Muslimimaa Pakistanissa naiset etenivät armeijan johtoon aiemmin kuin Suomessa – HS:n haastattelussa tarinansa kertoo ydinase­valtion ensimmäinen kolmen tähden nais­kenraali

KUN kenraaliluutnantti Nigar Johar sai uransa alkuvaiheessa kutsuja virallisiin tapahtumiin, ne oli usein osoitettu majuri Joharille ja ”hänen vaimolleen”.

”Ei minulla ole vaimoa”, Johar sanoo nyt hersyvästi nauraen Pakistanin armeijan päämajassa Rawalpindissa.

Vastaavaa virhettä tuskin enää tapahtuisi, sillä Johar tunnetaan ympäri maata. Hänestä tuli kesäkuun lopussa ydinasevaltio Pakistanin ensimmäinen kolmen tähden kenraaliksi nimitetty nainen. Suurimmassa osassa maailmaa naiskenraaleita ei vielä ole nähty.

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How TNN covers the tribal regions of Pakistan with one foot in radio, and the other on digital platforms

Reporting from conflict zones is risky business anywhere in the world. But in Pakistan’s restive border region with Afghanistan, formerly known as the Federally Administered Tribal Areas, or FATA, it was nearly impossible. 

The inhabitants of this semi-autonomous area were subject to different, colonial-era laws and for years, they were stuck between two warring sides: militants like al Qaida and the Taliban versus the Pakistani military. This made the region largely out of bounds for journalists and left the locals hungry for news.

But against those odds, Tribal News Network, a radio news organization, emerged to fill this void in 2013, working from Peshawar and delivering news to the tribal areas in the local language, Pashto.

Read the entire story here.

Beenish Fatima, 27, on naispuolisena poliisin ylitarkastajana harvinaisuus Pakistanissa: ”Univormussa minusta tuntuu, että kukaan ei ole uhka ja selviän kaikesta”

Pakistanin neljänneksi suurimman kaupungin Rawalpindin Civil Lines Circle -poliisiasemalla on kiireinen päivä. Ihmisiä ramppaa sisään ja ulos.

Poliisin ylitarkastaja Beenish Fatima, 27, istuu pöytänsä ääressä oliivinvihreässä univormussa, pitkät tummanruskeat hiukset nutturalle kietaistuna ja tummaa huulipunaa huulillaan, tiukka ilme kasvoillaan. Leuan alla roikkuu sininen kasvosuojain; koronavirus on saapunut Pakistaniinkin. Seinällä on taulu, johon on listattu kaikki tämän kaupunginosan ylitarkastajien nimet viimeisen noin kolmenkymmenen vuoden ajalta. Viimeisimpänä – ja ainoana naisena – komeilee Beenishin nimi.

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Parturi ansaitsee pari euroa päivässä, mutta töitä on pakko tehdä – HS:n reportaasi vie Pakistaniin, jossa köyhät joutuvat valitsemaan nälän ja viruksen välillä

VILKKAASEEN tienristeykseen Pakistanin pääkaupungissa Islamabadissa on pystytetty pieni parturinpuoti vanhasta toimistotuolista ja puunrunkoon nojaavasta peilistä.

Kuuden lapsen isän Abad Alin on saattanut nähdä täällä sutimassa partavaahtoa asiakkaidensa naamaan autojen keskellä joka päivä kohta 12 vuoden ajan. Mutta kun koronavirus saapui Pakistaniin, Alin oli pian kerättävä kamppeensa ja selvittävä ilman tuloja noin kuukausi.

”Olen kohdannut paljon vaikeuksia. Avasin puotini vain muutama päivä sitten”, hän sanoo. ”En saanut ostettua kaupoista ruokaa velaksi.”

Pakistanin koronavirusrajoituksia alettiin purkaa toukokuun alussa, vaikka tapaukset Pakistanissa lisääntyvät rajusti päivä päivältä. Keskiviikkoon mennessä todettuja tapauksia oli kertynyt lähes 46 000 ja kuolemia lähes tuhat. Pakistan oli niiden maailman 20 maan joukossa, joissa koronavirustartuntoja on todettu eniten.

