The Yellow Coup

Are we all really living in a yellow submarine?

How can we forget 12 October 1999, a fatefully delightful day; for the fourth time in the nation’s history, the army conquered the civilians thinking the plainclothes men were inferior to the men in khaki. Governance was a business beyond the comprehension of an elected government.

Although, Islamabad’s sunrises occur at Kahuta, and the sunsets take place at Wah Ordinance Factory--both danger areas--on that particular day, the sun set at the Prime Minister’s house on Islamabad’s Loony Hills. The moon too almost appeared cleft asunder, along with other signs associated with a political doomsday.

There was not even a hint of the events that were about to unfold as I hurriedly boarded the 7:00 p.m. flight to Karachi. But somebody strange was in the air: our beloved army chief. On the way back from Sri Lanka, his airplane was not allowed to land at Karachi because Nawaz Sharif and his bad boys wanted the chief to proceed on a one-way ticket to a hostile neighbouring country. For the first time ever, police officers, airline bosses and civil aviation big wigs worked with enviable coordination to do Nawaz’s bidding. We were to learn later that the house of cards came crashing down when this hare-brained bunch were arrested for ‘attempting to kill all aboard that fateful flight’ from Colombo.

I had not yet taken my seat when the airplane’s captain announced about the sudden closure of Karachi and Islamabad airports for an indefinite period. That was unheard of. One could visualize a strike, or a protest rally paralysing Karachi, but who or what could shut down Islamabad? How could the seat of greed and connivance be threatened? Some speculated that Israeli and India had joined hands and attacked our nuclear assets--Kahuta and KANNUP. The common consensus was that we were being punished for actually going nuclear whereas the Indians had gotten away by faking an atomic orgasm.

Since there was no point in punching one another out over the issue, well-connected passengers began punching the number-pads of cellular phones. It was a planeload of three hundred souls with one nearly hundred such instruments aboard, and each with a distinctive ring or chime. Therefore, every earpiece had three human ears glued to it; such was the desire to hear what the voice at the other end said. As more return calls started to pour in, the atmosphere became emotionally charged. Obviously, people on the other side of the line sat glued to foreign television channels to provide a blow-by-blow account of the power struggle. Emotionally weak ones aboard wept and blew noses so profusely that the stewardesses ran out of serviettes.

My role was that of a pacifist. I discouraged anti-State rumours to the best of my ability but soon lost to wagging tongues. A few claimed the Americans had landed on our soil to get hold of Mr. OBL. A college professor interrupted, “Silence please. Why would anybody wish to attack this peaceful atomic nation and physically land here to apprehend an alleged terrorist? All they have to do is pay a collaborating feudal to strike a deal for a quick arrest and extradition of a wanted man to USA. They did it to Aimal Kansi and Ramzi Yusuf; so talented are they at this sort of thing.” Many agreed with the outspoken professor, the likes of whom are severely lacking at our educational institutions, precisely because honorary doctorates are conferred upon military dictators.

With three hundred adult tongues aboard, some felt the political Titanic was sinking. That inspired somebody to hum Celine Dione’s famous song from the Hollywood movie of the same name. Then a mobile phone rang; it played the Three Blind Mice melody and replaced rumours with real news: a coup was indeed underway. Like all half-baked yellow public projects, Mian Sahib’s yellow coup appeared heading for a disaster by turning khaki in colour. The college professor uttered, “Wake me up when it’s over”, and went to sleep.

The crowd demanded of the cabin crew, “Turn off that insipid boarding music.” People hushed each other in an effort to hear gunshots yet nobody knew for sure how many outlaws the cowboys had killed in the fight. First, the news of the army chief’s replacement by a new general came in. Then we heard that the elected ones were placed under arrest after the original chief struck back at the conspirators. In the end, we found out to our utter disappointment, that it was a bloodless coup because the blood of the conspirators froze and could not be shed.

