The Greek term cherophobia [fear of rejoicing] describes the fear of participating in activities that would be fun or make one happy. It does not describe a depressed person but is an irrational fear that, perhaps by embracing a happy moment, something tragic will follow.

Some feel guilt at being happy when so many are suffering. For some, happiness is an immoral emotion. Calvinists taught children that “to be happy is to be doing wrong.” Some artists and poets fear being happy will lead to a loss of creativity. The Japanese fear that being happy will make them inattentive to their surroundings and lead to a loss of control over their emotions.

And then there is Bhutan, which in 1729 declared: “The purpose of the government is to provide happiness to its people. If it cannot provide happiness, there is no reason for the government to exist.” In the 1970s, Bhutan’s king introduced gross national happiness

(GNH) as being more important than gross domestic product (GDP), as happy people are productive people.

Bhutan’s initiative inspired many countries who only equated well-being with GDP. Even the renowned economist Jeffrey Sachs established the Global Happiness Council. In 2013, the United Nations declared March 20 as the International Day of Happiness.

For some countries, national happiness is a goal worth striving for. The Pakistani state has ignored the importance of a happy populace — but that does not mean that the masses lack cheer

Sociologist Claire Wallace asks, “If money doesn’t make us happy, what does?” Instead of the usual work, family, housing, health paradigm, Wallace suggests socio-economic security, social cohesion, social inclusion and social empowerment.

These factors resonate in the context of Pakistan, which values ‘deep social ties and networks of mutual support.’ Adequate income is a subjective measure: a low wage earner is happy if he can buy his little girl a plastic doll; a wealthy man is happy if he can afford a booking at a hotel for his son’s wedding.

Being denied social inclusion is a fundamental factor in the sense of deprivation experienced by the migrants of 1947 or the province of Balochistan. The whole country feels disempowered, both internally as well as globally, leading to demotivation and a deep-seated despondency.

Pakistanis may not be a happy people, but they are a cheerful people. No gathering of college students is complete without someone with a half decent voice being coerced to sing to a beat drummed out on a wooden desk. Villagers in Hazara gather to harvest grass for winter feed for animals to the beat of a drum and shehnai, accompanied by dancers and folk singers, to make the work less burdensome. Pakistanis know how to entertain themselves, and entertainment is an important conduit for happiness.

Entertainment can be cathartic or a temporary respite from stress. It connects people, refreshes the mind and creates a space for reflection and creativity. Large numbers of people attend ghazal or qawwali evenings, mushairas, weeklong Sufi urs celebrations or village festivals.

Pakistanis love to eat out at the many food streets or chic restaurants. Games such as kushti, kabaddi, kite flying, kanchay, street cricket, gili danda, kho kho and barf pani have helped adults and children from village to city snatch moments of happiness in an otherwise gruelling life.

Cinema, once an essential part of life, has been replaced by television dramas. A whole generation grew up with comedy shows such as Fifty-Fifty, Alif Noon and Loose Talk, or the side-splitting satire of Mushtaq Ahmad Yusufi, Umar Shareef and Anwar Maqsood. At the worst of times, social media is flooded with satirical memes that turn helplessness into the illusion of empowerment.

While people find their own forms of entertainment at every possible occasion, the state maintains a deafening silence towards leisure and entertainment, with the exception of the PIA Arts Academy that shared Pakistani dance and music across the globe from 1973-1977, and a few sporadic attempts at developing culture policies that were never implemented.

Christophe Jaffrelot, in his book The Pakistan Paradox, presents an explanation that differs from the usual reasons given for the status of entertainment, such as the shock of Partition, the pressure to focus on economic stability, or religious reservations. He links it to the end of the Mughal Empire, whose vibrant state-endorsed culture was ejected by the British Raj.

The displaced and beleaguered Muslim elite became “those having a Mughal past losing to those with a British future.” The loss of empire was equated with years of ‘dissolute’ kings entertaining themselves with dance, music and poetry gatherings — reinforced by films such as Shatranj Ke Khilarri, Mughal-i-Azam and Umrao Jaan Ada — ignoring the great administrative achievements of the Mughals.

There continues to be a reluctance to provide spaces, facilities or funding for healthy public entertainment and the arts. The government has no track record of caring for the well-being of the people, only the fiscal progress of the country. It ignores the connection between a happy nation and progress.

Perhaps the ones who are afraid of happiness in Pakistan are not its people but the government.

Durriya Kazi is a Karachi-based artist.
She may be reached at
durriyakazi1918@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, EOS, August 4th, 2024