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Poliopaniikki valtasi Pakistanin

JOUKKO ruskeansävyisiin burkhiin pukeutuneita naisia tungeksii Pakistanin Peshawarin suurimman sairaalaan vastaanotossa. He yrittävät saada aikaa lääkärille. On toukokuu ja muslimien paastokausi ramadan, mutta sairaalan käytävillä on vilinä.

Kolmen lapsen äiti Rainaz kantaa puolitoistavuotiasta poikaansa käsivarsillaan odotellessaan vuoroaan. Poika Muhammad Ali on kärsinyt ripulista, ja Rainaz uskoo sen johtuvan pari viikkoa aikaisemmin saadusta poliorokotteesta, vaikka lääkäri ei ollutkaan samaa mieltä.

”Ripuli alkoi heti, kun hänet rokotettiin”, Rainaz sanoo.

AFGANISTANIN lisäksi Pakistan on yksi maailman kahdesta maasta, jossa vielä esiintyy poliota.

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Before Sanna Marin came Benazir Bhutto

On December 10, Finland’s left-wing Social Democrats, who lead a five-party coalition government, picked 34-year-old Minister of Transport and Communications Sanna Marin as the country’s new prime minister.

The decision made the relatively unknown politician an international celebrity overnight – after all it is not every day that a woman as young as Marin gets the chance to lead a country. Countless articles and news reports published and broadcast across the world celebrated her sudden rise to power as a “feminist victory” and praised Finland for its “progressiveness”.

Marin’s premiership has clearly been perceived by many in Finland and beyond as a manifestation of Nordic gender equality. But is Finland really that unique for having a young, female leader? And more importantly, is having a woman leader definitive proof that a country reached gender equality?

According to this measure, Pakistan, a country often branded “deeply conservative” and “patriarchal” and even considered one of the most dangerous in the world for women, for example, was seemingly as progressive as Finland over 30 years ago when Pakistanis elected a 35-year-old woman, Benazir Bhutto, as their prime minister.

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The Reluctant Propagandist

It’s 7 a.m. in Kabul. As usual, hundreds of thousands of cars are stuck in traffic jams around the city, where police checkpoints, Humvees, and blast walls congest the perilous streets. Taxi drivers in faded yellow Corollas roll up their windows and try to shoo off street children blowing heady incense — meant to ward off evil spirits — inside their cars. Policemen yell “boro, boro” (move) through the loudspeakers of their dark-green pickups. Fruit sellers calmly navigate the madness, pushing heavy carts laden with dark-red pomegranates, juicy grapes, and Pakistani mangoes while dust lingers in the air behind them.

Here, nothing is ever certain: Any minute, a bomb could go off, destroying families, livelihoods, and hopes.

But in this chaos, one thing is a constant: the energetic voice of Massood Sanjer, one of the hosts of a popular morning show called Safay Shaher (or “Cleaning Up the City”) on Arman FM, the country’s first private radio channel. Although exact numbers are hard to come by, his show is undoubtedly one of the most widely listened-to in Afghanistan.

“If you walk on the street between seven to eight, you just open a car’s door and you can listen to it,” Sanjer says.

Almost everyone tunes in while commuting to work, getting through their morning chores, or standing in line in front of a bakery.

Over the past decade, Sanjer has become a celebrity in Afghan media. His ability to find humor in serious matters brings relief to Afghans who have suffered from war for four long decades now — starting with the Soviet invasion in the late ’70s, civil war and Taliban rule in the ’90s, and the past 18 years of increasingly worsening conflict between terrorist groups and Western-supported Afghan government forces. But more importantly, the fact that the show holds the country’s leaders to account for their incompetencies and apathy has given a sense of power to regular people in one of the most corrupt countries in the world. Every day, people from all over the country call in with their complaints about the security situation, lack of electricity, or any other issue they might be facing. Sanjer then calls the responsible authorities and questions them live on-air.