Everybody aboard the airplane reacted differently. A jovial Lahorite remarked, “Partial law or martial law; we will never reform.” Important executives in dark suits fell into their seats and asked for black coffee. As if hypnotized, they loosened their Italian silk ties and sat aghast. Many swore they heard them mutter: ‘what will happen to those illegal permits; how will I recover what the Sharifs owe me; will the Chief of the Ehtesab Bureau save me from the fire of hell?’ The moral of the story: the higher you rise, the harder you fall.

Originally seated in the cattle class of the airplane, I conveniently migrated to the business class to appreciate the goings-on there. Fashionable ladies took out bottled mineral water from foreign shoulder bags and, for a change, infants stayed silent without the aid of soothers. The nation’s mouth was indeed stuffed with military soothers.

It was 8:00 p.m.; the passengers were allowed to disembark the aircraft, and move into a lounge. Many cancelled the trip out of fear of being blown out of the sky by a misguided American missile. The rest decided to wait and let the airline refresh them with stale snacks. I fell into the first category--minus the fear element, of course--and walked out of the terminal building with all thirty-two natural teeth in tact.

It was unnerving to think that Lahore airport--just like all major airports in the country--was situated in the cantonment area, therefore, whatever one saw of the military was not a special appearance but routine business. There were no armoured vehicles, only truckloads of soldiers and officers walking about briskly. Nobody got beat up or held at gunpoint. Martial law was not proclaimed, and the politicians had not struck back; they lay stupefied. It was clear that while Mian Nawaz Sharif achieved distinction as a forgettable face at a Catholic school, the generals attended Staff and Command College courses; the latter were certainly armed to the teeth and prepared for such obvious eventualities.

Taxicabs were available in abundance and without the usual hassle. Disgusted policemen were not slapping drivers, who generally asked for exorbitant fares. People just stood discussing the fluid situation in small groups of more than four, which meant Section 144 was not in place. Spin Doctor Mushahid Hussain’s ice sculpture lay liquefied. There was a silent relief, a state of near satisfaction, which indicated the citizens had welcomed the coup. Nothing surprised them anymore; they had seen it all so many times before.

The human mind cannot stay silent under trying circumstances. A man who had the potential of becoming a cricket commentator drove the taxi I took. He added more to the drama by indulging in non-stop commentary and which did not require any verbal input on my part. I promised him a hefty tip in case he shut up. He did.

The neighbour’s dog howled at the moon and the family gave me a hero’s welcome when I rang the doorbell. The spouse, the kids, the servants, and especially the pet dog, all wanted to know what was happening out on the streets. I whispered in my dog’s ear, “It’s a bitch”, and he understood.

I needed to misinform myself some more. Having no access to a satellite dish, my head became heavier while watching Pakistan Television. PTV was duller than usual and telecast only national songs that failed to pump up the pulse rate. Ad nauseam, a female announcer informed the viewers that the army chief would soon address the nation. That soon took forever as she kept repeating the pre-recorded announcement in two mother tongues. I could imagine speechwriters stretching the limits of political correctness and flowery language while preparing a convincing text for General Musharraf. That night the camera operators, the make-up artists, lighting assistants, audio and editors worked over-time to make the grand appearance of the coup leader look even more winsome.

I waited for the event until midnight but then the meaningless milli naghmas took their toll on the senses. Imaginatively, PTV re-ran tapes of singers we saw during Yahya-Bhutto days. In a situation like that, waiting for the promised speech was like expecting the promised messiah. The choice between going to bed out of boredom or staying awake was not a difficult one.

The next morning, the very few who lived to hear the army chief’s speech said it was a short affair. It was nostalgic: the same accusations, the same recycled reasons for a military take-over and the same sameness. CNN-BBC propaganda was jammed by the State and replaced with more potent PTV-stuff. And because mobile phones were jammed, the end-users got a day off talking uselessly.

Flights to Karachi and Islamabad resumed late in the afternoon with a notable difference; armed officers took familiar faces off foreign and domestic flights. The way they recognized all those cronies and crooks dressed up with nowhere to go was by employing army sleuths, doorkeepers of the assembly halls, and policemen.

