Today’s Pakistan is a new Pakistan. It is not the Pakistan that was formed in 1947 after the partition of India. That Pakistan died in 1971 when East Pakistan became the independent nation of Bangladesh. It is not the post 1971 Pakistan because that Pakistan died in 2013 when the first democratic government in history completed a full term in office. This new Pakistan was born in 2013 and it offers new hopes and promises. It is asking too much of the Baloch people, but they must have faith in the new Pakistan.
The Baloch can learn from the example of the Mohajirs. The Mohajirs took control of the jugular vein of the country that is Karachi. The MQM has become one of Pakistan’s most important power brokers despite having only a small proportion of seats in Pakistan’s legislature. The Mohajirs today demand respect and representation because they can threaten to bleed the country if they are shoved aside, and on many occasions they have exercised their power.
Balochistan is an extremely vital province for the state. If the Baloch are able to take control of the Gwadar port, the gas supply that is likely to come in from Iran in 2014, and of the resource rich expanse, the empowered people will see economic prosperity. Full control of the province through democratic means will also mean that the Baloch, like the Mohajirs, will be holding a trigger to the head of Pakistan’s dominating political elite. This is the only way to impose a check on the power of those who have continued to neglect Balochistan. With economic prosperity and more regional autonomy, militant and separatist movements will be subdued. Balochistan will become a part of Pakistan’s political mainstream. It is true that Balochistan's case is far more complex than it seems in this article, however, empowering the people of the province and bringing it under state control would surely be the first step in solving these complexities.- Sharik Bashir
Sharik Bashir is a student at the University of Michigan. He is originally from Karachi, Pakistan.
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The breaths, when they came, were much shorter now. They were growing painful. With the echoing crunch of each footfall onto the leafy pathway, her lungs gasped and sputtered. Every breath was less efficient than the last; the air was harder, colder, and heavier so that as she ran she felt filled up with it, and slow, even as she desperately wanted more with every alternate fist pump. She had to get better at this, she told herself. Laboring through the second mile of her first week of running through the Conshohocken woods, Monika felt embarrassed by her childlike puffy red face and the sticky globs of sweat that sloughed off her chin, leaving grimy trails of dirt along her cheeks. With breaths clattering noisily off the boulders on either side of the pathway, Monika again reminded herself why she was doing this. The flap of belly flab she had grasped between her fingers this summer when she put on her old bikini. The way his smile had half-turned the first time she undressed in front of him. The once delicious feeling of his large rough hands running over her stomach, ended with them stopping and getting stuck on the deep folds in her flesh. Her embarrassment. No, she announced to herself, exhaling sharply for emphasis. This is not for him. She passed the huge fallen oak lying silent on its side like some nobly suffering old man. She had the same thought she always did. What was it that made the tree fall? What is it like, the moment a tree falls? What did it feel like: like the Earth’s bones shifting? She imagined herself sitting by the great oak when it stood, leaning her head against its thick unforgiving bark and smiling at its fatherly touch. She imagined its living grace, the strong push of its roots into the Earth all around her, like a web suspending her above something dark, and deep, and empty. She felt its gaze, not just on her, but on the creek a few yards away, and on the wide unblinking sky and on the crying red-tail hawk wearily stretching its wings after returning to the nest. She imagined it saw itself too, and all of them together as part of its sun and nutrients and home. She wondered what on Earth could make such a thing fall, such a thing end. Coming back to herself, she realized her breaths had become regular. Her arms, now covered in a sheen of sweat, were gliding easily through the air. She felt good. The oak had looked happy she thought. She stubbed her toe on a rock. Her legs passed each other wearily, and she was suddenly aware of the lack of space between her thighs. What did that mean, the oak looked happy? With a dark evening light dropping