He is not even afraid to make fun of the Taliban:

“The Taliban had blown up the electricity [line] that brings it to Kabul. So we said, ‘Who paid you? Was it someone from outside of the border?’ Stuff like this. It’s very sensitive for Afghans if you make fun of them,” Sanjer says, sitting in his office.

The callers also join the fun, but sometimes they can get a bit carried away, which is why there is a 40-second delay in place. “Someone called a spokesperson a shit-talker,” he laughs.

This didn’t make it on-air.

In Afghanistan, radio is still widely listened to, and especially in rural areas it is the main source of news. Arman FM, whose name is Persian for “hope,” was launched in 2003, two years after the end of Taliban rule, and it is now one of the most popular stations, particularly in the country’s cities.

“We are the last door that people can knock,” Sanjer says with a relaxed smile on his face.

He is a voice for the powerless who would otherwise have little hope in getting their complaints across to the authorities.

But as famous as he is today, not everyone is aware of Sanjer’s past, of a time when he used to lend his voice to none other than the most deadly enemies of freedom of speech in Afghanistan today: the Taliban.

Read the full story here.

Pashtun pop is giving hope to Pakistan’s largest minority

Late at night at an overbooked venue in the heart of Islamabad, Pakistan, a young audience dances wildly to the beat of a Peshawar-based instrumental band. Some seem to have fallen into a trance while others clap and whistle enthusiastically. On stage, guitarist Aamer Shafiq spins his head as the song keeps picking up its pace. If it wasn’t for the Western attire of the audience, the concert could almost resemble an ecstatic Sufi ceremony. The band Khumariyaan’s music is a combination of the rubab, a traditional lute-like instrument indigenous to Central Asia, and guitars, creating an intoxicating, fast-paced fusion of the East and the West.

Not too long ago, all of this would have been unimaginable Peshawar. The Pashto language music scene in the city was almost nonexistent, and the Taliban had banned music for  many areas, forcing traditional musicians to flee the northwestern province of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. The rest of the country listened to mostly Bollywood and Urdu language songs, showing little interest in this region.

Enter Khumariyaan. Their blend of contemporary music with traditional Pashtun influences has taken Pakistan by storm in recent months, giving hope to the youth from the country’s marginalised and militancy-hit northwest.

Read the full story here.

In Pakistan, attacks on polio workers stop vaccination drive

PESHAWAR, Pakistan — It is early morning in the month of Ramadan, and Peshawar’s Lady Reading Hospital in Pakistan is packed with patients. Rainaz has come back here with her mother-in-law and 1.5-year-old son Muhammad Ali, who she believes is still suffering from adverse effects of a polio vaccine he received weeks ago.

“As soon as he was vaccinated, the diarrhea started,” said the mother of three, who withheld her full name for safety reasons.

Muhammad Ali was one of the over 25,000 children brought into hospitals all over the conservative province of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa on April 22, as mass panic spread following rumors on local news channels that children had fallen ill after receiving polio drops. Like the other children, he was sent home because the condition wasn’t serious and couldn’t be linked to the vaccine.

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‘China is after us’: Uighurs in Pakistan report intimidation

Rawalpindi, Pakistan – On a cold winter evening, Mohammad Hassan Abdul Hameed, 34, walks towards his restaurant, past silk stores in the busy China Market in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. 

He, like many others here, belongs to the persecuted Uighur community from the Xinjiang province ofChina. 

Abdul Hameed’s father arrived in Rawalpindi 50 years ago to work in a pilgrims’ guesthouse intended for Uighurs heading to Saudi Arabia for the annual Hajj. 

Today, the guesthouse sits abandoned in the market, not far from Abdul Hameed’s restaurant. 

According to members of the community, it was closed down at the request of China in 2006.

Uighurs have been migrating to Pakistan since the late 19th and early 20th centuries, some to work as traders and others escaping communist persecution. 

Read the full story here.

 

Today, China’s brutal crackdown on the community has made headlines around the world as up to three million Uighurs are believed to be held in so-called “re-education camps” where they are made to renounce Islam.