Kashf - Issue 3 (August 2019) by Kashf Magazine

To say that the past academic year has been a roller coaster ride, would surely be an understatement of biblical proportions. We’ve all struggled and lost and cried, but most importantly, we’ve lived. I’d like to start this note by congratulating the student body for its great display of strength, spirit and solidarity. Indeed in pain and suffering, we are one. Today, I invite you to warm your hearts and feast upon this very special edition of Kashf, brimming with creativity and love from our student body. With this edition, we wanted to initiate a dialogue for change and personal growth, to provide a safe space for raw honesty, self-expression and authenticity. So that not only could you pour out your heart, but also find glimpses of yourself in other people’s reflections. This issue is dedicated to artistry and ingenuity. To owning our stories and speaking up, even if our voices shake. To reminding ourselves to pause and listen to the quietest of voices; because they matter just as much. And finally, this is dedicated to the brilliance of Ms. Madiha Aijaz, a mentor and inspiration to many. Her memory and wisdom shall live on. And as the tradition goes, each issue is curated by a group of dedicated individuals, who burn the midnight oil to bring to you an edition of the grandest quality. I would like to congratulate every single individual of the Kashf team for successfully pulling off this great feat. I hope this issue exceeds your expectations and expresses our sincerity well. Here’s to another year of self-reflection, empathy and speaking out; loud and clear. Signing off, Alina Qureshi Editor-In-Chief

Project Head Swaleha Muhammad Saleem Editor in Chief Alina Qureshi Mudeer Muhammad Ahmed Director of Design Fatima Nadeem Photographer Syeda Zainab Batool Rizvi Editors Dua Sameer Eesha Iftikhar Imaara Zulﬁqar Khadija Zahid Manaal Ahmed Marium Asif Sahar Majid Sara Anwar Zarlasht Malik Zunairah Qureshi Designers Abeeha Iqbal Anita Zehra Harmain Ahmer Maheen Anees Mehak Irshad Mushba Said

Cover Image by Fatima Nooraen

CHANGE AND NOSTALGIA

GHAZAL

HEAVY FEET

ZARIN QALM

A TRIBUTE TO MADIHA AIJAZ

DIARY ENTRY

HUMARA VOTING SYSTEM

OPEN LETTER

THE LOVE I ALWAYS OWNED

Rumaysa Iqbal

Muhammad Usaid

Zinnia Amin

Ahmed Hayaat

Omema Ahmed

Muhammad Kazim

Eesha Iftikhar Qazi

Zaina Nouman

Photo by

Popeye268

the scent of jasmines and antiseptic

- 707

It has been one year since I moved away from home and have lived in a new city, alone. I have begun a tumultuous, new life but have said goodbye to home and many familiar objects. This series showcases seemingly mundane objects, and the times of crippling nostalgia attached to them for me. Rumaysa Iqbal

Good home-made chai and frequent train rides

The old chair on my roof. I saw it every morning when I went up for a walk

Midnight birthday celebrations

A soft bed with white linen sheets; always crisp, fresh and sweet-smelling.

The bougainvillea that hung low about my house's wall

My grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s 30 year old sewing machine, on which she taught me how to sew when I was a kid. The muscle memory remains even as my grandmother fades away with Alzheimer's

‫�ل‬ ‫� �‬ ‫ا��‬

‫اك �� ں‪ ،‬اك وہ �ں‬ ‫�ے �� دو �ں‬ ‫��‬ ‫ان دو ��ں � در �‬ ‫��ں‬ ‫اد�رى ر� اك دا�ں‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ش � � � ��ش �‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫د�� ‬ ‫رازداں‬ ‫�� ‬ ‫� ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫� رگ � � � �‬ ‫�� ‬ ‫�ں اس � � � ��‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‪� � ،‬ں �‬ ‫وا� �‬ ‫�‬ ‫آواز دے! اے دل ُر��‬ ‫� ��‪ � ،‬ز��‬ ‫� ��‪ � ،‬دو�ں‬

Syeda Zainab Batool Rizvi

Fatima Nooraen

Shazwin Syed Ali

Scrapping the calloused skin every time it tried to heal, digging nails in its depth until it bled. An infrequent wind rustles wisps of my hair and evokes an urge to cry. A ﬁne stomach ache from an unstoppable laughter carries me back in thoughts. Old music on a road trip joins back into one from the dispersed pieces of mine. Beautiful reason behind my wound scraping back to have notiﬁed of the rail of memories, the cause of my wound, you; beautiful, were a keeper and that’s the most I can hold of you. Feeling all the moments, all the love and the pain, it never stops. But what’s constant is change.

