[sacw] sacw dispatch #1 (25-26 June 00)

[aiindex@mnet.fr]

South Asia Citizens Web - Dispatch #1.
25 -26 June 2000
http://www.mnet.fr/aiindex

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#1. Pakistan's Moral Majority
#2. Bangladesh: Women Are Defaced by Acid & Bengali Society Is Torn

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#1.

THE WASHINGTON POST
Washington Post Foreign Service
Thursday, June 22, 2000; A19

Pakistan's Moral Majority

By Pamela Constable

AKORA KHATTAK, Pakistan -- Far from the gleaming office buildings and
manicured army compounds where official power rests in Pakistan, Sami
ul-Haq has quietly built an empire of soft-voiced, sandal-wearing
followers that makes generals and bureaucrats quake in their boots.

Graduates of his Islamic academy in Pakistan's Northwest Frontier
province, Darul Uloom Haqqania, have fanned out through the region for
years. Many joined the Islamic Taliban militia in Afghanistan, and some
now number among its top leaders. Thousands more have taken up posts as
religious teachers across Pakistan, spreading the word of Allah and
preparing for the day their nation will become a true Islamic state.

"We don't need political parties or offices with signposts; every mosque
and madrassah [religious school] is our office," said ul-Haq, 62. "My
students are scattered everywhere, and whenever we need them they can
influence and gather the people." The country's secular leaders, he
boasted, "cannot dare to touch us."

He may be right. While Pakistan's Westernized elite has long repeated
the comforting mantra that conservative Islamic groups cannot command
more than a fraction of the popular vote, such groups have gained wide
informal sway among the uneducated, marginalized majority of poor and
lower-income Pakistanis.

Today, followers of ul-Haq and a half-dozen other leading Islamic
clerics number in the millions, with religious power bases in such
cities as Karachi, Lahore and Peshawar. None of these leaders claims to
seek a violent imposition of Islamic rule, as happened in Iran in 1979
and Afghanistan in 1996. In fact, their movement has been splintered by
personal and liturgical differences.

But while they have not succeeded in replacing Pakistan's moderate,
parliamentary version of Islam with their vision of a stricter religious
state, Pakistan's maulanas, or religious scholars, exercise a formidable
de facto veto over issues of Muslim law, culture and policy that not
even the country's military ruler, Gen. Pervez Musharraf, has felt
strong enough to challenge.

In part, their power is based on religious emotion; the ability to draw
excited Muslim masses into the streets. It also is based on the threat
of violence; some mosques and madrassahs have served as launching pads
for armed sectarian assaults, and many also trained devotees who joined
the Afghan "holy war" against Soviet troops in the 1980s.

=46or Musharraf, who espouses a moderate vision of Islam, the first test
of wills came in May, when he announced plans to modify Pakistan's law
against blasphemy, which regards an insult to the Prophet Muhammad as a
serious crime. Moreover, anyone who claims his religious feelings have
been "outraged" can bring a charge of blasphemy, and human rights groups
say the charge is often used to harass minorities.

Musharraf proposed a minor change that would require blasphemy cases to
be filed with higher police authorities to reduce frivolous or false
charges. But even such a modest alteration so infuriated Islamic leaders
that they threatened mass strikes and "agitation." Musharraf quickly
backed down, announcing that no change in the law was needed.

"We have so many other problems to deal with, especially the economy,
that we felt it was not the right time to get involved," said Religious
Affairs Minister Abdul Malik Kasi. In the past month, Kasi has been
visiting important mosques and madrassahs on Musharraf's behalf, seeking
to reassure Islamic leaders that the military government will not attack
them.

"The religious groups are not a threat to this regime," Kasi asserted.
"Most of them want to cooperate with us because we are trying to get rid
of corruption." At the same time, however, he acknowledged that the
government cannot afford to antagonize the religious right. "If we hit
them with a stick, they will hit us with a gun," he said. "We need to
have a dialogue."

Some secular critics say the army itself is more in tune with a strict
version of Islam than Musharraf. They suggest he cannot afford to
override the religious views of his more conservative aides, many of
whom rose through the ranks under the dictatorship of Gen. Muhammad Zia
ul-Haq, a rigid Muslim who held power in the 1980s. Moreover, the major
mission unifying Pakistan's army is its rivalry with India, the
Hindu-dominated neighbor from which Pakistan was split in 1947 at the
end of British colonial rule in the sub-continent. The army strongly
backs the "liberation" by armed guerrillas of Indian-ruled Kashmir--the
only Muslim-majority region in India. But despite the religious
overtones of their cause, military officials say there is no place for
Islamic fanaticism in the security forces.

