The Express Tribune Magazine - June 24

JUNE 24-30 2012

Palestinian biker Wissam al Jayyousi journeys around 22 Asian countries to fight cancer

JUNE 24-30 2012

Cover Story

20 One Man Mission Palestinian biker Wissam al Jayyousi battles through Pakistan’s cumbersome bureaucracy to raise funds for cancer

Feature

28 Taking Life by the Handlebars A cycling expedition through Karachi shows the author a side of the city that is hardly seen

32 The Divided Land Life around the stone wall that bifurcates West Bank’s largest city Hebron

36 The Forgotten Horse Painter Anwer Mooraj traces the journey of artist Shehla Rehman

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Regulars

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6 People & Parties: Out and about with Pakistan’s beautiful people 40 Reviews: The circus comes to town 42 End Of The Line: Hop onto the social badwagon

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Magazine Editor: Zarrar Khuhro, Senior Sub-Editors: Batool Zehra, Zainab Imam. Sub-Editors: Ameer Hamza and Dilaira Mondegarian.

Creative Team: Amna Iqbal, Jamal Khurshid, Essa Malik, Maha Haider, Faizan Dawood, Samra Aamir, Sanober Ahmed.

Publisher: Bilal A Lakhani. Executive Editor: Muhammad Ziauddin. Editor: Kamal Siddiqi.

For feedback and submissions: magazine@tribune.com.pk Printed: uniprint@unigraph.com

PEOPLE & PARTIES

Fivestar Design Emporium recently held its store launching ceremony in Lahore

Mr and Mrs Umar

Saima and Ali

Masooma with a friend

Natasha and Bilal Mukhtar

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Rabia Butt and Yousaf

Bisma and Anum

Fauzia and Sadia

Saim and Naila Ishtiaq

Husna and Sophiya

PHOTO COURTESY BY BILAL MUKHTAR EVENTS & PR

Madiha and Hamza Tarar

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PEOPLE & PARTIES

Nida Azwer holds her first solo exhibition in Lahore

Nida Azwer

Saira Shahzad

Tasneem Premjee

PHOTOS COURTESY LOTUS PR

Sara Irfan

Afsheen Junejo

Mahnam and Mahvish

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Mehreen Danish

Salman Shehzad, Sharmeen and Munira

Sana Adil

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PEOPLE & PARTIES

FnkAsia launches at Dolmen City Mall Clifton in Karachi

Ayesha Jaffar, Nini and Huma Adnan

Sidra Iqbal

Ayesha Intisaar and Minza Adamjee

Frieha Altaf

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Naiza Khan

Nabiha Hasan

Tehmina Khalid

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PEOPLE & PARTIES

Daaman launches at Dolmen City Mall Clifton in Karachi

PHOTOS COURTESY MUTAHIR MAHMOOD

Konain

Monika

Shazia Naz

Saima Haroon

Momal Sheikh

Shaharyar and Mehreen

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Rizwanullah

Angeline and Maliha

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PEOPLE & PARTIES

Gia Ali

Karachi in n lo a s y t u a ches her be n u la y e s r a V Aiesha Mehak Khan

Habib

PHOTOS COURTESY TAKEII

Saira Aiesha Varsey and

Hira Tareen Saima Azhar

Maheen Khan and Zurain Imam

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Madiha Iftikhar

Ayesha and Ehtasham

Bushra Ansari and Hina Bayat

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PEOPLE & PARTIES

Galaxy of Youth organises a reception to celebrate the homecoming of Alamgir

Fiza Farhan

Natasha Hussain

Baksh Group launches new products of Bang & Olufsen at the Men’s Store in Lahore

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PHOTOS COURTESY J&S

Nickie and Nina

Alamgir, Masudah Ahmad and Shabnum Anis

Saeeda Shah Saleem

Khalida Farooqui

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PEOPLE & PARTIES

Qasim Yar Tiwana, Mahnoor and Natasha

in Lahore s e h c n u la n Sabs Salo

Saba Ansari and Bushra Ansari

Sunita and Shahzad

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Rubab

Anna

PHOTOS COURTESY QYT EVENTS

Cybil

Saba

Fauzia

Iffat and Sonia

Bushra Aftab

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FEATURE

taking li

the han Tune out of the car craze to get a new perspective on what pedal power can do for you!