Change An Open Letter To The One Who Left But Didn't

Reesespieces

I’ve stumbled over words but never yours. I’ve dreamt up scenarios where I cut the cord and walk on every path that isn’t yours and I taste freedom and float away as my body becomes light, away from people -away from everyone,- but never you. What I lived in, was a dream. Not dreaming up the scenario where I walk away, was the dream. And just like all dreamers, the sun has shone in my eyes; I am awake. What a harsh light this sun brings, my love. We traded evers and forever and yet what we took away from it was never, I guess it’s the words unspoken which scream at you the loudest. It’s nice that we have cliffs of our own and we’ve built bridges to hold both of us up and what's beneath us is a chasm which is somet imes filled with flowers, sometimes hellfire. There's a physical me pulling the rope that pulls our bridge up; high enough to stop it from hanging too low and burning away. My hands are scabbed, my skin is pulled and raw and they are on fire. Do not take my silence as acceptance, do not take my presence for granted, the rope you hold is not holding me up, you are not my life, my love, or my soul, I can survive without you, I can survive without you, and I will (make myself). We have cliffs and we have bridges, and you keep shifting faces, so with each shift, the bridge pulls even more, and I keep giving logs to fill this wooden bridge. But on my tiny island on this cliff, I’m running out of trees to cut to fill in the missing spaces. You can’t take any more of what I don’t have. All I have now is something hollow, and greasy and something so dark , I have silenced myself . No longer can I pull inside my heart and bring out flowers to arrange in my hair or to bloom on my cliff, no longer can I look inside and find laughter and love and the will to give or to live. I am hollow. I am afraid to look inside. I fear myself. You have done this. You've pulled away again. And I’m out of logs. And you want me to reach out to you again. I’m trying. I’m coming towards you again, but do you understand that the logs are too far apart now (do you?). Every step towards you is a jump and every jump towards you is a risk and every time I do this I fear slipping, I fear not jumping far enough, I fear fallin g betwe en the logs and hurling towards the deep chasm. I fear frost, I fear fire, I fear the dark itself- I fear you.

‫� ��‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا�ان �‬ ‫ر��‬

‫�‬ ‫ا� � �� ر �� ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ً� روز‬ ‫اس �� ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ر� � �� ‬ ‫� ��ا �م � �� ‬ ‫�رے � �م � �‬ ‫دو�ں � � �‬ ‫�� ‬ ‫�ا� � �� ‬ ‫ا� دو�ے ��ل �� ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��دوں � � � �‬ ‫د� �‬ ‫�‬ ‫� � �ڑ �‬ ‫د� �‬ ‫�� وا� �� ‬ ‫��ں �ف �� ‬ ‫ا� دو�ے �‬ ‫اور �‬ ‫� � � �� ‬ ‫ا� دو�ے � �‬ ‫�� ا �‬ ‫� دو�ں �‬ ‫اِس � د� �� ‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫اور � �� د� � د�� ‬ ‫�ح‬ ‫� �� ر � �‬ ‫�� ‬ ‫د� �‬ ‫اُ� � �‬ ‫رد �ہ‪�� ،‬ں � ڈ�� ‬ ‫�!ں‬

Tasbiha Asim

Tonight I shall recall All the cruel things They did to me. I did not concede their lies, For I was no fool. But I could not fathom Their iniquitous tricks. Hence, I tasted death and now lurk In the shadows as a derelict soul.

Umaima Hashmi

All they ever wanted was My destruction and defeat. But now, to their surprise, I am an extant body. And at midnights, I visit my own grave With teary eyes and heavy feet.

M E D I U M AS A M E S S A G E

M E D I U M AS A M E S S A G E Zinnia Amin

Syeda Zainab Batool Rizvi

‫�‬ ‫و� � �‬

‫ٰ ٰ�‬ ‫�‬ ‫از� ر‬

‫�‬ ‫ا� � �‬ ‫�� و� � �‬ ‫�ں۔۔۔ �‬ ‫� �س � � �ں‬ ‫�‬ ‫و� � �‬ ‫�زہ اور رو�‬ ‫�� ‬ ‫و��ا� �� ‬ ‫� ا� ا�ر � � �� ‬ ‫�‬ ‫� � � �‬ ‫د� وا�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�� س � اور � � � �� دہ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�� ں � �� اور �� َ �ُ�� ‬ ‫اس رو� � � ��رت �� ‬ ‫� ��م � ��‬ ‫� �ر � �ح۔۔۔ �ں‪� � ،‬ر � �ح‬ ‫� آج � اس � �ٹ آ� � آس �‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫َ� �� ى � � ��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�� ‪ � � �� ،‬وا �‬ ‫� �� ‬ ‫اس � � � � �ں‬ ‫�‬ ‫�� وہ � �‬ ‫� آ� �‬ ‫� �ڑ �� وا� �ں �� ‬ ‫و� � � ��ں �‬ ‫�� ‬ ‫ا�ر �� ‬ ‫�رج � رو� �‬ ‫�� ‬

‫�� ‬ ‫آ� � ��‬ ‫� �‬ ‫ار� � ر� � ��‬ ‫�� ا�‬ ‫اور ��ل � � � �� ‬ ‫رو� ز ��دہ �‬ ‫�ے �‬ ‫� � �ھ ر� �‬ ‫�� ں � �ر اور �� ك‬ ‫��‬ ‫� �‬ ‫� ��ر� � �� ر� � ��‬ ‫�‬ ‫� اب � و� �‬ ‫�زہ اور رو�‬ ‫�‬ ‫� �� س � اور � � � �� دہ‬

Syeda Zainab Batool Rizvi

EMPTY Ibrahim Ali Alavi

It’s been a while since the wind howled so loud, like a ghost crying out in agony. It echoes the hollowness that exists inside; the numbness, the pain, the guilt & the woe. The sun concealed, the clouds weeping endlessly; for once, it pours with my eyes dry and clean. The mind feels light, lighter than when it was high, though deep down inside it strikes as nothing but a lie. This calmness - it breaks away so easily, indulging me back into the depth of nothingness. The heart screams to be left alone, though it does not want to feel lonely. My body shivers as the fear of failure kicks in, but ultimately surrenders to another day that disappeared. Sometimes, the worst place you can be is inside your head, but can you blame when that escape is all you never had? The light is changing; the moon shines full and glorious. The haunting darkness slowly grips my soul. I’ve felt everything at once, and now I feel nothing at all or maybe it’s just that I’ve lost all control? They said, “Nothing lasts forever” ... so nothing is what I chased all my life. I’d give everything to erase what I’d been told. For emptiness is the heaviest thing I’ve ever had to hold. Teach me to feel again in all the ways that I’ve forgotten.

