I almost didn’t go to the vigil in London for Sabeen Mahmud. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to honour her memory but because I am heart sick and sad. How many more of our bravest and best must fall? How many more vigils must we attend? How many more candles must we light? How many slogans must we chant? And what do vigils achieve anyway? Nothing changes. The number of attendees is always so pitifully small, our message so monotonous, our presence so insignificant to the powerful that we may as well be invisible, inaudible. But in the end I went because I couldn’t not.
How many more of our bravest and best must fall?
Later I learnt that Sabeen never shirked a vigil or a demonstration. She considered it her duty as a citizen. Though irked by the snickers of those who stood on the sidelines and mocked the ‘mombatti mafia’ she just kept going. Except once, angered by the lethargy of her detractors, she lashed out on social media, ‘For years people have mocked us and laughed at us for our small numbers. You doubted our motives. You questioned our agendas. You bastards. If you had joined us, we wouldn’t have been so pitiable. We would have had a movement by now.’
For years people have mocked us and laughed at us for our small numbers
As we – the usual clutch of protestors – stood on the rain-soaked pavement in Lowndes Square outside the Pakistani High Commission, raising our slogans, holding aloft our sputtering candles and damp pictures of Sabeen’s bespectacled face, someone from the gathering turned to me and asked: ‘Was she a friend of yours?’
‘No,’ I answered. ‘She wasn’t.’
I did not know Sabeen Mahmud. I had heard of her of course. As the founder of and moving spirit behind The Second Floor – a space for artists, writers, poets, activists, stand up comics, philosophers, story tellers, dancers, musicians, techies, environmentalists and some times even the wackiest of odd balls – she provided a much needed forum where creative people could gather and exchange ideas in complete freedom in an otherwise locked-down Karachi. Having spent a couple of years in Karachi, I know what it takes to run a genuinely free space in that lawless city where only the gun commands respect.
I know what it takes to run a genuinely free space in that lawless city
So I knew her by reputation. I knew that she was creative and courageous and passionate and determined and bright and joyous and hard working and free – free from the strait jacket of social convention, free from the tyranny of fear, free from the paralysing lure of money. She was a facilitator, an enabler, a defender of people like me. But she still wasn’t a friend. Because I had never met her, never talked to her, you see, never shaken her by the hand. And not being a huge fan of Facebook I am not a Friend to those I have never met.
Sabeen never shirked a vigil or a demonstration
But unbeknownst to me Sabeen Mahmud was my friend. For what is a friend if not someone who defends your rights? What is a friend if not someone who infects you with their enthusiasm and inspires you with their courage? What is a friend if not someone who shares your vision, respects your freedom and values your ideals? What is a friend if not someone who watches your back? What is a friend if not someone who lays down her life so that you can live freely? Sabeen Mehmud was my friend in the truest sense. Rest in peace Sabeen.
I had never met her, never talked to her, never shaken her by the hand