Daily Times

The Wali of Swat was the stuff of legend. Edward Lear wrote a nonsense rhyme about his ancestor the Akhund of Swat (“Who or why or which or what, is the Akhund of Swat?”) and the Queen of England stayed in his home. His visitors’ book reads like an International Who’s Who. He was the subject of novels and serious academic books (of the latter, the latest is The last Wali of Swat by Professor Frederick Barth). After ruling with absolute power one of the most turbulent areas of the world, he retired to live in peace and honour among his people.

The Wali Miangul Jahan Zeb died, as he always prayed he would, quickly, and is remembered with respect by his people. On the same day, 14 September, a record 50,000 people, including the president and the prime minister of Pakistan, gathered for the burial.

In a demotic – even anarchic – age the spontaneous reaction of the people was amazing. Shops, schools and even hospitals on hearing the news closed immediately as a mark of honour. The poor chanted mong yateeman sho (“we have become orphans”). Women cried “we are sartor” (“black head”, symbolic of women being without a protector or guardian). He was one of the last living rulers of the old states of South Asia.

The state of Swat covers 4,500 square miles, the average size of a district in South Asia. It was not important in a geo-political sense in the Great Game: it had no border with Afghanistan. But its history, its stores of Gandhara statues and ruins, its association with legendary figures from Alexander the Great to Winston Churchill (Churchill’s picket is still marked at the entrance to Swat) made it a tourist attraction. Also, its natural beauty. High mountains, permanently covered with snow, rushing streams and green rice fields characterised the picture-postcard beauty of Swat. Above all was the figure of the Wali of Swat, the symbol and central figure of Swat society and history.

The Akhund, a religious leader who fought the British in the last century, provided the spiritual base for political leadership in Swat. His descendants converted this to a state formally recognized by the British. The ruler was given the title of His Highness the Wali of Swat. When Pakistan was created in 1947 the state willingly acceded to it. Two years later, the old Wali stepped down in favour of his son Jahan Zeb.

The 20-year rule of Jahan Zeb is seen as the golden age of Swat. He supervised the building of schools, hospitals and roads with energy and passion. He possessed the rulers’ two qualities: compassion and justice. Also the two cardinal principles of good administration: accessibility and mobility. Justice was provided, keeping the balance between Islam, tribal tradition, the power of big landlords and the needs of the poor. Temporal power thus reinforced spiritual authority. Law and order were rigidly maintained and peace reigned in Swat. Pakistan honoured him with titles and the rank of major-general. In 1969, when Pakistan absorbed all its states the Wali retired from public life.

The Wali’s appearance was Westernised – cleanshaven, wearing felt hats, ties and English suits. But he never missed one of the five daily prayers or a fast during the month of fasting. A strict, almost Victorian disciplinarian, the Wali lived according to a set and unbending schedule. A forceful personality, strong men were reduced in his presence. He was not easily impressed. In 1960 when British Embassy officials drove to Swat and conveyed the good news that the queen would be his personal guest for three days he exploded: “Three days! What will I do with that woman for three days!” Once planned, the visit was a great success.

To the end, he remained a confirmed and unabashed Anglophile: in dress, in deportment and in behaviour. His three-course meals were standard English fare starting with Mulligatawny soup and ending with apple pudding.

Remaining aloof from Pakistan politics, he nonetheless maintained an important connection through his family. His eldest son is a member of the national assembly, another son is in the provincial assembly and a nephew in the senate. In South Asia, where rulers were not known for their financial integrity, the Wali was an exception. When he handed over the state to Pakistan he voluntarily surrendered his offices, lands and transport. Unlike other affluent Swatis he did not possess a single house outside the state (in Islamabad or Peshawar). His only house, the “palace,” was modest and functional, no bigger than that owned by most landlords. He never regretted surrendering everything to Pakistan. The only regret he ever voiced to me, with sorrow in his voice, was the indiscriminate cutting down of the olive trees after they became government property. He had imported them from Italy and had tended them with care.

His life spanned the transition, the quantum changes, in Swat society. Transition from a tribal, materially poor, isolated community to one irrevocably connected with the 20th-century world; a world symbolised by the presence of the video-cassette recorder and Kalashnikov in almost every home.

Since its absorption by the state the law and order in Swat has deteriorated. Looting, kidnappings and murder are common (recently about 30 vehicles were held up for a leisurely three hours on a highway). Police stations have been burned down in anger. A population explosion has shot up prices and frayed tempers. Not unnaturally, people of all political shades look back with nostalgia and yearning to the age of the Wali.

The death of the Wali signifies the passing of an era in Swat. In his unbending dignity and unwavering strength of character, he stood like a colossus over Swat even after its absorption, as a district, into Pakistan. In an age of pygmies, a giant has just passed away: the void will hasten the processes of disintegration and change in Swat society.

In today’s age of telecommunication, mass media, democratic yearnings and anarchic impulses there is no place for an ex-absolute ruler. Once dethroned few can live among the people they once ruled. It is a tribute to the Wali that after losing his state he continued to live in his own home with honour. Before his death, he sent me a letter. “Pray.” He wrote, “I die with izzat, honour; nothing else remains.” The prayer was answered by the unprecedented outpouring at the burial.

Akbar S. Ahmed is the Ibn Khaldun Chair of Islamic Studies at American University’s School of International Service in Washington, DC, and is the former Pakistani High Commissioner to the United Kingdom and Ireland. This article – written on the occasion of the passing of the Wali of Swat in September 1987 – originally appeared in the October 1, 1987 issue of the Far Eastern Economic Review magazine under the title “Letter from Swat.” Akbar is married to Zeenat Alamzeb the grand-daughter of the Wali