Perhaps the inherently insular nature of the capital city worked to the advantage of the fifth Islamabad Literature Festival (ILF): we saw greater concentration on our national literary figures.

Yes, the festival was less international than the ones in Karachi and Lahore. Yes, the city’s languid pace meant that the ILF lacked the frenetic energy that’s characteristic of the KLF and the LLF. And yes, attendance seemed a little on the thin side, though I might have misjudged: the people who would have otherwise lingered around the bookstalls could have been escaping the heat to go linger in the food hall — if there’s one thing the festival could have done without, it was the unbearable, suffocating heat.

That aside, it was a pleasant enough weekend in Islamabad as the festival provided something for everyone. There were panels featuring the much-loved Mohammed Hanif (whose presence reigned over all panels, whether he was there or not), in conversation with Bilal Tanweer and Hoori Noorani; a tribute to Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi; Fasi Zaka’s much-loved sociopolitical commentary; performances in Urdu featuring Nimra Bucha and Sarmad Khoosat, and Syed Nusrat Ali; two panels on Pakistani writing in English featuring Muneeza Shamsie; the fiery Kishwar Naheed and the great Iftikhar Arif; Sherry Rehman on gender violence and media (ir)responsibility; a jam-packed Urdu mushaira alongside one in English featuring old and new voices; Arfa Sayeda Zehra; literary star Omar Shahid Hamid alongside up-and-coming Sabyn Javeri; the fantastic-as-always Anwar Maqsood; performances on Ismat Chughtai’s work; the pleasantly surprising return of H.M. Naqvi; and, saving the best for last, a humorous and welcoming panel with the Zara Hut Kay team from Dawn News.

While some of the discussions about language were tired, this year’s ILF redeemed itself with a focus on national literary figures

There were others not mentioned here, all of whose sessions were appreciated and well-attended.

Intentional or not, the lack of international names seemed to answer back to the seasoned critique of all our national literary festivals — that they cater only to the “English-speaking elite.” The ILF was universal: there were English-language panels alongside those in Urdu, political figures, social commentators, performances, poetry and prose — the works.

It was wonderful to see how huge a crowd the Urdu panels drew, leaving no seat unoccupied and indeed, no standing room either. Perhaps this was because of the fact that the Urdu-language pieces were mostly performances, mini-plays, recitations and monologues. The English-language panels were largely humourless talks and long discussions about abstract (and frankly, a bit tired) topics. The Urdu mushaira was a resounding success, although it ended on a controversial note with an audience member shouting “Shame on you, Kishwar Naheed!” (She had criticised army men, so perhaps it’s not too surprising.) The performances on Ismat Chughtai’s stories were delectable and Bakhtawar Mazhar is a fantastic actress. Anwar Maqsood’s session was predictably full to the brim as he, along with his wife Imrana Maqsood, brought to bear the characteristic humour everyone has come to expect.

The English-language panels on literature covered conversations that, to be blunt, we’ve all heard before. ‘World Literature in English’ and ‘The Development of Pakistani Writers in English’ discussed our burgeoning writers (and if I had to hear the names Mohammed Hanif and Mohsin Hamid one more time, I may have walked out — it’s 2017, we have more than two writers now). We know the term ‘world literature’ otherises us. We know remnants of imperialism and colonialism play into the politics of translation. We know English-language-everything runs the risk of the loss of regional culture. We’ve talked about colonialism to death, about deteriorating Urdu readership, about the cannibalisation of all regional languages. That said, however, there were some refreshing moments. “It’s not important what language is being used,” said Navid Shahzad. “What’s important is the benchmark of excellence that’s being used. We have to keep in mind that English is the language of choice of people who speak more than one language.” She continued, “It’s a matter of reaching a wider audience. How would we do that if we keep writing in Urdu?” To this, I thought, hallelujah: we can finally move past the tiresome colonial-vestiges-are-robbing-us-of-our-culture argument.

Returning to the literary scene after an eight-year disappearance was H.M. Naqvi. In 2009 his book Home Boy promised to put him amongst the country’s literary figures, but he quietly vanished after that. On Sunday, alongside Fasi Zaka, he was back to talk about his upcoming novel, The Selected Works of Abdullah the Cossack, a book that promises to be the Next Big Karachi Novel. Naqvi sat on stage with his shirt buttons undone halfway (the ‘writer look,’ if television shows are to be believed), and in his slow, lilting drawl, flat yet melodious, read out a passage from the book. He described Cossack as an epic that spans the history of the city through the protagonist — characterised as a metaphor for Karachi itself. Abdullah, much like all of us, is weaving his way through love, life, and his place in the world. To anyone with links to Karachi: you should be excited about this book. It promises to be (all puns intended) epic.

Drawls, it seems, make for the best speakers. Sherry Rehman was another who stood out, impressive with her colloquial yet well-spoken inflection, her casual yet elegant manner, her opinionated yet open-minded rhetoric. Regardless of one’s political affiliation, one couldn’t help but be drawn to her well-executed remarks on gender imbalance in the country, and indeed, across social class. “How many of you are still going to the Sindh Club?” she said. “I’ve stopped going. Their membership rules are as patriarchal as the rest of them.” And on the media; “It’s not a bread factory. It’s not a business. It can’t keep running for profit. Mardan didn’t happen in a vacuum — the media is just as responsible as the government.” The hall was almost fully occupied, and the question-answer session revealed some of the most engaged, involved audience members one could hope to see.

The decision to involve sociopolitics was good as it brought a more varied crowd. However, for all the commentary, the recent incident in Mardan was not given its due attention. Unsurprisingly, it did crop up at various panels, but this felt more cursory than urgent; more a prop thrown in for the sake of keeping things topical than something to be interrogated, investigated, be horrified by. It felt — like many of our national tragedies — as if it were something that just happened to still be within our week-long attention span, on its way to becoming a statistic later recounted the next time something like that happened. I felt there was something more that could have been included: a dedication, an in memoriam, an official mention by the organisers. Something to drum in the tragedy and to hammer home the need for events such as these to counter the mentality that killed Mashal Khan.

This presence of politics seeped into the literary panels as well. “All literature has been political in one way or another,” a panellist contributed. “Literature is a nationalistic enterprise,” Mushtaq Bilal said. “It’s always a dialogue with the nation-state.” (Ilona Yusuf disagreed, as did an audience member — “I must say I take offence to what Mr Bilal has said.”)

I’ll be honest: I’m not fully convinced either. Until now I’ve been happy thinking of the literature festival as an escape: a warm bubble of likeminded individuals gathering together to share, encourage, challenge, and create. In a nutshell: the ILF.

The writer works for a non-profit organisation focusing on education in Pakistan

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, April 23rd, 2017