Geronimo Syed Saad Ahmed

The view from the top was nothing he had ever seen before. The majestic river lay before him, spreading out into the horizon. The water was calm and in a constant bobbing motion, giving out the illusion of a sleeping organism. To his east, he could make out the city skyline with its many buildings and towering offices in the distance. The soaring skyscrapers of the city looked like little blocks of Lego from where he was standing. Beneath his feet, he felt the vibrations of hundreds of moving vehicles on the bridge. Looking down, he could see the vehicles speeding away, resembling tiny colored ants. The maintenance ladder that he had climbed was brown with rust, and a dull red signboard hung at the top with words in white that read: “Authorized Personnel Only. Safety Gear Crucial to Proceed.” What good was the climb if he didn’t have access to fresh air? Kevin ignored the sign and stepped out on to the ledge. The cold winter air stung his face, forcing him to squint his eyes to keep them from watering. His overgrown dark brown hair ruffling in the wind, Kevin longed to see the sun. He stared at the blanket of clouds, thinking about the last few weeks. They had been the toughest ones yet. Letting out a long sigh, he raced his mind through the series of events that had led him to the top. It was all so complicated, yet it made perfect sense to him. He had known for a long time that whatever he did was just to delay the inevitable, yet a sliver of hope had kept him going. He had told so many lies in succession that he himself forgot where the blurry line between the truth and falsehood existed. He began to believe his own stories of fiction; began imagining a happy life ahead. Afraid to lose her, and blinded by the sudden rush of emotions that he hadn’t encountered in a long time, he had started to believe that love without physicality could exist forever. Kevin looked down at his feet. A single ray of sunlight had penetrated the layers of clouds and landed upon his right sneaker. Yet, he still couldn’t get a glimpse of the sun. It was almost as if he was being teased; as if the sun and the clouds were taunting him and laughing upon his naivety. After all that is what he was: naive. He should have known that his lies and excuses would not keep her at bay forever. Human kind craves physical interaction. He should have told her the truth. Should have come clean with her before things got as intense as they did. She might have stayed or might have not, but then it would have been a lot easier. It wouldn’t have ended the way it did.

The beam of light had moved up to his shins. It shined up a patch on his dirty grey trousers. The clouds were shifting. Kevin looked down at the patch and noticed a small red stain down the front of his white shirt. He was bleeding again. He remembered rushing to the doctor, all those years ago under similar circumstances. All those tests and scans just to confirm what he had already suspected. Kevin had never understood why God would do this to him. It wasn’t his fault. He had never had any intolerance or allergies before. Just the same red patches and some other skin problems over and over again. Why should he be forced to suffer when it was his mother who had been careless in the past? Why did it have to be hereditary? The unfairness of the situation, and his helplessness in being unable to change the least bit about it had infuriated him in the past. All those sleepless nights crying himself to sleep, wondering if anyone would ever accept him knowing that he was a threat to anyone who got too close. Was love without a physical relationship ever possible? The red stain on his shirt shined bright in the sunlight. It had turned crimson as the ray of light crept gradually up his figure. He twisted his head in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the sun but his efforts were in vain. He would have to wait for the clouds to shift. That wasn’t such a difficult task after all. Waiting was something he was all too familiar with. He had spent the better part of his life waiting for someone to come along. Someone he could love and could expect to love him back. That waiting period had come to an unexpected end almost two years ago in a shady pub back in London. He had met the love of his life. He had given her all of his love and had received the same love in return. The only issue had been the very thing that he had dreaded for years. He had resisted sharing a bed with her using excuses that got lamer and more obvious overtime. He feared that telling her the truth would result in him being left all alone again. He was trying to convince himself that bodiless, impalpable love could thrive after all. He was not ready to come to terms with what he knew deep down was the truth. The sun shone down on his face. The morning light penetrated his deep blue eyes and made his features more prominent. It lit up his shabby beard and crooked nose. This moment was what he had been waiting for since he had started the climb. The sun in his face and the cold winter air ruffling through his hair, he had not felt this alive in a long time. He stood still for a minute taking in the mesmerizing view from the top. At the fifty seventh second Kevin Taylor closed his eyes and took a step forward. There was a blaring of a car horn, an image flashed before his eyes of her wrapped in a close embrace with a man he didn’t know, an ear-splitting scream and absolute silence.