BY SAJIDA ALI I like biking — not the hardcore Harley-Davidson type of biking, with the tattoos, heavy drinking and Hells Angels, but rather the ‘soft’ bicycling that involves pushing pedals and holding onto handlebars. I have fond memories of my dad teaching me to ride a bike, a daily ritual that continued until I had perfected the art. Sadly, since those childhood days are far behind me, I now only bike with my family when travelling, along park trails and scenic routes on city tours. It’s a lovely way to explore a city: you can stop to admire the local colours and take pictures for posterity, or just soak it in and collect vivid images in your mind to cherish and relive at your convenience.

Biking in Karachi had definitely been on my bucket list, but I

really didn’t know how to go about it. Imagine a woman riding a bike down a Karachi street when just walking down the street in

some places is enough to get you unwelcome stares. I thought I’d

enlist a friend and take the gawks in my stride but, yes, it would have made me more than a bit uncomfortable.

Then some time ago I had these sightings, more than once, of

a group of bikers: once, on my way to the gym I spied two cars

with bikes mounted atop a roof rack; another time, a group of

bikers assembled in a corner of a busy intersection, poised and waiting for a break in traffic; and then finally near a fast food chain at the beach, offloading bikes and getting ready to go.

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Of course, I knew I was going to join them. There’s safety in

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ife by

ndlebars

numbers, and this group was my answer! So after a little digging

I found they were called Critical Mass and I signed up on their Facebook page.

Now I just needed a bike. Helpful group members told me I

should look for a Japanese model, preferably Mongoose or Giant,

and that the gears should be manufactured by Shimano. Having a helmet and a water bottle was a prerequisite, and elbow, knee

and hand guards were optional. I took notes, but they worked like college notes do in the real world — I had the information, but no clue about how to apply it.

Luckily Asfandyar Kazi, an organiser of Critical Mass Karachi,

kindly offered to take me all the way to Jackson Market for the best bargain deals on reconditioned Japanese bikes, as there is no outlet for new ones.

At Jackson Market, all I had to do was trek behind Asfandyar

while he explored and bargained. The one time I opened my mouth I nearly put my foot in it and we both decided it would be wisest if I took a backseat in the bike-buying expedition. After meticulous checking and testing, we settled on a bike that was

light, sturdy, road-worthy, had unworn tires, working gears and

brakes, and a bell too, all crucial points that were on Asfandyar’s checklist. As for me, my major requirement was that the bike looked pretty!

We picked a bike that was at the lower end of the price range.

According to Asfandyar, since these are all second-hand bikes,

they don’t have any fixed market price and the seller usually

quotes prices on a whim. Striking a bargain gets you a decent bike suitable for your needs and also keeps the market stable for everyone else.

Before joining the group on a ride I did a few runs on my own

to get into the groove. I opted for one of the shorter rides lest I

got tired. The first time I joined the group was also on a short ride closer to home so that I could call it off if I couldn’t keep up. I

ended up testing my pedal power on the relatively easy Sea View ride and when I didn’t disgrace myself, I plucked up the courage to go on the Old City Ride.

We covered our run within the set time with ease and efficien-

cy. The group itself was like a bike: at once quiet and efficient.

It held us all together and yet was elastic. It made allowances

for individual stamina and expertise, accommodating both the slow and the fast, encompassing both the seasoned biker and the

first-timer. It was in sync with everyone’s needs: giving tips for a novice like me about adjusting gears and seat height, helping out with flats, arranging an accompanying truck for the tired, keeping an eye out for errant traffic and making pit stops for the

photography aficionados among us. It was not tardy and yet not rushed. We moved like a group and yet we were flying solo.

Biking in Karachi was a beautiful and liberating experience.

I could stop and stare instead of having to zip off because I was being honked at. My perspective changed once I saw

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FEATURE

Biking in Karachi was a beautiful and liberating experience. I could stop and stare instead of having to zip off because I was being honked at. My perspective changed once I saw things from a different pace and angle things from a different pace and angle: it made me look at my

us to pass; some nearly ran us over.

real, more alive, more vibrant and closer to my heart. Suddenly

under me, I could actually feel the land, its slopes, gradients and

ures that whizz by your speeding car. They were real people. I

years, but never noticed that it was a slope till I cycled along the

surroundings with more awareness. Everything became more the pedestrians were not cardboard cut-outs or matchstick fig-

could see their faces up close and personal. I could see the sweat on their brow, the furrows of worry on their faces, the grime and dust in their hair.