through the canopy, imbuing each leaf with a slight purple shade—a shadowy dullness made them seem heavy, Monika thought, I am happy. She was well past where she had ended her run the first day and was in a part of the woods she had never seen. She would turn back soon, run back the way she had come, but she felt too damn good. Better than when she had started running. With each step she dug her sneaker deep into the wet earth and, pushing off, lifted it in a dissolving clump of dirt. She felt her body, lean and strong, moving with her; she felt like a jaguar weaving through some humid jungle in Brazil. Her sweat in the dark became a thin sleek black coat of fur covering her body and making her just another soft strong part of the night. She felt tiny pine needles falling from the canopy above, clinging to her skin like rain drops. The whole scene swayed as a wind ran through the trees and she swayed with it. She was the swaying. Her clothes hung slightly behind her, too heavy to keep up, as she rocked forth down the forest path. She was a force of nature, a spirit of the wind, and these were her woods. Her body was perfect, in tune with the air and leaves and dirt. And rain. It was then Monika realized it was raining and had been for some time. Her clothes hung heavy behind her at each step because they were soaked – her arms were not covered in pine needles as she had thought, but in the long, thin lines of splattered rain drops. It can’t be past 4, she thought, still running. Why did I think it was evening? Then the whole woods went silent for a moment, as if taking a deep breath. And Monika stopped to look up at the wondrously dark sky. Then the sound. Not like thunder, or a roar, or a boom, but the deafening sound of no single event, no single source breaking the silence. It was the sound before all silence, the deafening, uniform, all-encompassing sound which silence only sometimes interrupts. The whole vibrating physical sound of which all noises were dilutions. Monika could not see, the sound was blinding. She could only hear— the sound of everything exhaling and transforming itself into that pure noise. It was the noise of the heavens joining the earth, the grating, scraping, everywhere sound of it, of the oceans rising up and sweeping over all the cities and mountains and valleys. It was the sound of everything being hit and then falling, of the trees heaving and toppling over. It was the sound of the rain. The whole world was rain and rain was a sound. And nothing dared move, for space fell away into the void of the sound. And nothing dared move, for time was caught in the hum and crash and scream and billions of tiny sounds of the sky coming down to Earth. And then Monika moved. She had to. She sprinted without form or grace, throwing her whole body forward, straining her neck and shoulders, her arms and calves just to escape the sound. Seeing only certain objects that somehow glowed out to her in the darkness, she barreled downhill, off the path, tripping over stones and shrubs as she careened through the darkness. Her neck hurt from her irregular heartbeat. Sweat popped out of her pores incessantly joining the rain. Her arms swung wildly, out of control. She felt a tree falling on her right, sweeping the air suddenly away and thundering into the ground not five feet from her. The ground shook, but there was no sound, no sound beyond the still crashing, falling, thundering, humming, shaking, breaking cacophony of the rain. Three deer streamed past, staying impossibly low to the ground like galloping rivers going to join some quiet ocean. But she could not escape the sound. There was nowhere to go. Her tears mixed indistinguishably with the rain pouring down her face. She was screaming and the screams had no sound. She ran and bellowed and then tripped over a large stone, gashing her left knee, leaving a chunk of ripped flesh and silent blood. Left leg splayed behind her and face in the dirt, she stretched her fingers wide and pushed her palms into the mess of leaves, needles, and mud. She yelled, “Get up, Monika. Get the fuck up. Take care of yourself, Monika. You are all a-fucking-lone in the fucking woods and he isn’t going to come. GET THE FUCK UP.” From above, the abandoned canopy poured down on her in a torrent, small branches, nests, webs, and acorns sliding down onto her prostrate body. Heaving herself unsteadily up, she raised her teary eyes to the hill in front of her. There, midway up, was a series of huge flat stones leaning against each other like a teepee, creating a cave at least five feet deep and some twenty feet high. She leaped off her right foot and landed on her left leg; it crumpled