi Hasan’s studio, his fingers, a couple of times, delicately traced the contours of the guitar strings. But an inner commitment is stronger than the temptation. He hummed a few lines, but stopped. The darling of the Pakistani masses is no longer a balladeer. The passion has been channelised towards a higher love. His songs formerly talked about how to woo a beloved… his nasheeds and naats still do. But the Beloved has changed. JJ has evolved.”

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Trying to practice religion is an uphill task. There is always discrimination, and criticism, and of course he had to bear all that. Misogynist. Chauvinist. Mullah. The titles were many. So were the attacks on his selfies with female friends. Ironically, these were often hurled by the very people who supposedly believe that one should live and let live. The very people who will forever rely on his songs when they feel patriotic or heart-broken or in love or happy or sad.

For me, his voice has been with me through me own transitions. From a music buff to one who developed the heart and the taste for the naat and nasheed genre, his voice was a part and parcel of the journey. Even at the age of 52, his voice sounded young and untainted.

Junaid, like all of us, had his shortcomings. I strongly disagreed with so many of his stances, and agreed with others, like many of us. But he was a good soul, a loving son, husband and father. He made efforts to help others. He did help thousands, both through his charity and through his role in reviving the faith of so many. Like all of us, he may have fallen and gotten up many times on the path he chose. But he chose to stay on that path anyways. Not many take that path after a taste of such fame and adulation. Reminds one of his song:

Hum kyun chalain uss raah par jis raah par sub hee chalain

Kyun na chunain who raasta jis par naheen koi gaya…

He is just one story and this is just one obituary out of the 47 who lost their lives today. Each story unique. Each life unparalleled. Lives full of promise. Lives cut short.

Life is short. And unpredictable. If we take home one thing from Junaid’s passing, which I pray will be accepted by Allah as shahadat (martyrdom), it is to stop judging others.

Rest in peace JJ. And thank you for all the goodness you spread and the service you offered to humanity. May you be rewarded multi-fold in the Hereafter.

Published also at http://blogs.tribune.com.pk/story/43759/the-junaid-not-many-knew/

Why I shared the #ChaiWala’s picture

Published: October 18, 2016

If Pakistanis want to glam up their timelines with the photograph of this stunning young man, so be it. PHOTO: TWITTER/JIAHPHOTOGRAPHY

The piercing blue eyes. The stubble and the moustache. The attractive indifference. Blissfully unaware of the fact that thousands are ogling at him, he has become the hottest (pun intended) topic of debate, and has taken the internet by storm.

Bad start to the blog? I can already hear echoing disapproving remarks in my head that I have been reading on Facebook walls of friends. We over-read and over-intellectualise everything nowadays. I do too. This is why I thought many times before I posted the undeniably handsome chaiwala’s picture. Should I post it? Or not? And why exactly am I posting it? Am I posting it because he is handsome? Or am I posting it because he is handsome and is pouring chai, as chai is my self-claimed weakness? Or (what most people assumed was the case) am I posting it because he is handsome but is a chaiwala from anunderprivileged background?

Just like everything else, there is no single ideologue behind the phenomenon of the chaiwala. People sharing his photograph are not a monolithic entity. There are different reasons each one of us may cite for why we clicked on the share button. My sharing was initially habitual – I share many things that are trending and interesting. But further contemplation also led me to understand that one of my biggest reasons for sharing it, twisted as it may sound, is that if it’s alright to admire women for their beauty and make it the biggest thing about them, why can a man not be subject to the same?

Objectification of both genders is unacceptable. But if it is something that humanity as a race has not been able to fight back yet, then just like the blame of the original sin is shared, let the burden of beauty be shared as well, irrespective of gender. There is a thin line between plain admiration and objectification.

What I would and do have a problem with is the accompanying surprise that he is a chaiwala. That this is a man from an obviously lower income background, and is yet so good looking. Like all things good in life, somewhere the upper tier bourgeois of Pakistan have come to believe that even looks and God-gifted attributes are co-dependent on money and affluence.