Now the cars seemed like heartless machines whizzing past us

in their indifference and inexplicable impatience. Some of them

almost knocked me down, and I wondered, what’s the rush?

My supremely busy life slowed down, and the feeling carried

inclines. I had been driving up and down Khayaban-e-Hafiz for road. I saw Saddar in its virgin state (well, as virgin as possible), free from haphazard traffic and teeming pedestrians. The old

buildings, aglow in the morning light, bore the marks (such as pan pichkaris) of our callousness and indifference with quiet dig-

nity and forbearance as they stood guard over our history. It was surprisingly clean.

My bike ride around Karachi instilled in me a sense of owner-

through the rest of the day. Suddenly, everything was put into

ship for my city. The strong Clifton Bridge, graceful Frere Hall,

Of course, we also got our fair share of curious onlookers. A lot

ket, massive Bunder Road and towering Habib Bank Plaza —

perspective.

of people, on foot or in cars, rickshaws and buses, stopped and

inquired about the group. Some took pictures; some took down the group’s details with the intention of joining us, while others

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As for me, old routes suddenly had a new charm. With the bike

looked on bemused at the bunch of loonies. Some were cheeky and gave out catcalls; some displayed civic sense and waited for JUNE 24-30 2012

matronly St. Joseph’s School and College, quirky Empress Marlandmarks of Karachi that I had never appreciated before — rose in splendour when I shed the comforts of a car and got out on a

bike. This was my city and it can look pretty decent — all it needs is a strong blast from a fire engine hose and a slightly different perspective.

FEATURE

the divided land “Before I built a wall I’d ask to know What I was walling in or walling out” Robert Frost, Mending Wall TEXT AND PHOTO BY RAKSHA KUMAR

A three-foot-high, gray concrete wall ran down the middle of the main street of Hebron, West Bank, dividing it into two halves. The wall was one of the first things that our guide, Avner, spoke about as we entered the Israel-controlled sector of the divided city. “This side is for Jews, and that’s for Palestinians,” he said, pointing at the other side of the wall.

Hebron is located not more than 20 miles south of Jerusalem.

The largest city in the West Bank, it seems like one huge — and divided — religious site. The Israeli government has split the religious site into two — the Tomb of the Patriarchs for the Jews to

pray in and the Abrahami Mosque as the Muslims’ place of worship.

Devotees of both faiths pass through the divided main street to

reach their respective places of worship. I wondered if a Muslim, who regularly prays at the Abrahami Mosque, would ever look a

Jew, who regularly prays at Tomb of the Patriarchs, in the eye?

The dividing wall is not high enough to hide each other’s faces.

But it may well be twenty feet high for the two communities that

studiously ignore each other. Will they ever greet each other or,

at least, acknowledge each other’s presence? Something within me said they wouldn’t.

The Israel-Palestine dispute is so deeply entrenched that it per-

meates generations and shows little signs of dissipating in the near future. Hebron stands as a symbol of that embedded discord, which is at once religious, territorial, social, political and economic in nature. There can be endless debates about the nature of the conflict, but the lives of millions of people are unquestionably disrupted.

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As we walked down that street, I began to blame the wall for

everything. The physical barrier seemed to strengthen the menJUNE 24-30 2012

The Israel-Palestine dispute is so deeply entrenched that it permeates generations and shows little signs of dissipating. Hebron stands as a symbol of that embedded discord, which is at once religious, territorial, social, political and economic in nature tal and psychological barriers that the Israelis and Palestinians have built between them.

From the door of a house on the Palestinian side of the wall,

a girl not older than five came running towards me. Perhaps the camera I held in my hand attracted her. Dressed in a purple

jumpsuit, her undone hair carelessly fell over her shoulders. She

had a sweet smile while she was still close to her door, but as she

approached the wall her smile progressively faded and confusion clouded her eyes. She placed her small palms on the wall, which was almost her height, trying to reach me.

As we began our journey on the Israeli side of the city, we were

told we couldn’t venture into the Palestinian side. A heavy-set

guard, dressed in an Israeli army uniform, had walked towards

us briskly, even when we were outside the city limits, and politely threatened us to not have too much interaction with the

Palestinian side of the city. Our cameras had further scared that

mammoth creature who thought we would disrupt the troubled peace in the city.

Having reminded myself of the bulky Israeli guard, I stopped

short of reaching out to the child. Otherwise, I would have taken the child in my arms and let her play with my camera.

