In an effort to be more mindful of my inner emotional state, I have been trying to decipher exactly how I feel about now-former PM Sharif’s disqualification by our superior judiciary. It hasn’t been easy, let me tell you. When the news initially broke everyone had such definitive opinions about it, and I envy the kind of blind simplicity that allows people to think in binary terms about such issues. One of the only upshots of abrupt ejections like these is that people tend to write long rambling posts online (which one imagines they may later come to regret). And so it was that I saw with interest the many people celebrating what they called a “new age” in Pakistan: The Age of Accountability. They smiled and cheered at how a powerful man had been “brought to justice” and how the power of dynasties had been challenged and delivered a decisive blow. The PTI supporters in particular have been vocal about this event, mainly because they believe their party is the one responsible for it.
But almost everyone else with a brain is about as confused as I am. I am still trying to figure out whether or not the courts decided that the PM was corrupt. As far as I can tell, he has to step down because of money he had not taken as a CEO of a Dubai company. Or is it that they discovered he had not declared an asset, found him to be “dishonest” and therefore unworthy of holding public office? I admit that on the one hand there is a deeply fabulous sense of irony that Zia-era laws (like a constitutional Herpes, they lie dormant until it’s time to disco) are the thing that have ended Sharif’s most recent stint as leader. But you know as well as I do that using subjective morality clauses to oust elected officials is not so much a slippery slope as a death drop into the abyss. It sets a dangerous precedent that allows morality rather than legality to be the justification for criminal proceedings. And that is not cool.
Many PTI enthusiasts, perhaps not always the brightest bulbs in the firmament, don’t yet realise that this is something that can come and bite their leader just as harshly as it can anyone else. I am left wondering if, hypothetically, someone is known to have had, say, an extramarital affair: can they be deemed “unfit” from the lens of traditional Pakistani morality and therefore unable to hold public office? What about if someone has an illegitimate child out of wedlock? Or lies about earning money? Or didn’t fast the whole thirty days? What about if they bought an illegal drug and, say, consumed it? What exactly constitutes being dishonest and who gets to decide that? I’m honestly very curious.
Some commentators have expressed discomfort over the invocation of articles 62 and 63, which originated from the regime of General Zia-ul-Haq
Maryam Nawaz, erstwhile political heir apparent to her father’s legacy, has also been implicated in the case along with two of her brothers. In a thrilling Agatha Christie-like firestorm of deductive reasoning, it was found that one of the documents she submitted to the courts that purported to be from 2006 was written in a font that only became available in 2007, and therefore was most likely a forgery. This was the turning point in a case that had otherwise been dragging on for months. To whomever was smart enough to figure that font thing out: you need to have a TV show immediately.
But regardless of whether or not you believe Sharif and his family to be corrupt, this process was shady. It was shady because it is so obviously a decision in search of a reason to exist. The technicality cited implied to many that that the courts (among others) had already decided the PM needed to step down, and were now simply trying to figure out how to make that stick. Even a cursory understanding of the law allows that a verdict come after the evidence, not before. See? Shady.
But the fact remains that Nawaz Sharif is no more and not likely to ever come back (unlike his hairline, which mysteriously ebbs and flows like the tides). There are also two other facts that keep being repeated again in op-eds around the world. The first is that no Prime Minister of Pakistan has ever completed a term in office. I admit that reading that surprised me a little, and forced me to remind myself that the only way Asif Zardari had survived his term in power was to ascend to Presidential heights, floating beatifically as a row of PMs fell like bowling pins below him. The second fact is sadly more disturbing: that our courts decided that every single military takeover in our history was legal.
So I am left feeling cautiously hopeful that accountability is now in fashion, but also slightly anxious that not every institution will be held to the same standards of accountability (far as I am from being either amin or sadiq, I’m choosing my words like a ballerina in a minefield). Popular as the verdict may be with urban Pakistanis, the truth is I feel rather uneasy, as if I’m staring at a small crack in the foundation of my house.