On another note, the chaiwala viral trend reinforces another fact: that our ideas of “beauty” remain euro-centric. The blue eyes, the fair complexion, the chiselled jawline. Makes me wonder if a dark complexioned equally stunning man would have garnered the same kind of attention.

An interesting stem of the chaiwala debates is very relevant: when doing street photography, what line of ethics do we follow? Did this young man give permission that he be photographed? For street photography buffs, if someone is in a public space, it’s alright to photograph them. Others fiercely guard a person’s right to forbid a photographer to take their photograph. This particular debate has grey areas; it’s not black or white, because after all we are photographed in shaadis and functions, with videos being made of our plates laden withqorma. Is that acceptable but this is not? Worth a conversation.

If Pakistanis want to glam up their timelines with the photograph of this stunning young man, so be it. Each one of us has different reasons and intent. Let’s not try to be mind-readers and assume that everyone who shared it is fickle or shallow.

As for the chaiwala, already people are offering him modelling assignments and lead roles in TV serials, thus he by now must have an idea that he has caused some kind of a stir. His giddying rise to fame and the media spotlights will blind him for a while, mess with his head, disrupt the comforting status quo of life as he knows it, and give him unrealistic hopes and ambitions. The hashtag #chaiwala would have already started losing the trend by the time the bullet of his fame hits him. We will all move on towards other trends in a matter of minutes or hours. But that’s just how life is.

Nonetheless, what remains irrefutable is this: nothing unites the Pakistani nation like chai does. So here’s to chai, and to the chaiwala, and to the dangerous but alluring power of social media.

http://blogs.tribune.com.pk/story/41981/why-i-shared-the-chaiwalas-picture/

 

Udaari reveals Pakistan’s best kept secrets

Published: September 29, 2016
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PHOTO: Draamaz

PHOTO: Draamaz

“Watch Udaari; it is unlike any other drama,” I had said, trying to convince a friend to watch the drama. “No way! Children being abused. Don’t want to even think about it,” was the immediate response.

Brushing issues under the carpet is what we do best. A study titled ‘The state of Pakistan’s children 2015’ by the Society for the Protection of the Rights of the Child (SPARC) states 10 cases of child sexual abuse took place every day in 2015, bringing the total to 3,768 cases last year. These are registered cases. Any educated and realistic guess will tell us that to get the real number it would have to be multiplied manifold. Of these, a lot of abuse cases are incestuous. Communal living may have many advantages as a support system but also exposes unassuming children, and even grown-ups, to the dangers of sexual abuse and rape.

Mann Mayal has ended and Twitter can’t handle it

What Udaari has done is remarkable. It was not because Ahsan Khan played out a difficult character with unexpected brilliance, and that Samia Mumtaz played Sajju so convincingly that everyone who saw the drama wanted to bring her and Zebo home and protect them. It was a brilliant play, well scripted and directed, and technically could have been more nuanced and the characters more layered, but this is not a review of Udaari. This is a look in the mirror. And Udaari became that mirror.

As a journalist who has worked on gender rights and sexual and reproductive health issues, I have met victims of rape of all kinds, including victims of marital rape and sex workers who were raped. Rape is never a laughing matter. Whenever someone cracks a joke about rape, I think of the times when these jokes may not have bothered me because I had not met the butts of those jokes and heard their stories in person. I had not seen the scars, both physical and non-physical, that acts of cowardice and weakness such as domestic violence, sexual abuse and rape leave behind. Watching Udaari made me think of some unfortunate souls, victims and others survivors.

When those children in Kasur, who were sexually abused by the gang who made a living out of selling videos of the acts and blackmailed them, saw Udaari with their families, what must it be like for them? What was the reaction of viewers who saw Udaari in groups or in isolation in Pakistan’s many homes where traders of the flesh reside? The woman in Tharparkar who was gang-raped some two years ago, and got justice after I wrote her story that prompted a suo moto action by the chief justice – what was she thinking when she saw Udaari? The play hit home with the audiences. But it must have been an unforgettable watch for those who have directly or indirectly been exposed to such despicable acts.