‫�تؔ‬ ‫ا� �‬

‫زر��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ا� � �ِ ��ں �‬ ‫�‬ ‫�� ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ر� � �ا� �‬ ‫دا�ِ � �‬ ‫�‬

‫� و ر� � �ُ�� ‬ ‫� �ص و �م ا�� ‬ ‫� � ��رانِ �ر � ��ں ��‬ ‫ُا�� دور � �� ‬ ‫� �‬ ‫��ِ � � آ�� ‬ ‫� � �‬ ‫�� اب ��زاروں �‬ ‫� �‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫�تؔ‬ ‫�ت �ر و�ِ� � � وا� � �‬ ‫�‬ ‫�� دور � �� ‬ ‫�ں �� ‬ ‫��اں � �‬

Hanna Gatta

A TRIBUTE A graduate from the Indus Valley School of Arts & Architecture (IVS), and then a Fulbright Scholar at Parsons, Madiha Aijaz was an accomplished photographer with both experience and a variety of meaningful projects under her belt. She was also a teacher at IVS, where she helped develop the photography program, and recently was an adjunct faculty member at Habib University.

On Saturday, February 2nd 2019, photographer Ms. Aijaz passed away in Karachi. Her immense humility and mastery of her craft, combined with her eagerness to help students develop their work put her amongst a rare breed of teachers, especially in the design and arts scene of Karachi and Pakistanâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a breed that did not fear young talent. She was a giant contained in a petite ďŹ gure, and while no amount of words can ever encompass her, this piece is an attempt to pay tribute to her memory. Zahra Mukhi explores the notion of privacy and security within her community. Novaira Khan shares the screenplay she developed with Ms. Aijaz. And Mushba Said shares an abridged version of her photo series and an excerpt from her essay on her photoseries. Photo via

Maheen Zia

ZAHRA MUKHI

Madiha Aijaz was by far, one of the most talented, kind, and empathetic people I have ever met. I have had the privilege of learning from her. And she made me doubt and really hustle but she also taught me to carry that doubt with me and work alongside it, instead of fighting it. All of us, in her class were afraid of her, afraid of disappointing her, afraid of not being good enough when she would put in so much effort in making us learn. And I think, in the end, we turned out okay. But she was and always will be incredible. Photography was not something I was super confident about. I’m still not. But now, with every question she’s left with me going on like a broken tape recorder at the back of my mind, I at least know what and how to go about this craft. I will keep on questioning, as she taught me, and I will keep doubting but I will never stop creating. After an entire semester of going in and out of the field, towards the end before our final projects were due, she finally said ‘This is some great work, Zahra. Good job’. I cannot tell you how refreshing and reassuring those few words felt. I cannot tell you what her advice meant to me, to all of us. We still have her work to learn from, to inspire. I won’t forget that smile, the way you imparted your craft to us, with such passion and zeal it was awe inspiring. Thank you.

NOTE: In order to respect the integrity of the work of the contributor, the following work has been presented as designed and submitted to Ms. Aijaz.

The Internal Eye Zahra Sohail Mukhi

chapter one

A verbal invite to enter these homes. Jumping over the wall, is no joke. Creeping through gaps, is no joke. Invasion, is no joke. Homes are private fortresses To keep bad omens out, to allow chosen people in. No surprises remain. It is all straight, grey, linear. Brown, grey, green- from nature

Concrete laden with steel, metal, glass; Blends in, in the age of fear. Borders exist within galis, neighborhoods, cities. Hard ones, that cuss and stand ďŹ rm and look at us with anger and arrogance. Never letting us through. The us that is the Other.

NOVAIRA KHAN Writing for the screen with Ms. Madiha was a course that would always remain very close to my heart. She introduced me to a whole new magical world where the characters do not merely remain glued to the white pages of a notebook or a laptop screen; but rather live and breathe within our consciousness. Her humble demeanor and loyalty to her work made it a novel experience for me to be in her class. Her beautiful mind always bustled with unique and powerful ideas which reďŹ&#x201A;ected in her work and in her interaction with the students and the in-class activities. At times when my project would begin to stagnate with monotony and lack of creativity, she would breathe a new life into it by sharing anecdotes from her personal experiences, both as a human being and as an accomplished photographer. My screenplay would have never been the same without her generous and enlightening feedback. I still cannot come to terms with her unfortunate and sudden departure. But I believe the light with which she ďŹ lled our lives would stay with us forever and keep reincarnating itself in our creative endeavors.

NOTE: The following work has been presented in the typeface that was preferred and submitted to Ms. Aijaz.