They took hundreds of such respected men for ‘questioning’ to remote locations under ‘protective custody’. It was not difficult to imagine persuasive law-enforcers trying ways and means to obtain thumb impressions from the said gentlemen over ready-made documents. Shortly thereafter, the movement of notable politicians, attempting to band together for a counter-coup, was physically restricted. The army wanted all the overgrown political babies to stay with their mamas, or--in the case of Nawaz Sharif--with abba jee.

More than three years after the Yellow Coup, the feeder of democracy is still not ready to be handed over to those who have been kindly ‘chosen’ at the GHQ for us. More milk will be spilt, and more crying will follow in the days to come.

Tahir Gul Hasan holds the copyrights to his work. Written permission of the author is required for reproducing or re-printing his work on any medium.

Halloween—An Ancient Pagan Devilish Ritual

Have you noticed a sudden rise in Halloween celebrations within Pakistan? Halloween was never celebrated in the past; now 31 October is an important date to dish-gazing burger-munching teenagers. The purpose of this article is to look at Halloween’s true meaning, origins and effects on the gullible masses.

The Alarm

Last October my daughter begged me to buy her a Halloween costume. She said the schoolteacher had asked all children to participate. I tried explaining to the five-year old impressionable mind but she wept when I disallowed her to celebrate Halloween. Meanwhile I wrote a letter of protest to the school’s principal. The class-teacher appalled me with her ignorance when I spoke to her. She revealed, “On the eve of 31 October or Halloween Day, all the spirits descend for an earthly visit. We are merely exposing kids to new things.”

As it was too late to disrupt the party, I sent some literature to the school’s administrator to help her understand why I opposed the affair. Shortly afterwards, newspapers carried photos and reports covering Halloween celebrations in Lahore. What was most distressing was that even government officials attended such gatherings. Recently, Kinnaird College, Lahore, advertised the celebration of Halloween by organizing a pop concert. Countless others joined in elsewhere. Nobody stopped to think before wearing a Dracula-mask or pretending to be a witch. What hope could one have from misled leaders to protect the cultural and religious borders?

The Distant Past

Halloween means ’hallow’ (make or honour as holy). It is celebrated a day before All Hallows’ Eve or All Saints Day of November 1. The ancient Druids had a three-day autumn celebration at the beginning of November. They believed that on the last night of October spirits of the dead roamed abroad, and they lighted bonfires to drive them away. In ancient Rome the festival of Pomona, goddess of fruits and gardens, occurred at about this time of year. It was an occasion of rejoicing associated with the harvest. Nuts and apples, as symbols of the winter store of fruit, were roasted before huge bonfires. These agricultural and pastoral celebrations also had a sinister aspect, with ghosts and witches thought to be on the prowl.

Even after November 1 became a Christian feast day honouring all saints, many people clung to the old pagan beliefs and customs that had grown up about Halloween. Some tried to foretell the future on that night by performing such rites as jumping over lighted candles. In the British Isles great bonfires blazed for the Celtic festival of Samhain. Laughing bands of young people disguised in grotesque masks carved lanterns from turnips and carried them through the villages.

The Romans made Italy, Gaul (present day France), and much of Britain into Roman provinces. The Carthaginians overpowered the Celts in Spain, and German tribes drove the Celts out of the Rhine Valley. Following the Roman conquest, the Anglo-Saxon invasion wiped out most traces of Celtic culture in England. Only in Brittany, the Isle of Man, Wales, Ireland, and the Scottish Highlands were left with traces of Celtic cultural folklore in the Breton, Manx, Welsh, Erse, and Gaelic languages. A prayer in Cornish (Celtic dialect of Cornwall, closely related to Breton and Welsh) goes like this:

From ghoulies and ghosties, and long-leggty beasties and things that go bump in the night, good Lord deliver.

The Christian predecessor of Halloween, the Roman Catholic Church’s All Saints’ Day was originally celebrated in May, not November 1. In A. D. 608 the Roman emperor appeased the populace of newly conquered heathen territories by allowing them to combine their ancient ritual of Samhain Day with the newly dated All Saints’ Day. Rome’s pantheon, a temple built to worship a multiplicity of gods, was converted into a church. While the Christians celebrated the death of departed saints, the pagans devoted the preceding night to their Lord of the Dead.

