Not so many years ago, theatres in Punjab were renowned for their rich narrative and courage with words that spoke truth, however painful. Now, these klieg lights flash intermittently, haunting aficionados with their faint shadows.
Once a euphoric chorus ringing through filled halls, the humour now seems interrupted by the jarring shuffle of disquiet, the hasty cough attempting to cover up obscenity creeping onto the stage. It was a shock, a betrayal, a blow to the very spirit of our cultural heritage, for all of us who grew up under the magic of the proscenium arch: Amanullah’s incisive wit, Rafi Khawar (Nanha)’s poignant storytelling, the sheer theatre wizardry of performers like Sohail Ahmed. It was a loss to the people who had nourished our art with their love. For the lack of a better word, it was a cultural crisis, an infection which threatened to envelop an art form that had given expression to our happiness, our sorrow, our collective psyche over generations.
Into this tense terrain burst Azma Bokhari, Minister of Information and Culture of Punjab, not with a hushed warning, but with a shout. Her reforms are no gentle push. They are a full-throated cultural revolution, an ambitious exercise in claiming the space from the forces that seem determined to hijack it. It is a heady bet, a high-rolling play that has brought with it both rave applause and hushed whispers of disquiet in the world of arts, testament to the messy complicatedness of art.
Bokhari’s multi-pronged approach is an exercise in finesse, an elegantly choreographed dance between enforcing standards that are deemed necessary and encouraging artistic freedom. The bans for life given to performers who regularly peddle obscenity may invite criticism as a feel-good punishment but for an industry long struggling with commercial barons taking over, these are less a censorship overreach than an unsparing statement, a line drawn in the sand, a warning that the stage is no playground for cheap thrills. The specter of license withdrawal for theatres that turn a blind eye to the debasement of their productions is a potent message: accountability lies not just with individual performers but with the institutions that host them. And then there is the establishment of an advisory committee, an assembly of elders, a meeting of the very artists whose reputations are being insulted by the nature of present-day productions. This is not an advisory committee of functionaries; it’s an assembly of Sohail Ahmeds and Naseem Vickys, names that are indistinguishable from the golden era of Punjab’s theatre, whose job is to guide the performing arts back to their roots, to their heyday.
Those reforms, however, necessarily raise a basic question: does regulation really revive art? Can a well-meaning government edict really spur creativity? Some in the arts community say, with conviction, that art only truly exists in an environment of absolute freedom, that any censorship, no matter how glancing, suppresses the very essence of genuine expression. They refer to an inherent danger of reducing theatre to a sterilized, lifeless performance, free of the raw, unvarnished critique of society that has long been its strength, its very raison d’être. They apprehend a chiller effect, an inhibition of artistic experimentation, a slide into a conformity that ultimately empties the art form.
There will be resistance, there will be failures, and there will be arguments over what exactly constitutes “vulgarity” and what constitutes the limits of freedom of expression.
And on the other side of all this emotive argument are the families, long-supporting theatre-goers in Punjab. Do we need statistics to learn about families that have long avoided theatregoing, their seats collecting dust, their humour replaced by a weariness of disappointment? They reminisce about times when going to a theatre was a communal event, a moment of genuine happiness and reflective thought, not an opportunity for embarrassment or awkwardness.
They perceive these reforms not as censorship, but rather a corrective measure, a lifeline extended to a drowning medium.
The financial consequences cannot be overlooked. Free from vulgarity, a theatre that is full of plays that appeal to family values, has the irrefutable ability to reclaim the audience that long since deserted the theatres. Term them over-the-road ticket sellers if you wish, but think about long queues at the ticket counter, full houses, a revival of a nearly lost industry, infusing badly needed funds into artists’ pockets, theatre owners’ pockets. But there’s far too much at stake for financial return. Theatre, under any circumstances, is a window reflecting society’s own complexities, a forum for us to introspect collectively, an alchemy in which our values are refined and our ideals given words. By restoring its integrity, by eradicating vulgarity that brought it such disrepute, theatre in Punjab can again be that force that helps shape good social mores, that helps bind communities together, that adds beauty to the cultural heritage of the state.
Azma Bokhari’s project is a potential template, case study for other areas of Pakistan, indeed for parts of the world, facing such similar issues of cultural breakdown and finding the balance between artists’ freedom of expression and their ethical duty. It’s a balancing act, a high wire walk between the standard that must be enforced and the equally important need to protect and support genuine expression. Whether this ambitious venture will ultimately work will depend on whether the government can make available a cooperative atmosphere, one in which artists are not so much regulated, but helped, in which imagination is fostered and rewarded, in which the stage is an alive place for honest storytelling, for provocative ideas, for representing the hundreds of different threads that make up human experience.
Take, for instance, the possibility of theatre tackling major social issues. Take a play that grapples with issues of honour killings, not sensationalistically, but by means of a thoughtful characterization and an engaging storyline that confronts people with unpalatable realities. Or a play that examines women’s issues at the workplace through comedy and pathos to trigger people to think and to understand. Or a theater version of an old Punjabi folklore, recreated for today’s audience, honoring our rich cultural heritage while reflecting our contemporary social realities. These are the types of plays that can wrest the curtain from the vice-grip of obscenity and reclaim it for what it was always meant to be: an engine of social change.
Choosing this road will not be easy. There will be resistance, there will be failures, and there will be arguments over what exactly constitutes “vulgarity” and what constitutes the limits of freedom of expression. But not choosing it–letting our theatre in Punjab go further into irrelevance–is not an option. This is a battle for our people’s very cultural soul, a struggle over the telling of our own story, to secure that the laughter that resounds in our theatres is authentic and that which we see before our eyes is an honest depiction of who we are. They are a clarion call, an urgent appeal to clean off the dust, take back the spotlight, and restore theatre in Punjab to what it should be: an alive, pulsing force in our people. Whether this revolution succeeds, whether we can revive the stage, whether the laughter can be authentic, only time will tell. But one thing is certain: we have started talking.
The writer is OpEd Editor (Daily Times) and can be reached at durenayab786 @gmail.com. She tweets @DureAkram