ACT 1 The scene opens with us inside an auto rickshaw idle on a red traﬃc light. Inside it, we see an 18-something year old girl Sabeen, covered in a black ﬂoral chadar. The morning light is permeating through the rickshaw, illuminating half of her face. She is reading a book titled “Chemiﬆry for 12th grade”, such that her arms are slightly exposed. A motorcycle ﬆops next to her. On the motorcycle, a girl Sabeen’s age is sitting with her supposed husband. She is skinny and is wearing half-sleeved pink kurti with jeans. Her perfectly waxed arms are glowing out of her laced sleeves. Her head is covered with a scarf. She glances at Sabeen for a split second. They share a brief moment. We see from her POV that Sabeen’s arms are covered in small black scars. The girl’s glance immediately falls at Sabeen’s arms. Her expression shifts to perplexity, then to sympathy. Feeling exposed, Sabeen quickly hides her arms in the chadar. The girl looks away. The motorcycliﬆ is overtaking the rickshaw now. The rickshaw is now ﬆopping at the gate of Sabeen’s college. She gets out, pays the fare, and walks inside. We see her arms fully hidden in the chadar. Sabeen enters a hall. A small wooden board placed againﬆ a wall says “chemiﬆry lab”. She is late and feels hesitant to enter the lab. A hijab clad young teacher is seen ﬆanding next to a group of girls. One girl is pouring a pink liquid into a teﬆ tube while the reﬆ are observing. Sabeen looks around and spots her practical group ﬆanding in a corner. She quickly walks towards them before the teacher could see her. Her phone vibrates and she receives a message from her friend Zara. It says, “We’re outside sitting on the benches. When you are done, come outside.” Sabeen replies “Ok.” Sabeen produce a purple notebook and pencil pouch out of her bag. While the girls around her are gathered around the practical journal, she ﬆarts doodling in her notebook. We see a detailed pair of eyes being drawn on the notebook. good!(This was her comment)

ABEEHA IQBAL i am grieving. (3-2-2019) the death of my mentor a severe heart ache chaotic state of mind, unprocessed what will I do? i'm confused i'm grieving a loss an unbearable loss who would i look up to now? she was a gem so passionate can i ask for help? will you help me out like you always did? my heart aches you have departed you were too good for this world rest in peace

NOTE: The following is a very small excerpt of the authorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s project. This excerpt has been kept small so as to encourage viewers to experience Abeehaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s full project, by visiting her Carbonmade page: https://abeehaiqbal.carbonmade.com

https://abeehaiqbal.carbonmade.com /projects/7072258

MUSHBA SAID Your ﬁnal year of university is a big deal on its own, and what made mine special was Ms. Madiha. In fall, I met her as one of my teachers, and at the beginning of spring, my ﬁnal semester, I (and my fellows) lost her.

Despite the fact that I wasn’t close to her, there were many things I was planning; from learning more from her, to knowing her outside of university; from becoming a better photographer so that someday in the future I could show her my work and perhaps make her proud, to delivering that letter I wrote for her. Sadly, those plans will not materialise, at least not in the way I had hoped. But I have been fortunate to remember her on various occasions, from speaking on behalf of her students at her memorial, to designing this very piece. It’s strange to feel this tug at my heart everytime I see her photo, so before I start crying I’ll tell you about my project: This photo series has been abridged from 14 to 4 photos, with the ﬁnal one being her favourite photo. I decided to include the excerpt from my essay because she loved that essay the best out of all my work. And I hope that she approves of this little eﬀort. But until we meet again Ms. Madiha, thank you for the push and the warmth.

Fragile

Handle with care

‘Fragile – Handle with care’, is a photoseries in which I revisit my childhood memories at Hill Park. My aesthetic, full of blurred movements of children and using a child’s point of view, is intentional; my series line-up is deliberate, albeit inﬂuenced by my limited time and skills. I have chosen a particular narrative to present to my viewer, consequently telling my viewer what is worth seeing from a child’s perspective and what is not. I have even “packaged” the project, quite literally playing on the notion of packaging boxes, and thus inviting the notion of packaging for the viewer to play with. Additionally, my project has aimed to break away from the visual numbness of images and projects revolving around children and/or parks by developing this particular aesthetic. [...] The notion of childhood and memory itself is something deeply layered when examined through Sontag’s lens. According to Sontag: “A photograph is both a pseudo-presence and a token of absence […] they are attempts to contact or lay claim to another reality” (p. 14). This ties in very much with what I aimed to do through my project; to explore such an intangible notion such as memory and childhood and attempt to give it a form through photography, I attempted to lay claim to my past reality that is my childhood at Hill Park, as well as contact the childhood of the viewer somehow. At the same time, by taking these photographs, I was consequently participating in the reality, mortality, and vulnerability (p. 11) of these children’s childhoods, raising the question of ethics in the work of any photographer who uses the world/public as their subject. What right do we hold over others when we photograph and participate their realities? Is it the power that comes with the camera (p. 02) that gives us that right to appropriate? These notions are particularly strong across photography that has exoticised its subjects, or appropriated the poverty of the subject or their environment (the poverty porn problem, for example). That appropriation is present within my own project, where part of the reason for my choosing the blurred movement aesthetic was to feel less unethical about photographing children without their permission. That appropriation is present when I, a middle-class woman, return to this park every few days with my camera and my father (two elements of power), to photograph children belonging to working class and/or conservative families who cannot afford other forms of public entertainment, and who will not object to my presence because of the power dynamic present. And, yes, even if it wasn’t my intention to invoke these dynamics, they do remind us of how important it for a photographer to understand the power that comes with the camera and consciously make an effort to work through those.

THANK YOU

Thank you for the warm smiles you’d give in between critiques and questions. Thank you for the detailed, ever so thoughtful feedback. Thank you for pushing us out of our comfort zones and making us believe in both our abilities and our projects, albeit the hard way. Thank you for the humility you brought to the class; for always being apporachable even in your most disciplined moods. Thank you for teaching us to develop discipline for our craft—to understand and respect photography as a craft. Thank you for teaching us to do more than just see a photograph—thank you for teaching us to to feel this craft more deeply. Thank you for blessing us with your presence Madiha Aijaz. Words will never be enough, but it still feels necessary to say thank you to you. Thank you.