The choosing of 31 October is no coincidence. The Celtic calendar celebrated four cross-quarter days. The first on February 2 was known as Ground-Hog Day honouring Brigit, the pagan goddess of healing. The second a May holiday called Beltane was witchcraft’s time to plant. On this day the Druids performed magical rites to encourage the growth of crops. The third, an August harvest festival in honour of the sun god, commemorated the shining one, Lugh. The first three celebrated passing of seasons, times of planting as well earth’s death and rebirth, while the last, Samhain Day marked the coming of winter. More rituals followed in which the cauldron symbolized the abundance of the goddess. It was a season of superstition and spirit conjurations.

To the Druids, October 31 was the night Samhain returned with the spirits of the dead. They had to be appeased or ’treated’ or the living would be tricked. Huge bonfires were set on hilltops to frighten away evil spirits and placate supernatural powers that controlled the process of nature.

The originators of Halloween, Celts and Druids, dominated most of Western Europe; Celtic priests were called Druids, and their religion, Druidism. Only men of good family could become Druids. Membership was highly prized because Druids did not have to fight or pay taxes. They sacrificed criminals to their gods. The Druids were also magicians and astrologers.

Recent History

By the late nineteen hundreds, the Irish introduced Halloween to America, and by the late nineteenth century, its customs had become popular. It was an occasion to overturn outhouses, inflict property damage and indulge in deviltry that wouldn’t be tolerated at other times of the year.

Today children carve faces on hollowed-out pumpkins and put lighted candles inside to make jack-o’-lanterns. Halloween celebrations reflect many of these early customs. Stores and homes display orange and black figures of witches, bats, black cats, and pumpkins. People dress in fanciful outfits go to costume parties, where old-fashioned games like bobbing for apples in tubs of water may be a part of the festivities. Children put on costumes and masks and go from house to house demanding ’trick or treat.’ The treat, usually candy, is generally given and the trick rarely played. Some parents feel this custom is dangerous. There have been numerous instances in which sharp objects or poisons have been found in candy bars and apples. To provide an alternative to begging for candy from strangers, many communities schedule special, supervised parties and events at Halloween. Even the United Nations has used the Halloween observance to collect money for its children’s fund.

Halloween Today

Many devil worshippers and occult groups now ritualistically recognize Halloween as the Devil’s Day throughout America. Over sixty percent of Halloween costumes are sold to adults who become outrageous exhibitionists. One of every four people will dress up as some kind of character. For psychic readers, clairvoyants and self-proclaimed visionaries, it’s the busiest time of the year. Publishers of books on astrology and witchcraft indicate a dramatic increase in sales. Salem, Massachusetts, home of American witchcraft, now celebrates a ’haunted happening’ at Halloween to expand its summer tourist season. Concerned parents in America report a phenomenal increase in the demand for black cats. Fearing that the animals are being used in bloody sacrificial rituals, the Anti-Cruelty Society has, therefore, made black cats off limits for adoption during the Halloween season.

Symbols Of Satan

The traditional jack o’ lantern came from the tale of a notorious man named Jack, who was turned away from both heaven and hell. Consigned to roam the earth as a spirit, he put a glowing coal into a carved-out turnip to light his way through the night. The harbinger (which became a pumpkin) symbolized a damned soul. It’s colours orange and black are connected to the occult commemorative masses for the dead held in November. The unbleached beeswax candles are orange and black cloths cover the ceremonial- caskets.

Other obvious ties with the occult are:

1. Halloween costumes are taken from the Celtic druid idea that ceremonial participants should wear animal heads and animal skins to acquire the strength of the beast they portrayed and to ward off evil spirits.
2. The trick or treat came from the Irish tradition when a man led a procession to levy contributions from farmers, lest their crops be cursed by demons.
3. Dunking for apples came from the old practice of predicting the future. The participant who successfully clenched an apple between his teeth could count on fulfilling romance with the lover of his choice.
4. Cats represented incarnated humans, malevolent spirits or the ’familiars’ (demon friends) of witches.
5. Hazelnuts were used in romance forecasts. Some Halloween food had objects placed inside as a means of fortune telling.