Udaari cast shares final thoughts as fans await finale

In 1980 an Indian film, Insaf ka Tarazu, starring Zeenat Aman was initially met with negative responses for being too bold. Rape was something that was not meant to be depicted so openly. It opened certain shut doors. Udaari has managed a much bolder theme more than two decades later in Pakistan, deftly and without relying on the objectification of women as sex objects. It has succeeded in making sure that the take-home message remains that one who has been raped need not be a victim but also be a survivor, instead of the focus being on Zebo’s youth or beauty. This is no mean feat.

But perhaps the biggest contribution of any article, news clipping or talk show, or any drama like Udaari is daring to make taboo and hushed up topics like child sexual abuse open to discussion on a dinner table, at work place and on social media. Let us stop pretending that these evils don’t exist in our society, and that too closer to us than we think. Recognising an issue is the first step to solving it.

What makes a Pakistani male “manly”?

Being a man isn’t just about masculinity

Published: September 17, 2016

It is generally seen as okay for a man to speak loudly or even yell or curse. Even in the most seemingly progressive families, girls are often told not to talk or laugh loudly. PHOTO: RANGIZZZ/SHUTTERSTOCK

“But that’s how we guys are.”

Is a common response when a woman asks a man about a few traits and attitudes that are seen as manly and macho.

While walking on a street near you, in a mall, or even when couples enter weddings – a familiar scenario ensues. The husband can be seen walking a few steps ahead of the wife for sure, and the wife trudging behind him, adjusting her ensemble, trying to catch up.

For Pakistani males, Def Leppard’s classic Two Steps Behind You is too mushy I’m sure. It is seen as some mark of masculinity to walk at least two steps ahead, if not four.

In our society, or maybe that is how it is all over the world, a few things are seen as ‘guy things.’

For example, the obscene joke sharing. It seems that there is an unsaid rule that in order to classify as a man, you absolutely must share lame and cheap jokes, and video clips and photographs of women in awkward or objectionable poses. Whatever one shares amongst friends is the personal business of each individual. But what is worrisome is how this is seen as a sign of masculinity. Such stereotypes are so etched in our social fabric that we are conditioned to think this is what makes a guy a ‘man.’

Ever seen prime time dramas on Pakistani television channels? They all seem to imply that it is some signature symptom of manliness for men to have affairs, cheat on the wife, and have physical needs, while a good, demure woman is stereotyped as a prudish character who is always shy and playing hard to get.

It is generally seen as okay for a man to speak loudly or even yell or curse. Even in the most seemingly progressive families, girls are often told not to talk or laugh loudly.

It is the men who are supposed to drive the car even if the wife or sister is the better driver or even if the poor husband or brother is exhausted after a long day at work. It is encouraging, actually, when one meets a man who is man enough to say “I don’t enjoy driving” if he doesn’t. But mostly they are unable to voice it, just like it is not easy for a woman to say she does not enjoy cooking.

Women themselves are participants in the act of perpetuating these stereotypes.

They feel sympathy for their sons or brothers if they help the wife with carrying the baby,change the baby’s diapers, or God forbids take paternal leave. Helping in the kitchen is something real men, of course, don’t do.

This conventionalising is not always in favour of men, and is not always healthy. Consider the economic arena.

In this age of inflation and consumerism, one salary is often not enough to support a family. With more and more women joining the work force in Pakistan, both can spend on the collective household. But gender stereotyping ends up pushing both males and females in pigeonholes of rigidly defined roles. The man ends up not helping the woman in the kitchen and housework even if she is also an earning member of the family. Similarly, even if he does end up lending a hand at home, many working women confess to feeling a pinch inside when they have to spend on their families. The feeling is best described as being made to do something they are not supposed to be doing.

Man-kind has not really progressed that much, has it, when the marks of manliness are not values like strength, courage and honesty, but instead driving a sports car, riding a massive motorbike in boots, or smoking a cigarette in public.

There are some inherent traits and tilts that are natural to both the genders. Some of these are natural. But others are not. They are just by-products of being exposed to certain socio-cultural habits of a nation.

For those who are the strongest of men, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to push their boundaries and challenge these norms by walking behind the wife or speaking softly and let the woman in your life have the last word. Being a man takes more than that.

