How quick we are to judge: be it PIA’s Captain Sajjad Gul, Uzma Khan or the black man jogging down the road. Just a few examples. Man (and definitely woman) has a propensity to pass judgement before the action has even reached completion. And that statement (by me) itself is judgement.
I once took the issue of judgement to therapy. A deeply wise woman who was counselling me, (happy to pass on her number, email me!) listened attentively while I explained my predicament. I knew someone who I strongly suspected was not doing right by his spouse and yet he was a friend. How could I still call him ‘friend’?
I grappled with this, felt insincere to my values when I was around him. Yet we did socialise with him – an infrequent but always uncomfortable occasion. And so I took this issue to therapy.
Since this piece is not about the therapeutic process, I will skip the bit about how WW (wise woman) helped me through this phase of doubt and how I understood my tendency to ‘judge.’
I’m still not totally cured and sadly neither is the world.
We are being pummeled right, left and centre by judgement.
In my place of birth, a brave pilot captain of an airline is targeted, making it convenient for the system to lay blame somewhere.
Cornel West
Philosopher Cornel West, Professor of the Practice of Public Philosophy at Harvard (if I had one wish to be granted, I’d want to attend his class) says “We are witnessing America as a failed social experiment”
An actress is physically assaulted and brutally judged while her aggressors walk free, as this piece is being written.
And across the world, here in the Home of the Brave and Land of the Free, black men are shot as they dare to go jogging or they have their necks crushed by the weight of an unrelenting white man’s knee.
A black man that I know who lives in a privileged white suburb of Seattle says he’s scared to go walking without his six year old daughter. At least when he’s with his child, they may not think of him as a criminal.
Judgement at its peak. As I write this, I’m watching cars being burnt and protestors losing control. The United States is up in arms, tired of those of colour being judged, weary of the worst being expected from those most vulnerable.
The streets are laced with fire, anger rages in states across the country.
I’m struck by the realisation of how potent the roots of racism are in this country, yet this is my home now.
During my growing-up years, I associated racist feeling and “rivers of blood” (thank you Enoch Powell) with many parts of the world but not the US. Wasn’t this the ultimate melting pot? A home for all? ‘Huddled masses’ and more...
Perhaps Pierre Trudeau was right. A mosaic theory is what works. Cultures are encouraged to nurture their uniqueness, to remain intrinsically loyal to their heritage. Rather than melt in a pot, different communities come together as a whole. Retaining their differences and individuality. Defined contours. Canada continues to welcome difference with open arms. So the mosaic theory works?
But the melting pot here in the U.S has ignited more than the occasional errant spark.
And that’s when I remember that we don’t take to the streets back in my place of birth. Judgments are passed, sinister sentences cruelly, unlawfully carried out but I can’t remember incredible anger at the injustice of minority killings or throngs of people crowding the streets
My American friend, born and bred in Seattle, gently explains to me, during my first year here, the dark history of race, deeply embedded in the American psyche.
And it takes me a while to fully absorb the dangerous reality we straddle.
There is no equality in the sea of different colors around us. It is still the time of the great white man.
A black mother is still terrified when her teenage son goes out late at night.
Philosopher Cornel West, Professor of the Practice of Public Philosophy at Harvard (if I had one wish to be granted, I’d want to attend his class) says “We are witnessing America as a failed social experiment.”
“The history of black people over more than 200 years is a reflection of this failure,” explains Professor West as he links this to the incident of George Floyd’s death.
“Our culture can’t deliver nourishment for soul, for meaning”
Referring to the aftermath following the killing, he says “Thank God there are people in the streets. Can you imagine if people were not in the streets? That would mean that they didn’t care, that they were callous...”
That would have meant that we are resigned to this broken system.
He explains how while we should be angry at the rigged system that led to this state of affairs, we should also realize that there is some hope left.
We see that hope in the swarms of people protesting against George Floyd’s murder.
I’m not condoning the violent reactions on the streets or the looting, that is not excusable. But there is a difference between looters and protestors. We should condemn the former and applaud the latter.
West asks us to reflect upon how we can keep our moral, spiritual standards alive? “We must fight.” He says this is not easy as there is a “Neo-fascist gangster in the White House.”
I’m listening to Prof West and I am able to understand his concept of relief at seeing the swarms of people who came out to protest. I understand only too well what he means when he says that it would have been terrible if people had not come out, if George Floyd had had his breath crushed out of him, all in vain.
And that’s when I think of so many in Pakistan, who have died in vain.
I straddle two cultures, I think of two countries as home At this very minute, with sadness, I think of my other home. Across the world from the fires burning in downtown Seattle, my Pakistan continues to face the brute force of judgment, whether it is against individuals, institutions or sects.
For in Pakistan, I cannot recall swarms of people taking to the streets when Shia, Ahmadis or any other minorities are killed. My glowing image of Pakistan (yep, really, for me, it’s still glowing, swallow that, cynics!) is tainted right now with rude reality. That’s when I feel like my heart is gripped in a fist and being crushed slowly.
And that’s when I remember that we don’t take to the streets back in my place of birth.
Judgments are passed, sinister sentences cruelly, unlawfully carried out but I can’t remember incredible anger at the injustice of minority killings or throngs of people crowding the streets.
“Silence is compliance” say the signs on American streets.
The roar is unmistakable. America is speaking out loud.
Prof West would say how terrible it would be if it were not so.
I understand. I’m proud to hear America’s voice rising loudly in this time of pain.
But I cannot help compare this situation with what happens after the killing of someone from a minority, vulnerable community in Pakistan. There are just a few sounds of dissent. Murmurs.
Largely the silence is deafening. In Pakistan, why don’t my friends take to the streets? Why doesn’t my family come storming out of their homes?
But for that matter neither do I.
We just watch the brute force of judgement, of someone deciding that another is not fit to live. Is less than.
Is silence compliance?
I salute the spirit that has driven Americans, black, white, brown and more, to call out for justice, loud and clear.
But in my other home (the one that I still want to think of in glowing terms) there is no outpouring of protestors after a sectarian attack.