"We have some men and officers who wear beards, but as a collective body
extremism is not tolerated," said Gen. Rashid Qureshi, the armed forces
spokesman. "A lot of us have strong views about Kashmir, but that
doesn't make us extremists," he said. "There is no fear of zealots
taking over."

While Musharraf may have the armed forces under control, his aides use
battlefield terms to define his wary relations with the religious right.
His reversal on the blasphemy law was a "tactical retreat," they said,
and he will bide his time before "opening another front" in the struggle
to build a modern, stable and democratic state.

But some religious groups are already opening fronts of their own.
Ul-Haq said most Islamic leaders supported Musharraf when he seized
power in October, largely because he pledged to curb corruption and
install a true democracy. But recently, he said, "vested interests" in
Pakistan and the West have been pushing Musharraf "in a secular
direction," while Muslim groups are trying to pull him back. "It has
become a tug of war."

One battle looms over who will control the vast network of madrassahs
that sprang up across Pakistan in the 1980s. These cloistered academies,
which teach mostly Koranic studies and charge no fees for poor students,
have replaced public schooling for hundreds of thousands of Pakistani
youths. The Musharraf government would like to broaden the madrassahs'
curricula and provide the academies with computers to help train
students for the modern working world. Some Muslim educators say they
already are making these changes, but all insist they will fight any
effort by the state to intervene in their private activities.

A second area of controversy is the role of non-governmental
organizations, mostly Western-funded aid groups, that operate in
Pakistan. Conservative clerics say many of these groups have a hidden
agenda to woo Muslim women away from their traditions and into a
libertine lifestyle, threatening the authority of Islam by promoting
divorce and careers for women.

"We have proof that these organizations are promoting specific causes,"
said Maulana Fazlur Rahman Khalil, an Islamic leader, in a recent
interview with a Pakistani newspaper. If women are allowed to work and
travel, he said, "it destroys our system, our families. Fathers suspect
daughters. Husbands suspect wives." In Europe, he asserted, women are
"ruined in the name of freedom" and "change husbands every night."

Rahman said also that he opposes the proliferation of satellite dishes
in Pakistan, because they spread "obscenity and dirt, which is being
promoted by the Western world. . . . I say don't impose the culture of
others on my people." In some areas of Pakistan, Islamic activists have
destroyed satellite dishes and cable TV operations.

Not all Islamic leaders take such extreme views, and some moderate
clerics suggest the reactionary rhetoric is aimed mostly at whipping up
political support through religious emotion. Tahir ul-Khadri, an Islamic
scholar who runs a chain of madrassahs, says religious fanaticism in
Pakistan is a reflection of its society and politics--not of Islam
itself.

"Our problem is not religion; it is poverty and illiteracy and political
intolerance," he said. "In 53 years, democratic culture has never been
promoted here. Our leaders have been dictatorial, our behavior has been
violent, our people have not learned to settle disputes peacefully and
respect each others' rights. This gets reflected in our religious life,
and this is what must change."

[Copyright 2000 The Washington Post Company]

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#2.

NY Times June 24, 2000

Women Are Defaced by Acid and Bengali Society Is Torn

By BARRY BEARAK

GOSARIGAON, Bangladesh -- The village elders met under a litchi tree,
applying their collective wisdom to put a value on Peyara Begum's
grotesquely ruined face.

The crime was hideous, they soberly agreed. A young man had become
obsessed with her, but she was married and he was turned away. He
took his revenge with sulfuric acid, to erase the beauty that had once
enchanted him and to empty her life of happiness.

Her cheeks melted. Her right eye was blinded and hollowed like a
crater.

But what is done cannot be undone, the elders said. The attacker had
been arrested. And his uncle, a respected religious man, had long
pressed them to hold a shaleesh -- or informal court -- to mediate
between the parties as is the tradition. He was willing to pay the victim's
family a reasonable sum to atone for the wrong and buy his nephew's
freedom.

So when the seven elders met in April, taking an unusually long time,
they tried hard to be fair. Some who had seen the horrible disfigurement
thought $10,000 a proper settlement. But others wondered aloud: his
had been a crime of wild passion. Do a man's emotions go so wild
unless a woman has done something improper? To them, $1,000
seemed enough.

And so the arguing went on for three hours.

In Bangladesh, such stories have become plentiful. In the 12 months
through March 1999, 174 acid attacks were reported. Most often, the
culprit is a spurned suitor.