Conclusion

Since most Christians will unknowingly take credit for Halloween’s creation, I have some news for my brethren. The word Halloween does not occur in the Bible at all. Jeremiah 10:02 clearly warns:
Do not follow the ways of other heathens (pagans).

The Bible also contains numerous warnings regarding prohibition on worship of idols and assigns death penalty for sorcerers and black magicians.

The Holy Quran contains a surah (chapter) called Jinn. Elsewhere Allah warns with clear references to satanic forces. An authentic Hadith (saying of prophet Mohammed, p.b.u.h) also indicates how Muslims, through lack of faith, may follow other nations to the extent that ’If the disbelievers entered a hole in the ground, Muslims would follow.’ Through disobedience, a believer falls from grace as disregarding Allah’s command is a satanic character trait.

With today’s life in the fast lane, most parents hardly have the time to even look at the report-cards of their children; leave aside educate themselves. Continuously exposing impressionable young minds to novel things and ways of life takes its psychological toll. Halloween is not funny business as Satan gets the last laugh. Allowing children to have fun this way is a legless excuse. The educational institutions, the ministry of education, the parents and today’s youth need to understand the implications of such follies.

Halloween’s negative aspects are firmly rooted in witchcraft, the devil, darkness, skeletons, fear and terror. Sensible anti-occult individuals must step forward to disallow Halloween celebrations. Children are never too young to learn that a day should not be dedicated to devil.

Tahir Gul Hasan holds the copyrights to his work. Written permission of the author is required for reproducing or re-printing his work on any medium. The author wishes to thank Bob Larson for his research printed in the book: Satanism—the seduction of America’s youth.

Look Ma—No Pants!

A great well-dressed nation always falls with its naked press.

Whatever one's hobby, keeping tabs on foreign journalists fooling themselves is a new full-time profession. How can a man read Dickens and Shakespeare—leave aside write memorable words—when foolish journalists rush in where angels fear to tread?

The angels record every move one makes. One wonders why journalists go further to cover the details of useless wars. Why cannot one wait until Judgment Day when trials will be open to public, and far more entertaining than the shows put up by O.J. Simpson and Bill Clinton?

Christina Lamb wrote a book titled Waiting for Allah; her next one will be appropriately called Look Ma, No Pants! This following story owes its success to her failure.

Miss Lamb—you guessed it brothers and sisters—came on a special mission, carrying The Sunday Times identification card hanging low over the bosom. Her Majesty the Queen sent her to pave the way for Tony Blair's rescue mission to Pakistan if she got caught. Recall how Tony dashed to meet un-elected President Musharraf and secure the release of Yvonne Ridley recently. Some girls have all the luck.

Christina—I have the poetic licence of using her first name only—bought a ticket from Quetta to Islamabad. That was no ordinary ticket; it was a PIA ticket. Any expatriate who frequents between the current country of residence and the beloved Motherland knows what a ticket to heaven that is.

The alert travel agent immediately informed the authorities about the novel request for a ticket in the name of a most wanted man. That name belonged to every Easterner's hero, every Westerners anti-Christ, the one and only, alone but not lonely, veiled in the right corner, weighing a full hundred and seventy-six pounds, scratching his-never mind, the mighty challenger, an emerging force to be reckoned with, one more round of applause ladies and gentlemen: OSAMA BIN LADEN.
Agreed, that any user of a public domain name like Osama Bin Laden is neither a 'trademark' thief nor a 'patent' pickpocket, but in all fairness, the man deserves royalty cheques in Saudi Riyals. If there is anyone who is being maligned, it is Osama. The West, when its software is pirated, comes after the Third World with the might of Goliath, and when it uses Osama's fame and name for blatant merchandising, there is no court of law that will condemn the act or pay punitive damages to the plaintiff.