Thank

you

all

the

contributors for taking out the time and trust to share their

work

with

us.

understand how diﬃcult this must’ve been for everyone, and we at Kashf deeply appreciate with

these

being

trusted

contributions,

and feel honoured that we could publish this piece in her memory.

Rida Zahid Khan

‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�� ر �‬ ‫�ر� ��‬ ‫� �‬ ‫� رات � آ�‬ ‫� اب � �‬ ‫ ��‬ ‫ �‬ ‫� ‬ ‫� �� ‬ ‫� اب � د�� ار � � �‬ ‫ا� ا�� !‬ ‫ �ر � �‬‫��‬

Sometimes the yearning for change is just yearning to go back to something more comfortable.

Rumaysa Iqbal In May I dream of August. I dream of a stickier summer but awash with monsoon rain. I dream of pink ribbons around a cake, and around my brain. The month where they cut me out of my mother, and called it creation. Every August is rebirth. Every August is pain. I dream of new beginnings. August is my New Yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Day, my March madness, my fortune cookie, and my birthday cake. My Indian summer, a parable of lonesome dancing in my own vivacious way. Oh god I want for it to be August again! Every May I dream of August and the pouring August rain!

Dear Diary, This feels very strange. I haven’t written a single word – let alone a diary entry – since I was sixteen. I will be thirty-one next week and this will be my first birthday in fifteen years that I spend under the open sky. I still had 6 months out of my 15 years punishment sentence to complete, when yesterday I was freed of further detention. The word ‘free’ sounds alien to me. Letting someone go after fifteen years of imprisonment and calling him ‘free’… the idea nearly makes me laugh. I do not feel free. I feel vulnerable. The prison life haunts me. I have been put on probation and instructed not to leave the city for a month so I am living in an old shack that Billy - my fellow inmate- owns. Billy was only 11 months old in the prison life; his heart still hadn’t hardened from the cruelties of an inmate’s life. When I was leaving he offered me his shack and said I could live here for as long as I liked. Good old Billy! But Diary, I could not get a wink of sleep last night. The mattress felt too soft. The rotating fan gave me a headache. I never thought I would miss Dave’s -whose cell was right next to ours- snores; for the past ten years that had been my lullaby. The cellblock used to be chaotic till late at night when Gunman, the guard, shoved and locked everyone inside, threatening to give a good beating to anyone who tried to retaliate. The quiet here is deafening. So you see Diary, I am at a loss. I do not know how to feel. I have missed out on so many feelings in the past fifteen years. I am not sure if I will ever feel normal again. I had forgotten what it felt like to stare at the starry sky – the vastness of the sky compared to the confined prison cell scared the living daylights out of me yesterday. I had forgotten how the soft, wet grass felt under bare feet. Or how it was like to be able to sleep whenever you wanted and wake up without Gunman screaming in your ears. Is it not weird that now when I look back, I cannot remember anything but my prison life? How sometimes, some bad memories can completely replace the few good moments you had in life? I think prison life has changed me in ways I cannot fully fathom, and I don’t know how to be sane again. It’s true, time truly changes everything. I know you will not talk back to me, but don’t worry dear Diary, I do not mind. A prisoner becomes used to being ignored and disregarded. I just hope you are listening because I have nowhere else to vent out. For now, I feel mentally exhausted for the life that awaits me.

Omema Ahmed

Syeda Zainab Batool Rizvi

‫�ڑوں � ا� � � �ا � �ر �ا‬ ‫� � �� ُرك ��‬ ‫ � ا ن � � �‬ ‫�� ر� � �� ‬ ‫ا� دو � � �� ‬ ‫� � � � �ض � �‬ ‫� اك �ہ ��ى � �‬ ‫ا� �‬ ‫� � �‬ ‫�‬ ‫� � �ارى �‬ ‫� �ا�‬ ‫ا� ُ �‬ ‫� �� ‬ ‫� � �ار آ� �ارى � �ض �‬ ‫آ�ہ � � � وہ �ڑوں � �ض �‬ ‫� �‬ ‫ وہ � � �‬ ‫د�� ڑ � ‬ ‫� � � آواز � � د� �‬ ‫ز�� ‬ ‫آ� � ان �‬ ‫� � � � ا� �ے ��‬ ‫اور ا� � �� ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا� � ا�ق � � � وہ ُ�� ‬ ‫�‬ ‫� ا ن �‬ ‫ا� � � � � �ھ �‬ ‫�‬ ‫� �‬ ‫اول � � �م � اس �� ام‬ ‫� �� ھ �ار � �� ا �ام‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫اس �� رو � �م د�� وع ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫� � �ا �ار �ا� �وع ‬ ‫ا�اف � � �س � �رى وہ � �‬ ‫�‬ ‫اور �ج �‬ ‫ � �ھ �‬ ‫�‬ ‫� آ� � وہ ‬ ‫��‬ ‫��ں � ا�رے � �ن ا�‬ ‫� �رے ‬ ‫� ا� �‬ ‫� ��ھ � آ� � �ن ا�‬ ‫��ؔ �� ت �ر � � � �� ڑے‬ ‫� � � ا� � �� ں � � �‬ ‫ر� �؟‬

Syeda Zainab Batool Rizvi

AS I WALK Shazwin Syed Ali

As I walk, the barren earth under my feet whispers, failing to utter any clear words As I walk, the barren, the thorn, the rough heals with delicacy As I walk, unraveling the severity into simplicity, the green, the bright, the polished washes away by a single touch Heaving the charisma, spreading the love, here I come, as I walk.