No one is sure why this crime occurs here at such a high pace, for this
nation is not so different from many others in its poverty or its treatment
of women. Inexplicably, some aberrant ripple is moving through the
countryside. Nariphokko, a woman's rights group, has kept statistics:
80 attacks in 1996, 117 in 1997, 130 in 1998.

The horror for the victim is overwhelming. "It felt like someone had
poured boiling water on me," said Bilkis Khatun, a 13-year-old girl
attacked as she slept. Her right ear is now only a nub. "My mother and
father rushed in. They thought I was having a bad dream, but when they
saw my face burning, they shrieked."

Some victims die, but that seems unintended. The purpose of the
attackers is to manufacture a living hell, and in that there is most often
fulfillment.

Survivors are left not only with their deformities but also with the
peculiarities of village reckoning. One young woman was forced by her
parents to marry her attacker, solving the urgent matter of who would
support a woman unwanted as a bride. Another was forbidden to come
home until she allowed her husband to take a second wife.

"The man who did this to me is in jail," said Peyara Begum, her eyes
behind dark glasses that conceal her worst scars. "But I am in jail too,
and for me there is no door, no escape, nothing."

Early in April, she worried that there would be no justice as well. The
crime has a maximum penalty of death, but policemen and prosecutors
are often corrupt. Most attackers are never arrested; most of the
arrested are never tried. No one has ever been executed.

=46ifteen months had passed since the attack. A 20-year-old man,
Rakimuddin, who like many here uses only one name, is the accused.
Peyara Begum's husband, Afsaruddin, 38, had been forced to bribe
prosecutors before they would pursue the case. Medical bills had
already left the family destitute. He and his brothers had to sell off their
legacy, a parcel of land.

And now, to Peyara Begum's disbelief, the elders were agreeing to a
shaleesh, suggesting a bargain could be struck. This was unthinkable,
she said. It would seem like forgiveness.

Peyara Begum's village is Gosarigaon, 40 miles north of Dhaka. Her
home is made of tin and mud, in a clearing surrounded by mangoes,
banyans and mahogany. Rice paddies reach to the horizon.

The most respected man in the area is Moti Master, 74, a former school
principal whose stringy white beard goes well with his reputation for
wisdom. He had reluctantly decided to intercede; Usually, a shaleesh
settles property disputes and petty grievances. Brutal assault is not on
its agenda.

But Moti Master knew both the families and suggested that each could
benefit from a compromise. He said it surprised him when Mr.
Afsaruddin -- a quiet, well-liked man who sells cooked rice along the
roadside -- responded with uncharacteristic boldness.

"Haven't you seen my wife's face?" he said with anger. "My family has
been destroyed. This is not a matter about money."

But one of Mr. Afsaruddin's brothers was more open to settling. He
signed a paper for the family, and Moti Master said this was enough to
convene the elders. No outcome could be imposed on Mr. Afsaruddin,
but Moti Master said he felt confident that Mr. Afsaruddin would respect
the decision of his betters.

"My husband loves me very much," Peyara Begum said during these
fretful days. "But he is not a strong man, and I am afraid the influential
people can make him agree to a deal."

Since the attack, she had returned to the village only once. Her 8-year-
old son, Awlad, had been struck with errant splashes of the acid. His
burns were on his arm, chest and stomach. The two were living in a
house for acid victims recovering from surgery, the rent paid by a
charity.

There, secreted away, 20 women and the boy shared their common
grief, safe from insults and pity. Anger sometimes rose in a chorus. Just
once, they said, they would like to ask some man to marry them and
then throw acid in his face when he said no. Maybe then the world
would understand.

Most often, though, melancholy and guilt held sway. Bangladesh is an
Islamic country, and the victims asked themselves what they had done
to offend Allah.

Learned women from the rights groups of Dhaka are inclined to talk of
"frustrated gender relations," reproaching a male-dominated,
conservative society where boys and girls are not free to meet and get
acquainted. But the disfigured women are more likely to reach quite a
different conclusion, saying their nation has grown too permissive and
they would have been better off veiled, with their flesh out of sight.

"Now I believe in strict purdah," Peyara Begum said. "If I had been kept
under the veil, Rakim would not have seen me or been able to talk to
me. My life would not be ruined."

She told her story.

Mr. Rakimuddin, who lived on the other side of the litchi grove, had been
hired to tutor her two sons in their house while Peyara Begum worked
outside in the open kitchen, cooking the curry that was used by her
husband to flavor the rice at their modest stall.