beneath her. Leaves stung her thighs and she tasted the salt of either dirt or blood in her mouth. Rising up again, she began haltingly forward, slowly but purposefully stepping. Her legs quivered with fear. Her breath shook and her shoulders pulsed crazily, squeezing her torso. She needed to get there. She needed to run there. She was going to die and it was all because he had hovered over her naked body, his arms shaking holding himself up, and his eyes saying nothing. And she had looked between his legs and saw that he wasn’t interested. And he just looked at her silently. Then he bit the right side of his lower lip and rolled off. She had gone to the bathroom, with a hand over her nose and mouth, sitting in the fetal position on the floor, cradling herself until she looked in the dirt-crusted mirror and saw her blood-red puffy face held between tear-soaked fingers. She’d lifted her arms to look at the way the rough terrain of her skin bulged down with gravity. It looked like her cheeks. It looked like the space just above her hips where the body gave up and left its waste like an ill-concealed landfill. She’d felt her bones pushing through the flab of her butt to rest uncomfortably on the tile. She had wanted to tear it all away. She had wanted to lie there in a puddle of tears and dirt and be left on the mirror, so somebody else would look in there and cry; so she wouldn’t have to be there any more. She would have disappeared. She took another step and frenziedly ripped off her mud-caked pink sports shirt. It wouldn’t scrape her arms anymore. She was only feet away now. The ground slid down beneath her feet, but she pushed her weight down to get traction, her face twisting and itching with sobs. Her whole body vibrated. Her whole body screamed. Her breasts strained against the cold tough fabric of her bra. Freezing, boiling water bubbled up through her toes with each step. She saw another tree on her left begin to fall. It was a 30 foot black pine. Slowly it twitched loose of the Earth and began sliding down. She saw it coming close to her cave. It would level the stones. She took one more step and she was in. She dropped down on the ground immediately and dragged herself to the back corner where the dirt was dry and brittle, sandy with only a few leaves crackling under her. She curled up, throwing her hands across her face and pulling her bare knees to rest against the heavy cotton. The dirt embraced her; for a moment she heard and saw nothing; she was ready to disappear. But the moment passed. She opened her eyes and unclenched her body, suddenly feeling the cloying touch of everything foreign on her. The tree must not have landed on the cave. The sound was not so bad here. It was a noise and not the element she was living in. She now heard its pounding on the rocks above her, its rhythmic pulsing, its waves. It could not get to her now. She was alone. And her body hurt. She felt every part of it angry and screaming, fighting for her attention, fighting to exist against everything. She was with her pain, alone. She unhooked her mud-covered, soaked sports bra and slid it off, folding it down next to her in the dirt. The brittle air rushed over her raw areolas and pink skin. She then shimmied her shorts off and put them with her bra. Her goosebumps made a space between her body and the outside world, in which she felt insulated, wrapped up. She was clammy and bright in the dark cave. She felt very close to the rain. Drawing her knees up to her face and wrapping her arms around them, she rested her chin on her right knee and quietly continued crying. Then she sniffled and stopped. She shivered. Monika stared out of the cave’s mouth and immediately stopped breathing. She had not realized how high she was. Monika saw miles of trees, their branches battered down and stripped of leaves by the rain. Their trunks swung in unison. It looked as if they were praying. And the branches sometimes rose and fell, always fluidly, rolling with the force of the rain. The trees were made into a huge ocean, the way ocean water is sometimes deep and green in the sunlight from above. The rain was the wind over the water. It pushed and pulled and moved the trees, forming waves and swirls and making the trees sputter and crash down on each other. They swung separately, wildly, and yet were a single tumultuous ocean, whose raging waters were now quiet from her vantage point. She could not believe she had been in that. And lived. Sitting in that tiny cave within and yet somehow above the storm, she couldn’t believe she had survived the chaotic, dangerous beauty. And the rain was not letting up. It became difficult to see outside as the water ran