Open Letter An open letter to you if you don't know how to let go

You have memories associated with people who have done you wrong and have caused your heart pain, so much so that you still ache to your bones because of them. Yet, you ďŹ nd a way to defend them in your head. You try so hard every day to preserve the good parts out of the bad, because some days you feel your spirit giving up on you and in those moments, the only thing that keeps you going are these memories. The memories that once made you so happy, you felt like you could own the universe. You are scared of moving on, of possibly ďŹ nding happiness, because everything is uncertain and everything has the potential to hurt you. People close to you can see the light in your eyes visibly teetering towards darkness, but you cling onto the pain because it still makes you feel something and something is better than nothing. Of course, time heals blistering burns. You relearn how to breathe fresh air again without choking on it. You learn to live with it too, but you never learn to completely let go. Even on days you forget to pray for yourself, you manage to muster the energy to pray for them. Not knowing where they are, you pray for them to be okay, even as you forget God is there for you too. But I am asking you to gently let the rope loose in your palm, it's causing you pain. You have forgotten you are only human. You love more than your capacity and it leaves nothing for yourself. Clinging onto old memories will not let you make new ones. Sure, you are allowed to remember your person as your person, but you are also allowed to move on and make new memories. So that ten years from now there are more things for you to smile about to yourself. It is time to softly embrace yourself. At the end of the day, you are all you have. Let go. You will ďŹ nd happiness again. You will be okay on your own. Eesha Iftikhar Qazi

Syeda Zainab Batool Rizvi

‫�اب‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ہ ��ن‬

‫‪ �� ،‬ز�� وزن � �� ‬ ‫�ر ر� � � ��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�� ؤں � �� د�پ �‪ ،‬دور �‬ ‫� �ا�ں � ر� �� ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ہ درازوں �‬ ‫� �ا� ��ں � � ا�� ‬ ‫ارادوں � � �‬ ‫� د�‪� � ،‬اب ا�� ‪� � ،‬‬ ‫�‬ ‫� ا� �‬ ‫� � �رے � ��‬ ‫� َ �ِ‬ ‫�� اب �رے � ��‪� � ،‬‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ا� دن �‬ ‫ز� � و �ار � �� ‬ ‫�ف � �‬ ‫ا�� آ� �‬ ‫در� �ٹ �� ‪� ،‬‬ ‫� �� اغ �� ‬ ‫�‬ ‫� ��ں � �اب ا�� ‬

I saw my skin, more to be seen by others and less to be owned by myself. When this thought became a realization, I decided to work on a project that captured skin as a dominant, unique texture that covers our body and whatever it carries within itself: the moles, the hair, the scars, the lines and stretch marks as the reminiscent of our lives on our body, that will remain with us and will speak for our uniqueness. The decision was to not write, draw, paint, sculpt or film this idea but rather, to photograph it. It was made because of the following quote: "I myself have always stood in awe of the camera. I recognize it for the instrument it is, part Stradivarius, part scalpel”, Irving Penn. For this idea left me with an awe of how our skin and its beauty will always find the frames of this tool called ‘camera’; a very small space to be fully displayed in. But the violence of this tool will make you see the very few specified details in each photograph. It will also make you ponder that there are inches and inches not covered and hence, inches and inches of beauty not explored, not praised. The allurement of your skin is a fascination you should come to love and accept, and that sense of acceptance and ownership is what I aim to spark through my work. This is change. A realization that will take time to manifest itself. A loving way of looking at yourself and hence, the manifestation of this contagious magical love will lead you to love all you see beyond the constructs, beyond the norms. The love you'll find with a little change of heart.

Hanna Gatta

pa r t of t h is world

you like to look at the world from afar, in denial thinking you don’t belong to this huge commons, that you’ll never be part of this vast land of beauty. but will always be immersed in the ocean of possibility. my dear, darling child don’t you see? open your eyes no matter how far down the ocean you go you’ll always ﬁnd something to land on and you’re just as much part of this wonderful terrible world as me. please come back to the surface

the abstract poetess

CHANGE BL

This year has been all about change for me; good change I believe. One of the biggest things that has changed in my life is who I associate myself with and who I call my friends. Through this photo essay, I tried capturing some of the things I associate with my friends. Of course, it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t do justice to the kind of people they are, but through this, I wanted to oďŹ&#x20AC;er a perspective of some of the ways I see them through.

