From Darkness to Light
Anchita Ghatak There is a new story of intolerance everyday in my country. I no longer know whether these stories shock or upset me anymore. Or if they have become part of the background – things I have learnt to live with. Like children begging on the streets. It is a disturbing truth but I have normalised this tragedy and I live my life. However, in the present scenario of Kamalhaasan’s film being banned, Salman Rushdie being kept away from Calcutta and Durga Vahini women wanting to ban an exhibition of nudes, comes the news of three young girls from Kashmir, whose voices are being stilled. Teenagers, three of them, formed a band and participated in a concert. Yes, they showed initiative and drive but did what many young girls like to do – had a good time. We don’t know whether they were immensely talented, we’re not sure if these girls would have persisted with their band, which they call Praagaash – from Darkness to Light. Some reports suggest that Praagaash means morning light. It is highly likely that schoolwork would have left them very little time to hone their musical talents, or like many other kids they would lose interest and move on to other things. Or maybe, Praagaash would have been a sustaining force in their lives, allowing them to dream big and pursue their artistic ambitions. But it seems that many people do not think that three young girls making music and having a good time is something to be encouraged and supported. We know that Kashmir is a disputed place. Many of us empathise with and support the struggles that the Kashmiri people have been having with the Indian state. We believe that there has to be an end to state violence and muscle flexing in Kashmir. The Kashmiri people want autonomy and dignity and many of us believe that they must have it. The Governments of India and Pakistan, as well as many other political groups need to stop trying to control different sections of Kashmiris. In a climate where people are struggling to be heard, one would expect that three young girls doing something new would be a cause for celebration. Rock music is male dominated and Praagaash was the only girls’ band in the contest that took place in Kashmir in December 2012. After coming into the limelight, the girls’ band came in for much online abuse. They were accused of being immodest and betraying both Islam and Kashmiriyat. Media reports tell us that venerable elders like the Grand Mufti of Kashmir have asked the three girls to stop playing music. The three band members were frightened, two of them have reportedly said that they will not make music and all three are apparently in Delhi. The Chief Minister of Jammu and Kashmir has spoken in favour of the girls. Of course, we need to ask why things have come to such a pass under Omar Abdullah’s Chief Ministership that girls cannot form a rock band. I am disturbed because here we have another instance of girls being stopped from making decisions and discovering the world, in the name of culture and tradition. I cannot understand why the Grand Mufti felt compelled to control three young girls. Does he have a vision of Kashmir where girls cannot be free? Is his Kashmir about schooling girls into a compliant submissiveness? The Grand Mufti is perceived by many Kashmiris to be too aligned to Indian interests and consequently, not a ‘legitimate’ Kashmiri voice. However, newspaper reports suggest that when it comes to controlling girls there is does not seem to be a difference between how the issue is viewed by many Kashmiris – those who believe in azaadi – and the Grand Mufti. I could not help but recall the efforts of Asiya Andrabi and the Dukhtaran e Milat making various attempts to impose an ‘Islamic’ dress code on Kashmiri women and trying to browbeat them into acquiescence. Their efforts have certainly met with some success though perhaps they have not gathered as many people into their fold as they would have liked. Sexism and misogyny are ingrained in India. Does it have to be the same in Kashmir? A vision for azaadi must encompass freedom and equality for all its people. This equality has to take into account various axes like class, caste, community, religion, gender, ability and so on. The idea of Kashmiriyat has to be redefined to make it equal and inclusive. Women and girls are forever controlled by a bogey of ‘culture and tradition’. The impression created is that culture and tradition are unchanging and immutable. Culture is fashioned by people – it is born out of their lives and is, by its very nature flexible, accommodating and changing. Tradition too adapts to changing mores and times. The challenge for Kashmiriyat is to bring in all the elements that will make Kashmir free, equal and inclusive. Despite the climate of fear that the name calling on social networking sites and the Grand Mufti’s so-called ‘fatwa’ have created, many artists and politicians have spoken out for the girls. At present, the girls seem frightened and silenced but it is important that the state administration, as well as the parents, teachers and friends of the girls and also the mass of Kashmiris are able to give them the support they need and the girls are able to resume a life that allows them to learn, explore opportunities, take risks and challenge stereotypes. Those of us who dream of freedom and equality are waiting for Kashmir and its girls to blaze new paths with determination, courage and confidence and rid us of our fears and suspicion of the uncharted and unknown. ————————————————- adminhumanitiesunderground.org
Everybody say Ye-Ye!