After several weeks, his interest seemed to shift from his pupils to her.
"He said my husband was a bad match for me, that I was too beautiful
for him," she said.

She complained to her husband. The tutor was fired, but he continued to
come around. He professed love, Peyara Begum said. In exasperation,
she sent word to the young man's uncle, who is a moulvi -- a religious
scholar -- asking him to intervene.

Mr. Rakimuddin received a thrashing by an older brother, say some of
his family members. Soon after, he attempted suicide.

=46inally, near sundown on a cool winter night, Mr. Rakimuddin pushed
open the door of Peyara Begum's house. He held a cup in his hand, she
said. She was sitting at the table with her two sons and a niece. She
had begun to stand up when the acid hit her face.

Suddenly, her skin was searing. She ran outside. She howled for help.
By the time Mr. Afsaruddin was summoned, there was a small crowd.
He could make no sense of what he saw, he said, with his wife's face
"dripping down her head."

The nearest clinic was 10 miles away. They climbed into a bicycle
rickshaw and commanded the man who was pedaling to go fast.

When they reached the clinic, the doctor was dumbfounded. He had
never seen such an injury. He did not know what to do. He advised them
to go to Dhaka.

Peyara Begum did not get treatment for two days. There are only eight
beds for burn patients in all of Bangladesh, a nation of 128 million, said
Dr. S. L. Sen of the Dhaka Medical College Hospital. There are but six
plastic surgeons in the country.

She has since had six operations: skin grafts, reconstruction of her
eyelids. Her sight is gone in one eye and dimmed in the other. Aching
is constant. She can tolerate only the slightest heat.

"Rakim must be punished for what he has done to my life," she said
firmly.

But the young man's uncle, the moulvi Motiullah, had suggested another
path to the village elders. His nephew's imprisonment would not remake
the woman's face, he said. And even if it could, Mr. Rakimuddin's
conviction was no certainty. "A just compensation is best for everyone,"
he argued.

A shaleesh is not bound by legalisms. There is no set membership.
Any interested men can observe it, though decisions are usually left to
a smaller group of elders.

Moti Master presided. The meeting was very odd, he recalled. Neither
the jailed man nor the distraught husband was there. "Afsaruddin's
absence was very much felt," Moti Master said. "But I know him very
well. He can be talked to. He can be reasoned with."

So the shaleesh was assembled, and after an hour the old man asked
seven elders to go sit under the litchi tree and decide about the money.
He worried, he said. The judgment might be an unrealistic sum. Mr.
Rakimuddin's family was poor. How much could they pay?

Indeed, the appointed jury was concerned about the same thing. When
some of them suggested that 500,000 taka -- about $10,000 -- was a fit
penalty, others scoffed. Few people around Gosarigaon could raise that
much cash.

Those on the other extreme, who thought $1,000 a fair payment, also
raised the question of improprieties: maybe Peyara Begum had flirted
with the young tutor?

"We thought there might have been some kind of relationship between
the two," said Khander Abdul Mannan, who led the meeting of the
seven. "We didn't know, but we assumed: perhaps this, perhaps that.
We thought Peyara might be partly responsible."

Haggling ensued. The high end dropped to $4,000, the low moved up to
$2,000.

The lesser amount seemed about to prevail when someone mentioned
the couple's son, Awlad. His face had escaped injury, but his body had
been scarred.

"Why had this little child been made to suffer?" Mr. Mannan said.
"Peyara Begum may have shared in the blame but not this boy. We
were shocked and angry at this."

They finally agreed on appropriate reparations: $3,000.

The process had taken up an entire afternoon, and the members of the
shaleesh were satisfied that they had done the right thing.

But Mr. Afsaruddin -- that bony and meek seller of cooked rice -- would
not consent.

He would not turn against his wife.

Anwar Ali is president of the market where Mr. Afsaruddin has his food
stall. Mr. Ali is a prominent man. He attended Afsaruddin and Peyara's
wedding and considers himself their friend. But unlike them, he had
thought that deferring to the shaleesh was a smart choice.

"I urged him very hard to take the money," Mr. Ali recalled later, sitting
on a bench in the ramshackle market. "Afsaruddin acted like I was
crazy. 'What are you talking?' he said. 'Have you seen my wife's face?
Have you seen my son?' "

Mr. Ali paused a few seconds as he reflected on that conversation.

"I was a little ashamed of myself," he said.

______________________________________________
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