People wish to name sons and daughters, after the most wanted man, and manufacturers cannot keep up with the brisk demand for Osama masks and posters. Bush is instantly forgettable: Osama is unforgettable. What does that indicate if not that the enemy of the most powerful nation on earth is in great public demand, all without the help of advertising gurus of New York's Madison Avenue?

One can only speculate over the manner in which Christina might have pressed against the government officials. They refused to press charges, declined to lambaste Miss Lamb for misusing Osama's identity, and merely prevented her from travelling to our Holy Capital: Islamabad.

The bureaucracy promptly issued her a one-way ticket to London town. After crying a bucketful at Buckingham Palace, she returned to Quetta in a vengeful mood, remained unrepentant, and claimed that the story in circulation was fabricated.

In order to fully benefit from the advantage of male company, and to make the American 'one-bomb-one biscuit' strategy appear photogenic to the West, she again brought along her trusted photographer, Justin.

One fine morning in November, after a sumptuous breakfast at Serena Lodge, they drove out to Chaman, a border-post beyond Quetta.

She broke the law that allowed journalists to travel to Chaman only under the protection of the security agencies. Nobody was permitted to loiter or mix with the masses unless being lynched, or turned into a local delicacy called Sajji, was on the itinerary.

Once there, she picked up breaking news by climbing atop a check-post, looking through the zoom lens, and sniffing in the general direction of Afghanistan. But these days, picking up deadly sexually transmitted diseases is easy; obtaining verifiable facts through an iron curtain stitched by the Taliban is impossible.

Then suddenly, someone suspected the couple of photographing Pakistani officials using X-ray film. The X-Ray sunglasses and camera were impounded immediately. Both the toys enabled one to see the big boys on 'as is, where is' basis—an uncomfortable thing for men who pulled each other's pants down or socks up while vying for endless promotions at various ministries and NGOs.

Once again Christina and Justin were swept off their intruding feet. The police happily watched over them at Serena Lodge. From there they were finally moved to a Government Rest House. After a nice siesta, and having brushed their teeth with electric toothbrushes, they were parcelled to Islamabad.

The real reason they were unceremoniously thrown out-and not officially flown out-was that Christina criticised Quetta for not having a single half-decent fish and chips restaurant. This unreasonable demand has remained a perennial British problem since colonial times. Everyone knows that the only waterhole at Quetta is a salty wasteland called Hanna Lake; a symbol of smuggling-fishy business-not fish.

Once Christina reached the capital, not a single room was available at any hotel in the twin cities of Rawalpindi-Islamabad; all rooms belonged to the queen of CNN: Christiane Amanpour. And she could not be reached. Her whereabouts were only known to top bureaucrats-let us not call them top dogs-who understood only the first rule of internal security: sleep in a different bed each night.

Osama makes similar moves but he remains untraceable to this day. The secret: he never leaves any telltale marks on the sheets despite having many wives. For this he deserves full marks and a star.

Before we proceed further, stop to note the remarkably similar sounding first names of Kerstin Beck (read the previous article, Right Burqa, Wrong Lips), Christina Lamb, and Christiane Amanpour. Jesus Christ! Bush was right; it really is a crusade.

Lack of decent accommodation at the capital is not a problem if one considers the Federal definition of tourism: the right of a ruler to remain on endless foreign tours at the taxpayer's expense. If rooms are unavailable at local five-star hotels, one can always stay with a three-star General as a paying guest, or at an Army mess.

The loveliest sight is that of the Federal police grilling those without accommodation, by the roadside. They are in league with marriage bureaus, and regularly ask one to produce a most dreaded document that makes grown men weep: Nikah-nama, a harmless marriage certificate really. Because all residents are actually out-of-towners, they wear the Nikah-nama around the neck like a good luck charm. The police work hand in glove with hilarious liberated wives who wish to ensure that their nefarious obliterated husbands never forget the mistake they made while signing the marriage papers and saying 'I do' thrice.

