BLUEPRINT: The University of God —Rakesh Mani

Are you a Pakistani who happens to be a Muslim, or a Muslim who happens to be a Pakistani? Are you an Indian who happens to be Hindu, or a Hindu who happens to be Indian? Flag first, or faith?

Like many others, I read last week’s column by Yasser Latif Hamdani (‘Faisal Shahzad’s radicalisation’, Daily Times, May 10, 2010), the lawyer and writer, with considerable interest. He discussed the radicalisation of the Times Square would-be bomber, Faisal Shahzad, and traced his hardline ideology to the rabid agendas of Islamic organisations on American college campuses.

As a graduate of an American university myself, I know exactly what Hamdani is talking about. I agree that these organisations engender a sense of religious belonging and fervour amongst their members that can often prove dangerous. As Hamdani has rightly pointed out, most of these fanatical (or getting there) members are not foreign students, but Americans — first or second generation immigrants with Islamic backgrounds. And I agree with the argument that the overt religiosity of the immigrant communities has a lot to do with the pull-and-push of multiple identities around them that they are trying to make sense of.

But a few questions still linger unresolved in my mind. In almost all cases, why are the most religious and fanatical American Muslims of Pakistani origin? Several Arab, Indian and Indonesian Muslims are also members of these Islamic societies, but their faith seems to be cut of a different cloth. Why is it that only Pakistanis, and some Egyptians, seem to be obsessed with faith? The argument that the years of General Zia’s rule indoctrinated young minds and pushed them towards religion only applies to those who grew up in Pakistan, not those who grew up in suburban US.

Furthermore, why have other immigrant communities in the US not had similar problems balancing their religious identities? Why do we not hear of Jains, Jews, Buddhists and Hindus having trouble reconciling their religious identities with the culture around them? And even if they do have trouble, how are they able to deal with it internally? Why are they not building religious associations at American universities that preach radical worldviews and a parochial way of life?

Around the time that I was a student at New York University (NYU), two events occurred that illustrated the stark difference in the way different religious organisations operated. The first was the incident involving the controversial cartoons of the Prophet (PBUH). The NYU daily newspaper had intended to publish the cartoons to inform its readers of the source of the controversy. The Islamic association rallied thousands, including the university’s president and several deans, to stage a protest in the heart of the campus. Eventually, the paper’s editorial committee decided against publishing. Fair enough.

On the other hand, around the same time there were several major controversies surrounding the depiction of Hindus and Sikhs in films and the use of Hindu chants during some questionable movie scenes. Hindu and Sikh religious councils registered their protests, but Hindu student organisations on campus were muted. They seemed almost disinterested.

Never once in my academic career have I ever been approached by a Hindu, or Indian, student organisation asking me to join. And despite my attendance at iftars and Shabbat dinners, never once did any fellow student question me about my personal choices. The same is the case with several of my friends of different nationalities and religions, from Jews to Jains. Their personal choices were sacrosanct.

On the other hand, several Muslim friends have recounted weird stories of being confronted on campus. A female friend from Karachi, who attended an elite institution, habitually dressed in shorts during the summer and enjoyed a good drink at the pub every weekend. She was subjected to e-mails and phone calls from ‘sisters’ who would ask her to think about her behaviour. They even accosted her on her way to class, telling her that they knew she was at a nightclub the night before and did she know that such behaviour was sinful? My friend resorted to brusque replies and a different route to class.

Hamdani called Islamic student bodies the “guardian of all Muslim organisations on campus” but in reality they tried to behave like the guardians of all Muslims (or pseudo-Muslims) on campus. Oddly enough, most other communities on campus seemed to be able to wear their religious identity lightly and to keep it personal. No, there is something else that is the matter here.

The best answer to this conundrum seems to come from a fundamental question: are you a Pakistani who happens to be a Muslim, or a Muslim who happens to be a Pakistani? Are you an Indian who happens to be Hindu, or a Hindu who happens to be Indian? Flag first, or faith?

It is perhaps an unfair question. Today, we understand ourselves as composites, often contradictory and even internally incompatible. But despite these contradictions, we understand who we are as people. We nurture religious and national identities simultaneously, without one interfering with the other. And yet, paradoxically, it is a powerful question that many religious people cannot answer readily.

But when, and if, you do hear a measured response to that question, it provides a better insight into the dilemma of contemporary identity politics than anything else. Just over a year ago, a Pakistani friend and I asked several people this very question for an essay we were researching. We were shocked that most Pakistanis were more likely than any other to be willing to subordinate their state to God. And I am sure that if the question were extended to pro-Hindu fundamentalists, their answers would be similar.

I wonder how our countries can be expected to prosper if religious people (the vast majority of our citizens) harbour only a secondary allegiance to the state.

Perhaps Pakistan’s fixation with faith has to do with history — because it was a country built on the principle of religion. But if anything, Pakistan’s travails over the last 60 years have proved that religious ideology alone is not a sufficient basis for nationhood. The creation of Bangladesh (Muslim-majority, but Bengali) from East Pakistan was the first major blow to this idea and the nationalist aspirations of the Pashtun and Baloch people threatens to be the second. It is undeniable that two Bengalis of different faiths will always have more in common than a Bengali and a Punjabi of the same faith. Cultural similarities will always outscore religious differences and religious faith is, finally, a poor unifier.

The real challenge, and the ultimate solution, lies in getting citizens to think and talk about these ideas. Be sure that it will not be a never-ending debate, but a conversation through which choices can be made, values defined and defended. It must be a debate between people, and within people.

We, the people of the subcontinent, must resist the surrounding clamour of illiberal, religious voices and unwind national traditions of excessive religiosity. Perhaps soon these struggles will be remembered as the birth pangs of a new era. It helps to ponder over Rumi’s prophetic lines:

“Har Sooay baang-o-marghalay;
Har Kooay shama-o-mashalay;
Keh eem shab jahaan-e-haam-e-lay;
Aayad jahaan-e-jaavedaan.”

[Whichever way you look there is a din of tumult;
Whichever way you go there are flames and torches;
For tonight this world is heavy with labour pain;
To give birth to a world, which will forever remain.]

Rakesh Mani is a 2009 Teach For India fellow, and a writer. He can be reached at rakesh.mani@gmail.com