Farahnaz Zahidi

Farahnaz Zahidi

Farahnaz is a writer and editor, and has worked as the Features Editor with The Express Tribune. Her focus is human-centric feature stories. She now writes as a freelancer, and works in the field of marketing and corporate communications. She loves literature and traveling. Her work can be seen at chaaidaani.wordpress.com/

Don’t give up hope – Caring for the elderly

Farhanaz Zahidi September 11, 2016

http://tns.thenews.com.pk/dont-give-hope/#.V9_ShvkrLIV

 

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As people age, what can we do to improve their quality of life?
“With the bam of a motorcycle I suddenly became the head of the family,” says Junaid Ahmed Qazi. While caring for the elderly is seen primarily as something that women are expected do, Qazi is defying the norms because life left him no choice. As an only child, life changed for him some 20 months ago when his father, a healthy man in his early 70s, became victim of a hit-and-run case.
“Ten days before the accident we had both climbed five flights of stairs together.” What followed was a brain surgery, weeks in the ICU, and a nosocomial (hospital-acquired) infection his father caught, that left him invalid. “We believe he recognises us and has emotions. He wants to talk but cannot,” says Qazi.
For him the sound of his father’s voice is a far-fetched dream. Yet the optimist in him refuses to give up.
Qazi’s troubles are not unusual. The number of elderly people has risen globally with life expectancy having gone up due to advanced medical interventions. So has the corresponding number of their caregivers. The average life expectancy at birth of the global population in 2015 has risen to 71.4 years according to the WHO’s Global Health Observatory (GHO). HelpAge, a global network of organisations working with and for older people, predicts that by 2050 one in five South Asians will be over 60. The network states that South Asia is growing older faster than any other country in the world.
While HelpAge’s Global AgeWatch Index 2015, that ranks countries by how well their older populations are faring, rates Pakistan at 92 out of 96 countries, healthcare professionals and doctors feel the close-knit family structure in Pakistan mitigates cases of neglect and abandonment of the elderly.
“Caregivers are the unsung heroes when it comes to geriatric care. They are also underappreciated. When Parkinson’s disease or Alzheimer’s strikes a patient, the entire family is affected,” says Dr Nadir Ali Syed, a neurologist at Karachi’s South City Hospital who has been treating elderly people for 25 years. In his experience, if the quality of life of old people in countries like the US and Pakistan is compared, the elderly in Pakistan are much better off, provided their families are taking care of them. “The family is vital for elderly people. Generally, our elderly are not subject to neglect.”
With an increase in urbanisation and more Pakistani women joining the workforce, old homes and healthcare centres for the elderly is a discussion that is expected to come up more and more in the years to come. The need for geriatric medical care and for doctors specialising in the field has also gone up, and related challenges are multilayered.
“There is a lack of awareness and an acknowledgement of geriatrics as a unique specialty with special needs, health issues and care requirements. This exists both at the level of physicians, and at the governmental level. Caregivers often do not understand the needs of their aged family members and the stresses involved in caring for the elderly,” says Dr Saniya Sabzwari who specialises in geriatric care at the Aga Khan University Hospital in Karachi.
“Caregivers are the unsung heroes when it comes to geriatric care. They are also underappreciated. When Parkinson’s disease or Alzheimer’s strikes a patient, the entire family is affected,” says Dr Nadir Ali Syed, a neurologist at Karachi’s South City Hospital who has been treating elderly people for 25 years.
The patience and endurance of caregivers are put to the test in more than one way and, practically, providing satisfactory healthcare to the elderly is an expensive proposition. “The biggest challenge is financial. Nursing care and attendants at home cost a lot. For those who cannot afford to hire professional healthcare at home, the challenge is even more daunting. It becomes physically difficult to look after an invalid person,” says Asma Nazeer, who requested that her real name not be shared.
Nazeer does not want people to know that she served her mother who had Parkinson’s and related dementia for 10 years, since she feels that it will take away from her award. “I was the only one, as all my siblings are abroad, so they sent help in the form of finances and sporadic visits but basically it was just me for 10 years.”