It later occurred to me that while the child was still relatively

far from me, she could see me. As she came closer to the wall, I became less visible to her because of her height, hence the confu-

sion and sadness in her eyes. The wall in the street helped teach children from an early age about ‘the other’ in this ghost town. It made, what could have been a temporary situation, permanent.

The few hours we were permitted in the city were spent tread-

ing slowly on that one main street along the Holy site that meets

the Shuhuda Street. Avner, our guide, explained that Shuhuda Street had once been the main street of Hebron. Now it looked colourless, almost lifeless. All we saw was the brown of the dry sandy wind that blew into our eyes and the gray concrete of the

streets. Except for a living, breathing Israeli soldier toting a gun in his hand, the only other sign of life was the graffiti splattered on the walls and on shuttered shops.

The Holy Land is divided everywhere, fraught and tense. But

in Hebron the division and tension were most palpable. Almost tangible. When you touch and feel something, you cannot deny it even if you close your eyes.

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FEATURE

the forgott

horse pain Shehla Rehman, one of the finest Pakistani female artists, may have dropped out of the public eye but her unique work continues to shine

BY ANWER MOORAJ The public memory is short. Writers and artists flourish for a time and then, like Oliver Goldsmith’s princes and lords in The Deserted Village, fade away. After a time they are forgotten like last year’s orange harvest. However, I believe reviewers owe it to posterity to pull out of the twilight zone an artist who, in his or her time, not only made the front pages but also contributed substantially to the culture of the country.

One such poet of the canvas is Shehla Rahman who, in my

opinion, is still one of Pakistan’s three finest female artists. She

is eminently qualified to authenticate the works of Sadequain,

to separate the fake from the real article. After all, she worked closely with the master for three years.

Six months after her birth in Lahore the family moved to Ma-

laysia. And so began the saga of a courageous woman — a chronicle filled with triumph and tragedy, happiness and heartache,

recognition and remorse. She is the only artist I know who, on

her return to Pakistan after the death of her father, was faced with a veritable avalanche of misfortunes. First, a robbery in the house deprived her and her mother of all their valuables. This

was followed by three nasty floods in four years which completely ruined her carpets and precious paintings. Whatever documents

and photographs survived the floods were destroyed in a drastic

fire which nearly burnt down the house. And then she suffered an abusive marriage.

By contrast, life in Kuala Lumpur was idyllic. A car had to

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follow a winding path through thick foliage to get to the huge

house perched on a hill against the backdrop of a lush rain forJUNE 24-30 2012

ten

nter

Rahman was, however, considerably more than a horse painter. She did portraits, nudes, landscapes and seascapes, drew sketches, twisted and shaped calligraphy with consummate ease and restored other people’s paintings est. It was a lovely mansion with wooden floors and jalousies on the veranda, and many of the rooms had wooden paneling on the

walls. A huge sprawling garden, fringed by hibiscus, gardenia,

orchid and rose bush, played host to butterflies and dragonflies, which performed their daily aerial ballet above the sprinklers.

There was another huge garden at the back where kennels were housed and a few trees spread their leafy branches.

Rahman’s father, an urbane pipe-smoking Lahori business-

man who had spent 17 years in England, acquired a stud farm, bred horses and became an important member of the local community. There were fifteen animals on the farm and they had

interesting names — Fire, Come September, Midnight, Sultan

and Ali Baba. From a very early age, Rahman was surrounded by dogs and horses. The late Hameed Zaman, a versatile writer, once pointed out in a review that as a child Rahman believed,

in all innocence, that horses could understand her as much as she could understand them — their language, gestures, snorts, neighing, hoof-stamping and the loving nudge on the shoulder.

In the course of time she became obsessed with stallions and

mares, and years later in Karachi whenever anyone asked her

what she enjoyed painting most, she would reply with perky

nonchalance, “Horses. I am what they call a horse painter.”

She was fascinated by the animal’s rippling muscles, flowing

manes, rhythmic movements and the spectacle of galloping energy. She was also fully conversant with equine anatomy, skel-

etal structure, musculature, the differences between breeds, and the techniques required for quick life sketching as opposed to

working from photographs. She was under their hypnotic spell and felt she simply had to paint them. The result was at times

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FEATURE dazzling, like the picture of wild horses thundering across the

portion in Rahman’s sketch or painting. A gifted specialist, she

sionally slick, with carefully done studies and well-planned com-

space and design should be applied to a drawing or a painting.