‫� �‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا � � � � �‬ ‫� �‪،‬‬ ‫� وا� �وا�‪،‬‬ ‫اور �‬ ‫� � �‬ ‫� �‪،‬‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ�‬ ‫�‬ ‫� �� ا� �� ؟‬ ‫�‬ ‫� � �� ‬ ‫�� اِ� � �� د �� ؟‬ ‫� ا� �� ڑے دان �‬ ‫�‪،‬‬ ‫�� د� د �� ‪،‬‬ ‫ر ّدى � � ڈ� �� ‬ ‫�‪،‬‬ ‫�� د �� ‪،‬‬ ‫� �د رات �‬ ‫�‪،‬‬ ‫� �� ے �‬ ‫�۔‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫� � � �� ‪،‬‬ ‫اُن � �اب � ا�ر‪،‬‬ ‫�ن �� ؟‬

‫�� ا� � �� ا� � �‪،‬‬ ‫�� ‬ ‫ا� �� ‪،‬‬ ‫رات � �� ‬ ‫�‪،‬‬ ‫�� آ� �‬ ‫�‪،‬‬ ‫�م � �� ‪،‬‬ ‫�� ‬ ‫�� ‪،‬‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا� ر� د �� ‪،‬‬ ‫��‬ ‫� �ب � �� ‪،‬‬ ‫� �ان � � �‬ ‫�!‬

‫�‬ ‫ا�ان �‬ ‫ر��‬

SA Aamir

As we live, we fall in and out of love, with various people and things. Once university life started, following orientation week, as classes began, I was flooded with work, readings, research, papers and more work. Over the next couple of weeks, I read more and more of the required readings and less and less of what I usually read. I am, or as I should say, was an avid bibliophile before university. After joining Habib, I had no time left for leisure reading. I remember when I used to go to bed with a book and my mom would close the door as she said goodnight. I would read for a while and a couple of pages in, lose my sense of time, only to have mom knock again, “Beta fajr ka waqt hogya hay bas kardo!” I would not feel time pass me by because I loved losing myself within books. Fast forward to university life, and all my favorite books of fiction and fantasy novels stared down at me from my shelf with expectant, longing eyes. I saw their corners looking down upon me, angry in abandonment. A few semesters went by without me reading, and over time, I kind of lost my passion. I guess one has to keep feeding the roaring fire that is within, or with time it flickers down to a tiny ember. Since I am more a complainer than a doer, I would only talk about reading again and miss the feeling of

getting lost in books. I spent so many semesters sitting down on my own and giving myself an ultimatum, ‘I will try to finish a book before this semester ends, no matter what’. Fear struck. What if it’s too big? What if I won’t have time? What if I start doing bad academically? However, as I slammed open the first book, I found the voices hushing up themselves. For my first book, a couple of years into university life, I wanted something short and easy to read. I chose ‘Animal Farm’ by George Orwell, not very thick, easy to read and fun. At first, it was difficult trying to take the time out starting again; something I had given up. I started off slowly, just reading a page or two, during the van ride to campus. It took a while for me to realize this was not for a course, it was for me. Few pages in, a world began to form in my imagination, that of the one in the book. As I kept reading, I found the pages turning slightly faster. The words flowed a little easier. As difficult as reading in the school van was the first week, with constant speed breakers and horns blaring in the 7 am Karachi traffic, it gradually got easier to engross myself in this other world. Soon, the noise outside got quieter, overtaken by the voices of the characters. Where I was reluctant at first to begin reading as a hobby again, it only took a few weeks for me to start having fun again. Waiting at the

stop, I was no longer alone. Having lunch, but with ‘1984’ open in front of me, ‘Animal Farm’ completed and behind me in a few weeks of slow paced reading. I was no longer on the farm, I was Winston as he walked past the ever present eye of Big Brother. Albeit a longer book, took a couple of months for me to devour and I wanted more. The Catcher in the Rye began, and I was Holden, on some sort of wild cliff, trying to catch others. Van rides back got more eventful as I turned on my phone’s flash in the dark and kept reading. The ember inside of me growing into a roaring fire. What happens next? Just one more page, growing into just one more chapter, and then… just one more book. The last book I read the previous semester, made me an offer I could not refuse. ‘The Godfather’, where I was both on campus and wandering the lot at the same time, going to the mattresses as Sonny waged war, the empire assembled, crumbling and rising from the ashes again. After many years, I felt alive again, journeying through these books and exploring new worlds. One of my favorite writer George R.R Martin wrote, “‘A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies’, said Jojen. The man who never reads lives only one.” I had feared that I would never feel this feeling again, because I kept delaying it for so long. But reading these four books last semester made me feel that the books never hated me. They were simply waiting, like an old friend. The fear of starting reading again crippled me, and it got to a point where I would only complain about not reading without even trying. “JUST DO IT”, screamed the Shia Lebouf in my head and I did it, with a smaller book and a smaller goal, just for fun. It grew to three more and the ember within had been rekindled to keep growing. Summer vacations are close, and I have so many more books to read, worlds to explore, things to learn. So if you are too shy and tentative to pick up something you left off, restart a venture you dropped, or to simply revisit something that gives your soul peace, what are you waiting for?

p. 18 – Cute wooden signs hand drawn by freepik via Freepik.com p. 18 – Anchore designs collection by mariia_fr via Freepik.com p. 33 – fountain pen vector by Mr. Oga via thenounproject.com p. 68 – Hand drawn ﬂower set by rawpixel.com via Freepik.com p. 69 – Collection of spring ﬂowers by freepik via Freepik.com p. 69 – Torn paper background by Harryarts via Freepik.com p. 81 – Watercolor background with blue waves by freepik via Freepik.com p. 85 – Creativity ideas light bulbs doodle collection vector by rawpixel.com via Freepik.com