Nursing care at home for the elderly who suffer from a lack of mobility is expensive. Yet more and more people are opting for it. “The biggest determinant for better geriatric care is affordability — to be able to pay for quality healthcare,” affirms Dr Syed.
Two round-the-clock certified nurses take care of Qazi’s father who, he shares, are pampered by him so that he does not have to go through the process of changing nurses and teaching them the ropes repeatedly. The price of nursing care at home is exorbitant but it still costs him less than the hospital would. His father’s room is now nothing less than the Intensive Care Unit of any hospital emanating the smell of medicines and sterilising liquids. Oxygen cylinders and the feeding tube through which liquefied food is transferred to his father’s stomach, like most elderly patients who are no longer able to eat by mouth due to multiple reasons, are maintained by nurses.
On average, depending on the level of expertise and seriousness of the patient’s illness, a certified nurse for a 12-hour shift costs anywhere between Rs1,200 to 1,800 or more, and are hired through an agency. The monthly cost can run into more than Rs100,000 if two staff nurses and two attendants are hired. “Many nurses are now turning towards attending to bedridden elderly patients at home because it pays well,” says 24-years-old Zaiba Kiran, a staff nurse who has been caring for elderly patients who are mostly bedridden. “We go through agents because it suits both the family of the patient and the nurse in case the nurse needs a day off or either of the parties has any complaints.”
Just like it is tough for caregivers, caring for debilitated elderly patients is not easy for nurses either. “With an elderly patient we have to be extra careful. They are very fragile. They can choke easily. We have to keep a constant watch over their vitals. Anything can happen at any time. It also takes more energy and time to learn how to deal with an elderly patient; they are often impatient like children.”
But perhaps the biggest side effect of seeing your loved parent become a shadow of who they used to be is psychological. “We saw the stages where my mother would hallucinate and there were behavioural changes. But the most painful was the stage when she could not even lift her finger. For the last three years of her life she was fed through a nasal tube,” reminisces Nazeer.
One of the jolts a family may receive is when they are told their loved one is now on what is called palliative or end-of-life care, a concept that is often not fully understood. The term does not mean that these are the final hours or days of the patient’s life. It means that the patient suffers from a terminal disease, and there is no hope of a cure. However the dying process may take years.
“With patients of Alzheimer’s the process may take seven to 12 years,” says Dr Syed. The aim of doctors and family, at this stage, is that the quality of life be improved and the patient be made comfortable. “In Pakistan you get drugs like heroine everywhere but intravenous morphine is not available to a dying patient to help relieve a dying patient’s suffering,” says Dr Syed, explaining the obstacles.
The goal, as Dr Sabzwari explains, is not longevity of life, unlike what families or patients want. “Most important is the quality of life.”
To see a loved one in pain takes its toll. “Till my father had the accident, I was a carefree guy. I can safely say I aged at least 10 years within days. I have lost a lot of hair ever since. I do feel depressed inside at times but I cannot afford the luxury to sit and cry because the responsibility of my family is on me,” says Qazi.
Luckily for him, his supportive wife has been his biggest strength. Even families of the elderly are psychologically impacted. “My six-year-old daughter is affected as well; she can’t understand why dada won’t play with her anymore.” Yet, Qazi refuses to give up on giving the best possible care to his father. “My father didn’t stop caring for me when I was a child and was totally dependent on him. How can I stop taking care of him?”
In Dr Syed’s opinion, one must not give up on the treatment and care of the elderly because a lot can be done to improve their quality of life. “A few years ago dementia was considered incurable and some of the treatments available now were not available then. Now, we can drastically improve the patient’s quality of life as well as slow down the dementia.”
The biggest challenge, then, is to not give up hope.

