Spitting on the moon

It has always been the prerogative of children and half-wits to point out that the emperor has no clothes. But the half-wit remains a half-wit, and the emperor remains an emperor — Neil Gaiman.
Nothing is sacred. The rancour does not rest, even after four years. It is no longer simmering, layered. The patina of forced civility has slipped away so easily it is hard to believe it was ever there. The real face is not pretty, and it is in a constant contortion of sneer, disdain, malice, naked loathing. What is wrong here?
If it were bickering children, the behaviour could have been restrained and a suitable reprimand could have been delivered. If it were rebellious teenagers, some corrective measures could have worked. If it were some conflicting individuals in an organisation, a stern word or two might have sufficed. The arguments, the disagreements, the spats, the opposition…all part of being in a group. But these are adults…responsible individuals, on very important posts, holding positions wielding control not just over the lives, but the fates of many. They are the powerful ones. They are the ones who matter. And they are visible. Anything they say or do and anything that is said or done to them becomes the headline of the day. Being talked about works. Talking about someone works too. Indulging in moronic antics elicits a bored oh no, but how many of those become too much? Where does it stop? When will the ones using half of their wits realise that except for a small minority — who applaud them like the hired audience on a Friday night sitcom, conditioned to — the rest deride, humiliate and consequently judge them? Would they stop, if they knew? Or paused, maybe just pondered? It is all so ugly it is grotesque, scary, even outright nauseating.
The bigger the position the bigger the slurs. Let us all target the most prominent man, and show him what it feels like to have no bona fide power. He may be the face of Pakistan, but when did that become a criterion for respect and for not crossing the line of decorum. In the beginning, he smiled and consoled and pacified. He wanted all of them to work in harmony to try to put together the different ill-formed pieces to formulate a structure that could vaguely resemble a state. They all played tag with him and they all let him down…one after the other.
Whatever he does for the country is mocked, and marked as an inconsequential nothing. Most of his actions are labelled exercises in self-promotion and deceptive moves to ingratiate himself with the real big man in the country — the one who inherited the party. He is accused of being cocooned in his majestic existence — and that he is too self-involved to give a damn about his country. No concrete policy has come from his — admittedly — band of not so wise men and women — but I mean, really? Not one? His ministers have erred with the C grade institutions so clumsily that there is no word left in the long alphabetical list to label them with, but can it honestly be said that it is because he couldn’t care less? Seriously? He chose a number of good for nothing people for a number of very good positions. Their performance resembled the juvenile enthusiasm of a local club team playing against the Australian cricket team on its worst day ever. How does that translate into his alleged absolute acceptance of all their missed deliveries, crazy shots, easy drops? What made him the one responsible for the bad things everyone and his aunt did? Because he is the one with the power? How is it decided when it is time to stop for a breath and let the negativity be exhaled, maybe just for a few seconds?
He is asked to testify and he is forced to admit he is wrong. When he does not comply, he is charged with contempt, and when he attempts an explanation, all they hear is rhetorical mumbo jumbo. One alliterated analogy from him, and all hell breaks loose. Everything he says is contorted and labelled into a superfluous, insincere, disconnected cacophony of state propaganda, and he is titled as someone who cannot be trusted to say anything right. The constant provocations elicit exasperation, and that is met with scorn.
Turn the TV on; on the alleged highest-rated show, the self-professed Messiah of primetime television, in his monotone, repetitive, inflexible jargon, bashes the man and his family. The four pictures adorn the side of the screen. The wife, the daughter, the two sons. It sickened me. What made this acceptable? This is the free media — the perpetrator of truth, enlightenment and wisdom and public service — and is the biggest landmark of how far Pakistan has come in the field of journalism. The pure sensationalism of the report overshadowed the accusation, and the judgment was passed. The women were dragged into the monologue and the ratings skyrocketed. The daughter is worthy or not of the unpaid position she has been given may make a topic of a talk show about nepotism, but to plaster her face on the screen to give credence to some unsubstantiated theory is blackening the honourable profession in an unseen shade of viciousness. The wife is targeted too. What she did and did not do once upon a time is not being debated on primetime TV– it is being presented as the absolute truth. And why? Because the person mouthing the words, the channel presenting it, can? Because there is no limit to what their ‘mission’ to be the moral beacons of society would take them to? Because if their content is objected to, and they are told to watch their ‘truthful’ pronouncements entangled with lies, they don’t bother to retract and apologise? And because their next show would be about how they were threatened with the worst if they didn’t?
The two sons are the easiest to target. They are in the country, they contest elections, they are visible everywhere. Unlike the ones who are NRPs, they are right among us. What a cool headline. The son is being accused of one of the biggest money frauds ever. Before his case is presented in a court, there should be so much said and shown about him — unproven — that the 25-year-old debutant MNA spends the next 25 years cleansing his name. When he talks to TV anchors telephonically from another country, he is provoked and goaded, before being pushed into tight corners. As the questions become harsher, you actually feel the anger and frustration in the son’s voice, and all you are left with is a sense of acute discomfort, and you switch channels.
Who is guilty and who is not? The media is going to be the judge? Give someone a bad name, accuse him, penalise him, lock him up and throw away the key. Out of millions, certain people are being highlighted as the bad men with such steadfastness that it has taken the form of a witch-hunt. They get the highest positions and their downfall should be equally spectacular. That is the name of the game now…ain’t it? The privileges have been more than substantial, why would the payback be any lighter. The responsibility to look after the country gives a pass for everything; it also automatically makes you the biggest punching bag. They are accused and it is time to take out the gloves. Why one family? Who are the ones accusing them of this and that and everything else in the middle? Are the accusers clean? Blemish-free? Noble? The ones pointing daggers at the family are all chaste of what they accuse them of? There is nothing wrong with prosecuting people accused of wrongdoing, but there is everything wrong with penalising them without due process. As the malicious smile, seeing the biggest one become the most scandalous story, deepens, the thin line between right and wrong blurs into the search for the next gimmicky report. The doors of Salem widen, and the distinction between truth and lies hazes into an agenda of only God knows what. Guilty or not, right or wrong, pious or sinner. Who is the judge? Time to look long and hard. Into yourself. Who will be the first one to throw the stone?

The writer can be reached at mehrt2000@gmail.com