Steppes of Russia on this page. At other times they were profespositions.

learned earlier in her career how line, shape, form, light, color,

In Pakistan, which is one of the world’s most misogynistic

Rahman was, however, considerably more than a horse paint-

and testosterone-driven places, crimes against women are often

sketches, twisted and shaped calligraphy with consummate

ago, Rahman joined the small battalion of feminist activists, but

er. She did portraits, nudes, landscapes and seascapes, drew ease and restored other people’s paintings. She also designed

stamps for the Pakistan postal service and cards for ceremonial occasions. After horses, seascapes were her favourite subject.

She has painted the sea in its many moods and infinite variety.

One of her canvases brought back those wonderful lines of Ste-

phen Spender: “The gentle ocean lies like an unfingered harp upon the land.” She was equally at home in watercolor and oil

and remained faithful to the realist and representational school of thought.

committed on the flimsiest and most capricious of excuses. Years

instead of leading processions and shouting slogans, she used brush, paint and canvas to depict the victims of brutality, tor-

ture and abuse. The clutch of paintings she produced under the title ‘Crimes against Women’ was exhibited in a number of cities in Pakistan and abroad. She has had exhibitions in Turkey,

India, the UAE, Switzerland, Oman and South Korea. Another significant series, ‘Ugly Face of Terrorism’, also evoked favourable reviews.

One hopes that she will reemerge on the cultural horizon, for

Rahman’s first teacher and critic was her beautiful Persian

she is one of the few Pakistani artists to have garnered interna-

draw before she took up a brush. By Rahman’s own admission,

proud of one remark on her guest book that was put out at a New

mother, a great artist in her own right, who insisted she learn to

her mother was a far better painter than the daughter would ever be. The advice proved invaluable because I have yet to meet a

critic or collector who can find fault with either anatomy or pro-

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tional acclaim for her mastery in art. Rehman is particularly Delhi exhibition in 2007: Sunit Chopra, an art buff, wrote, “I am deeply moved by the overt simplicity of her work and the enormity of the message it conveys …. This is art.”

REVIEW

the circus comes to town

BY AMNA IQBAL

Do you remember that time as a kid when you wanted to run away and join the circus? When you realised that the people around you are a genetic accident and not the ones you actually belong with, hence the possibility of an escape into a magical world was as serious as breaking the no-candy-before-dinner rule.

You jump on a train and every day will then bring the possibility of accomplishing heroic feats without anyone telling you that being a human cannonball does not mean skull fracture, paralysis and eventual death but simply a way of flying without wings. Where the real world, stripped off of the power of dreaming, is kept at bay at the ticket booth every night and looking at the world upside down is an act that people will applaud you for. Where you can have candy for dinner.

Then you grew up and realised two things: the circus you thought you would join only exists in Hollywood films and that you have grown up and if you try and fly out of a cannon, you are either on pills or will be given some.

Here’s the good news, though. Madagascar 3 is a reminder that you can still run away to join a circus of your own choice and construct and that there is no such thing as the real world.

Film sequels usually grow old and tired by the time they reach their third instalment. Madagascar 3, however, went the other way round. It is so fresh and enthralling that it feels like a new film altogether that can’t be compared to its first two instalments. It holds its own both by taking the best bits from its predecessors and by adding an unexpectedly strong narrative structure.

You meet Alex, Marty, Gloria and Melman again, still looking for a way to get back home to the New York Zoo. They end up in Monte Carlo with the best of Madagascar character entourage: King Julian, his sidekicks and the penguins who devise an obviously useless plan to get Alex and his friends back. In the process, they manage to get the manic Captain Chantel DuBois on their trail who is determined to have Alex’s head as a trophy on her wall. The rest is an exhilarating ride as they jump on a circus train, salvage a dying act and finally find an unexpected place to call home.

DreamWorks animation manages to do a seamless juggling act with all the characters thrown in along with the regulars. The circus troupe introduced is almost unbelievably adorable. Vitaly the Tiger as a faded hero, Gia the Jaguar as Alex’s love interest and Sonya the semi-myopic Bear as King Julian’s ‘emotional whoopee cushion’ compliment an

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already-endearing cast. The real circus star, however, is Stefan the Sea Lion who shines with his ‘nearly average intelligence’. The film as a whole puts up a spectacular show with a get-up-and-dance musical score and an almost side-splittingly funny script. Add to this an animation that uses a canvas of colour that literally lights up the screen and you are going to walk out of the film looking for that circus train that you were meant to hop on to when you were six.T