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h4AA6EuZe-k] Michael E. Veal A humid weekend night in the early 1990s. The scene: outside the Afrika Shrine nightclub in Ikeja, Lagos, Nigeria, home base of the legendary Nigerian musician Fela Anikulapo-Kuti and his thirty-piece orchestra, Egypt 80. Even though the ubiquitous, machine gun toting soldiers of the Nigerian army have a well-deserved reputation for making the lives of ordinary civilians miserable, they are decidedly peripheral to tonight’s scenario. The Shrine is understood to be Fela’s autonomous zone, where his own anarchic, hedonistic law prevails. The atmosphere is festive as the audience enters, a mixture of students, activists, rebels, criminals, music lovers, and even politicians, policemen, and soldiers arriving incognito. They make their way through the sea of traders hawking their goods by candle light snacks,drinks, cigarettes, and marijuana as the sound of the Egypt 80 spills from inside the open-air club. After purchasing a ticket and being frisked for weapons at the doorway, audience members enter the interior of the Shrine, a semi-enclosed counter-cultural carnival of funky, political music, pot smoking, mysticism, and provocative dancing. Four fishnet-draped go-go cages, each containing a loosely clad female dancer grinding languorously, rise out of the smoky haze. A neon light in the shape of the African continent casts its red glow over the stage. In addition to more food, drink, and marijuana vendors, the rear of the club houses an actual shrine a large altar containing religious objects and photos of Fela’s Pan-Africanist political heroes, including Malcolm X, Marcus Garvey, Kwame Nkrumah, and Sekou Toure, and his late mother, Mrs. Funmilayo Anikulapo-Kuti. The Egypt 80 band has been playing since midnight, wanning up the crowd with classics from Fela’s older recorded repertoire, such as ”Trouble Sleep” (1972), “Why Blackman Dey Suffer” (1972), “Lady” (1972), “Water No Get Enemy” (1975), “Opposite People” (1975), “Sorrow, Tears and Blood” (1977), “Dog Eat Dog” (1977), “Beasts of No Nation” (1986), and bandleader/baritone saxophonist Lekan Animashaun’s “Serere (Do Right).” The band is awaiting Fela’s arrival, so these songs are sung by various band members, including Animashaun (known around the Shrine as “Baba Ani”), second baritone saxophonist Rilwan Fagbemi (known as “Showboy”), Fela’s ten year- old son Seun, and artist/musician Dede Mabiaku, whom Fela often referred to as his “adopted son.” Fela, the “Chief Priest of Shrine,” finally arrives with his retinue around 2 A.M., to tumultuous applause. Dressed tonight in a tight purple jumpsuit stitched with traditional Yoruba symbols and shapes, he makes his way through the crowd to the stage and salutes his audience with the clenched-fist black power salute. He steps up to the mike and pauses, surveying the crowd with mischievous eyes while taking intermittent puffs from a flashlight-sized joint in his hand. Finally he speaks: Everybody say ye-ye! The crowd roars in response, and Fela segues directly into the profane, no-holds-barred criticism of the country’s leaders he has offered his audiences for the past two decades: Bro’s and sisters, if you want to know how corrupt this country is, that word “corruption” has lost its meaning here! Fela arches his eyebrows, thrusts his chest and stomach out, and marches around the stage in imitation of the arrogant and obese ogas (literally “bosses”), men of importance who parade their wealth around Lagos in the midst of suffering: “Yeah, I’m corrupt, man!” The crowd bursts into laughter, and Fela continues his monologue: In fact, corruption has even become a title in this country! In Germany, they have President Kohl. In America, they have President Bush. In England they have Prime Minister Major. Here in Nigeria, we have Corrupted Babangida! At the mention of their president, the audience shouts in deafening unison “Ole!” (Yoruba for “thief”). Fela switches into pidgin English and recounts an incident in which the president was snubbed by French president François Mitterand during a recent state visit: When Corrupted Babangida go for France, Mitterand no wan meet am. He go dey send a cultural minister. He go say Nigeria be nation of thieves. The man was disgraced. When he came back, the fucking army was kicking ass all over Nigeria! Na how many students dem kill fo’ dat one? The crowd roars in laughter and approval, the Shrine now rocking like a revivalist church: You see, bro’s and sisters, I know dem. They are nothing but spirit beings. They are the same motherfuckers who sold Africans into slavery hundreds of years ago. In fact, the same spirit who controls Babangida controls Bush and Thatcher too. Everyone is here to play their same role again, and I want you all to know that tonight; Babangida, Obasanjo, Abiola, they have all been here before. That’s why I call this time the era of ”second slavery.” They don’t have to come here and take us by force our leaders sell us up front. Everybody say ye-ye! The audience shouts “ye-ye!” punctuated with cries of “yab dem!” (abuse them). Bro’s and sisters, I’m gonna play for you now, a thing we call M.A.S.S.”Music Against Second Slavery.” Fela spins around and sternly surveys the orchestra members, who stare at him intently. Slowly, he begins to clap out the song’s tempo to the band, wiggling his slender body to the rhythm. Though short in stature, he wields enormous authority onstage. A guitarist begins a serpentine single-note line, accompanied by a percussionist thumping out a thunderous rhythm atop an eight-foot traditional gbedu drum laid on its side. The audience indicates its growing excitement by yelling Fela’s various nicknames in response: “Omo Iya Aje!” (son of a powerful woman [literally “witch”]), “Baba!” (father), “Abami Eda!” (strange one, or spirit being), “Chief Priest!” “Black President!” Fela raises his hands above his head and waves the percussionists and rhythm section in. Time itself seems to slowly shift along with the sticks and the shekere rattle, whose steady chirping frames an intricate tapestry of spacy rhythm. Stepping to his electric organ at center stage, Fela begins to improvise around the rhythm with greater and greater density. At the height of his solo, he waves in the