Being a mother – How breastfeeding can save lives of Pakistan’s infants

breastfeeding pic
By Farahnaz Zahidi

August 7, 2016

The myth that just mother’s milk does not suffice has caught on, and this trend is an imminent danger to the lives of Pakistani infants

Her fifth child is due any day. Nazeer Bibi lives in a shanty part of Qayyumabad, Karachi, and has already decided that she will feed her baby formula milk.
“I work in three houses as a domestic help to support my family. I leave at 8 am after dropping my older children to school and return by 4 pm, and the baby will have to be at home. What option do I have? Besides, dabbay ka doodh (formula milk) makes babies healthier. I want my baby to be healthy like the babies in advertisements.”
Nazeer’s baby will be one of the 62 per cent Pakistani infants who are not exclusively breastfed. Only 38 per cent of infants under the age of six months are exclusively breastfed, according to the Pakistan Demographic and Health Survey (PDHS) 2012-13. The rates are the lowest in South Asia.
The myth that just mother’s milk does not suffice has caught on, and this trend is an imminent danger to the lives of Pakistani infants, a danger that is not talked about often enough. As the World Breastfeeding Week is celebrated globally from August 1-7, the conversation around breastfeeding needs to be more audible and frequent in Pakistan. But bringing up the topic inevitably initiates parallel discourse regarding how lives of infants are less safer till formula milk is promoted as a choice. “From tobacco, to sugar, to formula milk, the most vulnerable suffer when commercial interests collide with public health,” says an editorial in medical journal The Lancet.
“Formula milk should only be given when there is a medical reason for it,” says Dr Azra Ahsan, an expert in mother and child health. “The baby gets complete nutrition through breastfeeding. The mother passes on her protective antibodies to prevent common illnesses in the baby. As no water is required to prepare it, unlike how formula milk is prepared, the chances of diarrohea and vomiting are minimised.”
According to the World Health Organisation (WHO), breastfeeding has the potential to prevent about 800,000 under-five deaths per year globally if all children 0-23 months were optimally breastfed. Pakistan has one of the highest infant mortality rates in the region, all the more reason that breastfeeding must be encouraged, especially among the lower income strata.
The PDHS 2012-13 findings also show increase in bottle feeding rates in Pakistan.
“Babies who are born to mothers from the lower income strata are more at danger if they are not exclusively breastfed. The water these mothers use to prepare the formula is unhygienic, and the bottles are not sterilized. Also, formula milk is not cheap. Once they start the baby on it, they start diluting the milk over time so that the formula powder lasts longer; as a result, the baby becomes malnourished,” says Neha Mankani who works as a community health midwife at a hospital in Karachi.
According to the World Health Organisation (WHO), breastfeeding has the potential to prevent about 800,000 under-five deaths per year globally if all children 0-23 months were optimally breastfed.
Once the baby is started off on top feed, the unaffording or unaware mother, over time, starts substituting it with unboiled cow’s milk or low quality tea whitening milk powder which is unsuited for an infant. “We can try and convince the mothers but only till they are in the hospital. Also, Community Health Workers (CHWs) have no access to women who deliver at home,” says Mankani, adding that she and her colleagues try to convince mothers to breastfeed.
However, part of the problem could be that healthcare providers are not doing enough to raise awareness. “Healthcare professionals are the main culprits. Instead of advising new mothers to breastfeed, they help perpetuate the trend of using formula milk. They are given incentives by formula milk companies. Research shows that children delivered in hospitals are more frequently formula fed,” says Dr DS Akram, Founder, Health, Education & Literacy Programme (HELP).
The laws protecting the right of the infant to health and nutrition are there. Lawyer Summaiya Zaidi says that the primary focus of laws like the Protection of Breast-Feeding and Child Nutrition Ordinance 2002 is to protect the nutrition of the child and promote breastfeeding as a primary source of nutrition. After the devolution, each province developed its own Acts for the purpose.
“The Sindh 2013 Act stresses that manufacturing, advertising and sale of alternate sources of child nutrition cannot be promoted as better than mothers’ milk or even compared to it. This stresses the primacy of breast milk as the best source of nutrition for a growing baby, and only when the mother is unable to provide the same to her child should alternatives be made available. It basically controls the manufacture and advertising of child nutrition products by placing certain legal limits on promotion of the same,” says Zaidi.
Yet, the tussle between public health experts and forces of consumerism continue. Companies producing or distributing formula milk refused to give any statement regarding how they justify the tempting advertising campaigns.
At the 69th World Health Assembly earlier this year, a resolution welcomed WHO’s guidance on ending the inappropriate promotion of foods for infants and young children. The guidance states that in order to protect, promote and support breastfeeding, the marketing of “follow-up formula” and “growing-up milks should be regulated. This recommendation is in line with the International Code of Marketing of Breast-milk Substitutes.
“The laws are there, but the implementation is a distant dream. Formula companies continue to particularly tantalise urban markets,” says Dr Akram, adding that the government does not seem interested in this cause. Dr Akram and her team run the Baby-friendly Hospital Initiative (BFHI) of WHO and UNICEF successfully in Pakistan for a few years. “When external funding stopped, the government was not interested in investing in it,” she says, adding that companies that produce formula milk mainly target the urban market to tantalise consumers.
“For the poor population in rural areas, breastfeeding is mostly the only available option. The urban social landscape is more challenging when it comes to breastfeeding. More mothers are working mothers; more options for top feed are available here; more people can afford to buy formula milk. Awareness is needed in both rural and urban areas,” says Dr Sara Salman of WHO Sindh.
According to Mankani, despite trying to raise awareness, most mothers follow popular myths. “They feel the baby is healthier if fed formula, owing to the aggressive marketing of formula milk.”
The biggest challenge for exclusive breastfeeding is the perception that mothers are not producing enough milk and should supplement with formula because the baby cries, says Meredith Jackson-deGraffenried from Helen Keller International. “This perception is driven by the misunderstanding that if the mother is undernourished and poor, she must be incapable of adequately nourishing her baby.”
“We try to teach these women basics about expressing their own milk and how to store it. Mother’s milk stays fine for up to three days in a refrigerator, and up to six hours at room temperature. It’s an economical and healthier option. But myths are hard to fight,” says Mankani.
Despite proven benefits like the mother who breastfeeds return to her pre-pregnancy state much earlier, and the incidence of breast cancer in women who breastfeed being much lower, as Dr Ahsan says, the myths seem to be winning.
“Socially, breastfeeding proves a challenge as well. There are usually no crèche or nursing rooms at work. That’s one reason working mothers stop breastfeeding,” says Dr Ahsan.