It is time to make an amendment to the Constitution that the General has very kindly suspended, and declare travel to Islamabad an offence equal in gravity and seriousness to high treason. Such travel must be condemned outright.

Nobody must travel to that Forbidden City, least of all women foreign journalists pretending to be Osama Bin Laden. That millions of men compete to look and behave like Osama is understandable; to have women do the same is cause for joyous celebration. Osama is now a cross-cultural symbol capable of influencing all sexes, and giving any Hollywood male mega-star a run for the money.

Because Christina failed in her vain attempt to impersonate Osama, her employer, The Sunday Times, was deprived of an opportunity to splash the headline: Osama travels to Islamabad dressed as a woman.

The people of the Federal capital were deprived of entertainment the Allied commandos might have provided pursuing the wrong man, ruining the scenic beauty of Daman-e-Koh and Shakkar Parian, and playing Merry-go-round-the-Georgey-Bush. Now imagine all that without commercial breaks.

The Federal begums also lost the perfect opportunity to organise yet another Walk-a-Cause over the capital's Constitution Avenue. That Avenue was not built to honour the martyrs; it was laid out for a martyred concept: democracy. It represents Plotocracy, Lotacracy, and Notocracy, not democracy.

Back to dear Christina again-when asked why she picked a household name like Osama, she admitted, "I was just joking." All the interrogators there let out a single 'ha' in unison instead of the habitual 'ha . . . ha . . . ha . . . '”, which meant, what she said was not amusing.

Accommodating Christane Amanpour and Christina Lamb simultaneously in the capital soon gave the Federal capitalists a migraine as they were only trained to handle acute shortages of cute thinking heads. Eventually the city, so in love with making boomeranging decisions, found a God-sent excuse to patronise the American queen. The worst woman eventually won.

History conveniently repeated itself on 11 November when, in order to show respect to the WTC victims, Christina and Justin were again 'expelled for being involved in undesirable activities'. If only they had tamed carnal desire and curtailed after-dinner activities.

What would one do without the press? It was reported in the press that 'upon reaching the airport lounge she staged a drama and tore off her trousers to protest against the expulsion.' One can tear off a shalwar in disgust, but certainly not English trousers.

'She was strapped to a wheelchair by the security staff and promptly put on a London-bound PIA flight.' Christina narrowly escaped getting straitjacketed and sent to the lunatic asylum: the abandoned National Assembly Building.

In this age how careful can one be? Each media conglomerate needs at least one journalist from a happy family, not a striptease artist without the ability to break news, and certainly not an individual who is torn between a sense of honest duty and poorly choreographed nudity.

The Lamb Episode is a full-blown exposure of 'mad cow' flesh. Who knows if it was not a multi-national company's pre-launch trial of yet another hair removal product?

One must feel concerned about the way they use women journalists in the West. In the East, there is no problem because none are allowed to travel to war-zones without their husbands. The only war-zones they face are the homes of their in-laws.

The child-labour issue is a non-issue compared with the concerted global effort required to have the wages of Western journalists increased. Their employment contracts-that perhaps covertly encourage them to dishonour their bodies when credit cards are not honoured-also need to be re-negotiated.

Unannounced military take-overs are nothing new in the Third World; sporadic nude protests by irresponsible journalists are, and which require great emotional adjustment.

A concerned citizen suggested that these concerns-more explosive than all the American bombs put together-must be appropriately worded, then sent as a petition to the United Nations to intervene.

Pending weak-kneed resolutions on Kashmir and Palestine can wait forever. Instead, the dirtiest one-track minds at the U.N. need to be tickled so that the issue of naked aggression can be resolved quickly.

Tahir Gul Hasan holds the copyrights to his work. Written permission of the author is required for reproducing or re-printing his work on any medium.

To further connect the odd dots , please read:
Malala Yousuf Zai: Genius Or Mouth-Piece (part-I)
Malala Yousaf Zai: Attack Of The Babbling Tongues (part-II)
Project Malala: Famous Lost Words (Part-III)