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A former bureaucrat’s writing of immense power and stark prose originally done in the early 1970s explores Pakistan’s lost tribal wisdom. When Jamil Ahmad wrote The Wandering Falcon, it was after a successful career in the civil service spanning more than two decades.
Serving mainly in the tribal areas and Balochistan as a political agent, he was also a minister in Pakistan’s embassy in Kabul in 1979 at the height of the anti-Soviet war and then retired as the chief secretary of Balochistan.
Nothing came of the manuscript for years, until a year or so ago when Ahmad’s younger brother, Javed Masood, heard about the Life’s Too Short Short Story Prize on literary critic, Mahvesh Murad’s radio show and submitted Ahmad’s work. Riveted by these stories, the founder of the journal Faiza S Khan sent them out to editors, least expecting Ahmad’s novella would become a literary sensation. Penguin picked up the rights to publish the work internationally.
Perhaps it is never too late for 79-year old Ahmad; perhaps he waited unknowingly for the right time when the politically beautiful out of Pakistan is sought after. Set in what is Taliban heartland where drone attacks and conflict leave behind no semblance of the past, his stories of ‘the forbidden areas’ lend rare insight. Engaging and poetic — karmic, almost, they are about the passing of an old world, its gradual replacement by a world of documents and the many dreams that are crushed along the way. (“The pressures were inexorable. One set of values, one way of life, had to die. In this clash the state, as always, proved stronger than the individual. The new way of life triumphed over the old”)
“Today’s tragedy is that people talking to the tribes have no understanding of their language, their taboos and tribal ethos. When you look at what happened in Iraq and the dreadful mistake made there was a lack of understanding of the tribal system causing great upheaval. Every war in Africa and Asia has an overlay and underlay of tribalism,” Ahmad says, while sharing with the Herald his experiences of Pakistan’s unforgettable tribes and how so many stories were told through the years over cups of tea.
Q. There’s a phrase you see on book jackets: a debut writer and young talent to look out for. Your debut book was written in the early 1970s, and then picked up by an Indian publisher only last year. Why the three decade hibernation?
A. In 1970s Arthur Murray in London wanted me to convert it into non-fiction and I refused; then The Atlantic [magazine] wanted to publish one of the stories but that didn’t materialise. I thought I’d done my job. I felt deeply angered and full of sorrow as I saw nomadic life ending, so when my wife Helga said I shouldn’t waste my time writing poetry and after 15 years spent in the tribal regions, I should tell their story, I did just that.
Q. These are stories of first-hand experiences with the tribes you knew well. You traveled with members of the Afridi clan into Tirah Valley when no government representative had dared. Did you find them hostile and suspicious of government officials?
A. My motivations were simple at the time. Field Marshal [Ayub Khan] had talked of development for Tirah in 1962 when I was the political agent for Khyber Agency. So I thought I should examine the area before planning and some associates from the Afridi clan were kind enough to take me. I spent six nights there, incognito of course. The sights and sounds are described in these stories. The tribesmen had a tremendous sense of humour. Tribal humour is unique; it’s not banal or superficial. They always had a story or anecdote and developed their argument with logic.
Q. These are “forbidden areas” that many don’t have access to, infamous as hotbeds of terrorism. How did your characters find their way into in a world of harsh physical conditions, cruel traditions and patriarchal social codes? The story of the woman trying to cross the border post with the Quran on her head when she is shot dead comes to mind.
A. The personal element varies from story to story. I may have heard about an episode through tribesmen in some instances. In The Death of Camels I knew Sardar Karim Khan Kharot, Naeem Khan and the General and I had met them when I was the political agent of Pashin in 1959. They were charming, good people and in the story I don’t change their names. And yes I heard the story of Gul Jana and Dawa Khan in 1963 trying to cross, and the firing on the tribes that happened in Gulaach , the divide between Balochistan and the Frontier, killing them.
Q. And has much of that world changed in significant ways?
A. For me the tribe is the elemental building block of the human race, it is struggling but still survives in some ways, and is the fairest and least tyrannical of societies. Zia committed these people to be used as fodder for the Afghan war in 1978. Religion was a weapon financed against the Soviet Union. For instance, the tribesmen were peaceful. In the late 1970s, the government set up camps for Afghan refugees where training for Afghan jihad was given. The seed was sown with the Afghan war.
Q. Tell me about your interaction with the tribes-people, their problems, their demands when you were chairman of the tribal development corporation from 1971 to 1973?
A. There’s little understating of the tribal system today but back in my time there was at least some attempt at understanding the region and its uniqueness. Development is a fallout of sound administration. When the government secures justice and security, the tribes have faith in the state and its representatives. In one particular instance the tribes of Chagai came to me over a water feud which they didn’t know how to settle. It was an arid desert area and water was sold. This was the 1960s. I appointed a water chief for the area and devised a settlement after discussions.
Q. Were the tribes ready to accept decisions from government agents and has that relationship changed with growing geo-political influences?
A. I was in the tribal areas directly until 1973, and then indirectly until 1982. I witnessed marginal changes in that the political agent’s role didn’t change but it was a position that carried over from the British. In fact historically his influence and opinion was even accepted by the Viceroy. He was loyal to both the tribes and the government. I felt I had dual responsibility: if I felt the tribesmen were right, I would advise the government as such. In my time, there was a requirement for a political agent to speak the dialect of the region and take an exam in that. I spoke Pashto. It’s hardly the same these days.
Q. Your prose is uncomplicated, your stories real. Stories told of brutal tradition with wise characters but honour-bound customs that haven’t changed with time.
A. Please understand that what I’m saying in these stories is that the tribes draw a clear line between right and wrong abiding by a code of honour. The difference being in a capitalist society a politician would take whatever action is in his self-interest. Here in The Sins of the Mother, the Sardar doesn’t use his privilege and exonerate his daughter but he is honour-bound.
Q. The Sins of the Mother leads to an ‘honour killing’ and in some ways nothing has changed for women with jirgas awarding punishment. How has this idea of honour that underlines most of your stories survived through centuries and still remains part of tribal life?
A. Let me tell you tribesmen don’t throw acid on their womenfolk that is so common today in urban cities and towns. Women living with these tribes are often as independent as men. I’ve met women raising gangs to arrange the death of their husbands. They have walked alongside their men for miles carrying rifles. The treatment towards women also varied from tribe to tribe. Women were consulted as decision-makers. Physical wrongdoing towards women is far more prevalent in the low lands and plains than among nomadic tribes.
This interview appeared in the June, 2011 issue of the Herald.
The Herald is Pakistan’s premier current affairs magazine published by the Dawn Media Group every month from Karachi.
