Ghulam Akbar
The dream of the Renaissance of Islam, of the glory that the World of the Crescent once was, has powered the thought processes of many a thinker globally since the dawn of the last century. The names that promptly come to my mind in this context are Allama Mohammad Iqbal, Syed Jamal uddin Afghani and Hassan al-Banna. In the context of these memoirs, I want to mention the role of Hassan al-Banna specially, as he about eleven years before my birth had founded the Brotherhood movement (Ikhwan ul Mushlimeen). In 1928, Western influence was spreading, and the Caliphate had just been abolished by Mustafa Kamal Ata Turk.
For al-Banna, this historical moment was not so much a time for renewal as a time to defend a civilization which he saw as being undermined from within. The example of Kemal Ata Turk’s secularist Turkey had proved to him that the adoption of Western values, even for patriotic ends, could only lead to subservience and atheism. Al-Banna thought that the struggle against foreign domination which he compared with a renewed struggle against the Crusaders should be paramount.
The Muslim Brothers devised a program of action based on the teachings of the Quran.
Following were the tenets that were laid down when the movement began in 1928 and still hold good.
Those who have only heard of the Muslim Brotherhood or Ikhwan ul Muslimeen, should read these tenets and ponder over their simplicity.
(1) I believe that everything is under God’s command; that Mohammad (PBUH) is the seal of all prophecy, addressed to all men, that (Eternal) Retribution is a reality; that Quran is the Book of God, that Islam is a complete law, that leads us in this life and the next. And I promise to recite to myself (each day) a passage from the Quran to keep the authentic tradition, to study the life of the Holy Prophet (PBUH) and the history of his followers.
(2) I believe that correct action, virtue and knowledge are among the pillars of Islam. And I promise to act correctly in carrying out the religious practices, and in avoiding evil doings. I pledge myself to good habits, and I will abhor bad habits. I will disseminate Muslim Customs as widely as possible. I will choose love and attachment over rivalry and condemnation. I will not take recourse to tribunals, unless I have to. I will reinforce the customs and language of Islam, and I will work to disseminate science and useful knowledge in all sections of the nation.
(3) I believe that the Muslim is responsible for his family, that he has a duty to keep it in good health, in the Faith, and in good habits. And I promise to do my best to inculcate the teachings of Islam in my family. I will not place my sons in a school which will not uphold their beliefs, and their good habits. I will not allow them any magazines, books or publications which deny the teachings of Islam, and equally organization, groups or clubs of this kind.
(4) I believe that the Muslim has the right to bring Islam to life by the renaissance of its various peoples, and that the banner of Islam should cover mankind, and that each Muslim should educate the world in Muslim principles. And I promise to fight to achieve this aim as long as I live, and to sacrifice everything I have to this end.
The above document till today remains the spiritual fuel that has powered the Muslim Brotherhood engine for over 86 years.
In the years I was flowering into boyhood in the towns of Ghotki, Garhi Yaseen and Shikarpur Sind, the world was recovering from the ravages and the devastation of the second World War.
At that point of time Egypt was the centre of attention in the Muslim World. Hassan al-Banna had been assassinated in February 1949. In July 1952 Colonel Gamal Abdul Nasser’s Officers Movement deposed King Farooq and took control of Egypt. That was the first major political development that I remember distinctly, apart from the tragic assassination of Nawabzada Liaqat Ali Khan some months earlier.
It was that period of my life when my mindset, my ideals and my dreams were taking shape.
Before I résumé my account of those formative years, I want to mention here two important events that in the later years influenced my thinking a lot.
In 1912 a German Scholar Joseph Heel had written a book titled ‘Arab Civilization’ that had been translated by Khuda Bux Library Calcutta.
In the preface of that book Joseph Heel wrote:
“I don’t want to shock those out of their assumption that Arab Civilization has passed into history forever. But let me predict that the said Civilization will soon rise from its long slumber, though it will have less of an Arab character and more of a Muslim identity. This civilization is unlikely not to influence the course of history in the next century.”
This treatise had appeared two years before the start of the First World War, and in the decade Lawrence of Arabia was to influence the shaping of the Post-Ottoman map of the Middle East.
Again in 1938, a year before the start of the Second World War, a French analyst-cum-historian Ballac had said in an international forum of thinkers: “Gentlemen I am going to shock you with a prophecy. The times ahead don’t belong to either Nazism or Bolshoism. The next century is going to be the century of the rise of Islam.”