Originally published here: http://tns.thenews.com.pk/mother/#.V6hsuPkrLIX

Qawwal Gali after Amjad Sabri

Farahnaz Zahidi July 24, 2016

http://tns.thenews.com.pk/qawwal-gali-sabri/#.V5RfIfkrLIU

The palpable fear after Sabri’s murder in the historic neighbourhood in Karachi and much more

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Qawwal Gali is the collective name given to a group of five streets, named after five renowned Qawwals. — Photos by Faisal Sayani

The atmosphere in Qawwal Gali is uncharacteristically subdued since Amjad Farid Sabri’s life was snuffed out prematurely. “I knew him from the time when I called him Ummi and he called me Saifee, and we were just young boys, not Amjad Sabri qawwal and Saifuddin qawwal. I still cannot believe he is no more,” says Sabri’s friend, Saifuddin Qawwal, still shaken weeks after his death.
Waves of fear after Amjad Sabri’s murder in broad daylight have reverberated 9 kilometer south from the late qawwal’s residence in Liaquatabad to Qawwal Gali, the historic neighbourhood in Karachi where the clans of the famous Qawwal Bachay reside. Yet, these custodians of the Qaul refuse to shift to more affluent or safer residential localities of the city. “This is not just our area. It is our tradition. Our lifestyle.”
Karachi’s Qawwal Gali is the collective name given to a group of five streets, named after five renowned Qawwals: Munshi Raziuddin Qawwal, Moeen Niyazi Qawwal, Kallan Khan Qawwal, Jaafar Hussain Nizami Qawwal and Bahauddin Qawwal. Between 80 to a 100 families of qawwals reside in these streets near the Shoe Market area. They safeguard a tradition that travels back to almost 800 years, when their ancestor Miyan Saamat learnt this spiritual musical art form from Hazrat Ameer Khusro, the 13th century Sufi musician, poet and scholar. Popularised versions of the unforgettable and powerful poetry of Ameer Khusro, like “Chaap tilak sub cheen” and “Mun kunto maula”, have trickled down to Pakistani masses, who get a feel of spirituality through these renditions. But the hub of the original, undiluted art is the Qawwal Gali. These families have been guarding these compositions over the centuries, and their entire lifestyles are moulded to fulfill the responsibility of keeping alive a tradition they see as almost sacred.
While Sabri was not a Qawwal Bacha, a shared tradition and profession has led to lasting bonds between all networks of Karachi’s qawwals. In the wake of his death, all of them, too, are overcast by fear. The qawwal Gali in downtown Karachi, then, is ironically the one place that they feel safe in. “It is our sanctuary. Fear is nothing new to us. Staying here is our only survival,” says Saifuddin, who is an important member of the Najmuddin Saifuddin Qawwal Brothers ensemble.
When asked if he is ever tempted to leave this profession or Qawwal Gali, Toqeer’s answer is a vehement no. “This profession is our recognition; we must protect the tradition our ancestors left us with. I started learning this art at the age of seven.”