in rivulets off the roof across the mouth of the cave. The scene blurred. Monika breathed again. It felt like the first time in a long time. Continuing to shake, she rubbed her hand over her mouth then kept it there. She tried to look out at the trees but she was still afraid. And there was too much rain. Her hand moved from her mouth, down the slippery length of her neck. The tendons bulged and expanded with each breath. Moving down slowly, purposefully her hand brushed down between her heaving breasts to rest over her navel. Beneath it, creases in her tummy rolled and disappeared to reappear again. Her hand raised and her fingers played lightly across her skin, resting on the fat that covered muscle that covered the organs that had somehow kept her alive in that. Her eye was caught by a small grey spider hanging inside, inches away from the rain. The spider flipped over itself again and again, pushing out the tiny silver connecting thread. Then it dropped suddenly two feet down and swung to the side of the cave. It stopped there only a moment before carefully padding its way up the cave wall and swinging out again. Then it flipped over again and again. The spider had such mastery over its body. Its legs, hanging on the silk it had just lain, could feel the strain on the line, its strength, and what needed to be fixed. Leaning back against the cave wall, Monika stretched out her leg, now covered in blood and leaves and dirt. She watched the spider weave through the thin air, making its home where she had just crashed through so fearful and desperate moments before, where there had just been nothing. It looked like it was dancing through the rain. She felt the rain running over her shoulder, a congealed quiet stream passing easily down the cave wall, over her bare shoulder, breast, leg, and then down to sink simply, noiselessly into the dirt. Alone in that cave in the storm, cold and naked but alive, she had no idea what she was going to do next. She breathed out slowly.Written by Aaron Dockser, an Honours Writing student from Swarthmore University.
Photography by Negar Nakhai.
- Mischa Snaije
There are two bodies in the backseat of my brain, Exchanging long-winded lists of sins and ice-cream scoops. Their eyes are glued to the forbidden corners of unfamiliar discoveries. Without parting gazes, their eyes opened To more than just each others' bare bodies. Without moving lips, they vehemently changed The meaning of every conversation they ever shared. The space that once severed their unison Now wrapped them together in an invisible embrace, In a secret bond, their stares knotting their ties, Their whispers transforming strings into lace. They wrapped up their conversation in silence, With one pair of sleep-deprived eyes Protesting that love is merely an artful ploy Fashioned by delusional youth, Who, bemused and ensorcelled by the lyrical unknown, Insist on dipping their feet into what is but A desolate lake of fictitious reveries. In the last livid moments before the oncoming of darkness, The second pair of veteran eyes Conjures, in desperation, a fragmented daydream. There appears an imaginary punching bag: For every loving moment, comes a wanton destruction In conscious delusion. There, in the midst of their surrender, lies the blind awakening of two destitute beings in love.
-Mark Bonja
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Blasé dropped a bomb on the East Coast this past Sunday with the album Bad Wake Up. Influenced by artists like DJ Premier and that boom bap era, the tracks’ beats drum, and scratch, and screech into a fresh sound with a slight touch of French house, which everyone can touch and bump to. Produced by French New Yorker and Montreal-based artist Blasé, the record features six other MCs: Gabe ‘Nandez, Ioan Delice, Prime, Nil, ENxVE, and enemc. Gabe, Nil, and Blasé are based in Montreal where they often spit and spin at local venues. Blasé actually played a set at the GRAPHITE launch party, while Gabe ripped it at a show at Cabaret du Mile End this past weekend. The other three MCs featured on the record frequently tear up NYC. [soundcloud id='84723668' artwork='false'] Though at first putting the whole album together crossed into sticky territory—location and distance being the obvious obstacles—the end result is filthy in the best possible way. Vocals and beats mixed masterfully, Bad Wake Up’s title is deceptive: I would be down to set my alarm clock to “103.” [soundcloud id='84723667' artwork='false'] The album is available for free download here. Click the cover to start the automatic download. Support & Like ! Blasé Gabe 'Nandez ENxVE Prime Ioan Delice Nil- Elias Kühn von Burgsdorff