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The fear factor is not just about safety; they also fear their younger generation will get lost in the contemporary world and lose out on this art they see as a divine gift. Their offspring, with increasing exposure to the outside world, do express the desire to move out towards better areas. “But we explain to them how important it is for us to stay here,” says Saifuddin.
“Our community has a lot of unity. Our joys and sorrows are shared. There are certain cultural traditions we live by. We would not survive elsewhere and neither would our art,” says Rauf Saami, the eldest son of Ustad Naseeruddin Saami, and part of the Saami Brothers ensemble of Qawwals.
Rauf does not believe in coercing his children into this profession, but wishes that this ilm (knowledge) does not die out. “But times have changed. I’m realistic.”
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The work of qawwals is very nocturnal in nature. “Our work is at night. We leave home early evening and return around twilight. The more posh parts of Karachi are not alive during night time. Can you imagine what neighbours of Karachi’s affluent parts would think if 12 men are entering a house every day at 4am?” says Saifuddin.
The Qawwal Gali does not go to sleep. Its residents sleep during the mornings and are up and about in the evenings. The chai dhabas never close. The riyaz (musical practice) never stops. The hustle and bustle never dies out.
“While we are away, whether for performances at night or during our frequent travels outside Karachi, we are at peace that our families are safe. Here, everyone watches out for each other’s families, despite professional rivalry.”
Rauf echoes that sentiment. “We don’t only look out for other qawwals but also for our supporting members of the ensembles. We are there for each other whenever we need each other.”
The qawwali business is seasonal in nature, and the flow of money can be ad hoc. The community also supports each other in lean times when the earning is limited. In such times, they pay each other’s hospital bills and children’s school fee.
The women of Qawwal Gali are the biggest support for their men. “The women of our households do not have any complaints. They understand the demands of our profession,” says the 26 years old Toqeer Ahmed, who belongs to the Khurja Gharana’s Nohar Bani branch. Their ancestral lineage are one of the first things they learn, but their women’s names are not registered in those lists, neither are they allowed to sing. Till today, a majority of the qawwals marry within their families.
“My nikah is to be held soon,” shares Toqeer with a smile. The match was fixed within his family, “but my choice was also considered. This is a big decision. How can it be done without my choice?”
When asked if he is ever tempted to leave this profession or Qawwal Gali, Toqeer’s answer is a vehement no. “This profession is our recognition; we must protect the tradition our ancestors left us with. I started learning this art at the age of seven.”
In Toqeer’s opinion, if the Qawwals try their hand at any other profession, it would take them hundreds of years to make a mark.
“Why should we lose out on the honour and respect this profession has given me? And as for the Qawwal Gali, it is the only place in the world I feel I am me. It is my identity.”
In true Qawwal Gali-esque style, Saifuddin sums it up by reciting this couplet in Urdu:
Apnay markaz se agar door nikal jaao ge
Khaak ho jaao ge, afsaanon mein dhall jaao ge…
(If you wander away from your pivot,
You will become nothing but ashes, nothing will remain of you but tales and fables)