In those years I remember I had started reading the inspiring novels of Nasim Hijazi. My other favourite writers were Sadiq Sardhanvi and Abdul Haleem Sharar whose novels on Islamic history ran into hundreds. I remember the Late Sadiq Sardhanvi had written about six novels on the Battle of Yarmouk alone. Nasim Hijazi however was a class apart and above. His books had not only captivating characters but also enchanting style.
For me it because a matter of pride very early that I was nephew to a man of such fame and calibre.
Here I want to write about a slap on my face that had a huge impact on my social and moral behavior in the years to follow.
It was I believe 1953. My father was posted in Shikarpur Sindh. It was the city of the powerful Soomro family—Rahim Bux Soomro, Ahmad Mian Soomro and some others—all offspring’s of the former Sindh Chief Minister Allah Bux Soomro. They were feudal lords—landowners—of some dimensions.
It was Eidulfitr that day. The late Rahim Bux Soomro came to our house to see my father. I remember seating him in our visitors area. He was very polite and loving. And I remember him taking out a hundred rupee note from his pocket and extending it in my direction. That moment was to get frozen in my memory. The next thing I remember was a stinging slap on my face which sent me crashing down to the wall. My father’s furious voice echoed in my ears.
“You are guest here Soomro Sahib, and I can’t be rude. But please leave this place. Your job will be done.”
In the years to follow I was to learn that my father had actually slapped the late Rahim Bux Soomro for his gesture of trying to bribe him through me. The incident hurt me then. But it was to inscribe on my mind the pride that I was an honest father’s son.
This pride was to serve as a great deterrent against many temptations that I was to experience in the years of my manhood.
I remember coming across the late Rahim Bux Soomro in a Karachi-bound flight in 1975. I introduced myself to him.
“I am Ghulam Akbar son of the Late Ghulam Mohammad who had served as Assistant Engineer Irrigation in your city about 22 years ago.”
I could see the colour of his face change. Then suddenly his eyes lit up with recognition and memory.
He simply got up from his seat and asked me to get up. I saw tears in his eyes as he embraced me.
“Be proud of your father. Never met a like of him in my life.”
Here I also can’t help recalling a dream I had during those formative years—a dream that has clung to my subconscious mind like my skin to my body.
I saw in that dream a hurricane, a tempest, a rainstorm— whatever can bring to one’s mind a feeling of fright—-and can cause chills to run down one’s spine.
But it was not water that I found myself swimming in. it was a river of blood. I heard a kind of echoing song coming to my ears from the skies—the heavens. Then I saw something dropping by my side.
It was a sword. Hesitantly I reached out for it and held it in my grip—- the song attained a crescendo— then as everything went silent, I woke up perspiring.
Was it because of the impact of some story I had read? Or my subconscious mind urging me on to fulfill my destiny as a fighter?
I want to mention here that in those formative years, I had started reading extensively. And some books that I read were beginning to sow the seeds of doubt in my mind about God and my Faith.
It was during those months that I went through an experience that drove me decisively into the embrace of Faith.
I had been a cricket-maniac since Fazal Mahmood had downed England’s pride in the Oval Test (1954). And I used to follow cricket with great passion and zeal. I was also a good fast bowler—and a regular member of my school team. I remember an innings when my team was 28 for 8, and I had walked in to bat. I scored one run in a partnership of 98 in which our opener went on to complete his century. The experience I am narrating here is related to a match between West Indies and England. West Indies at that time was studied with new stars like Sobers, Butcher, Solomon, Hunte, Hall and Kanhai. England had Graveny Cowdrey Peter May and Freddie Truman.
I used to listen to commentary on Shortwave which often caused suspension due to bad signals. At 5 p.m Radio Colombo used to run the pre-lunch commentary. The day it happened was the second day of the match. On the first day West Indies had scored 201 for two—Hunte and Basil Butcher batting. The new ball was to be taken in the morning of the second day. Freddie Truman had Butcher caught in the very first over of the day. Then the short Wave transmission failed, and despite my frantic efforts I couldn’t get myself tuned into Christopher Mortin Jenkins. It was a June afternoon, and I fell asleep. My greatest desire at that time was to listen to Jenkins.
In my sleep, I had a feeling that the commentary was going on, and West Indies wickets were falling one after the other to Truman. The score stood at 229 for 9 when I woke up. I looked at my watch. The time was exactly five and I switched on the radio and got tuned to Colombo.
The commentary was going on. And the score was exactly 229 for 9 !
My mind whirled in disbelief I got up immediately. And went down in SAJDA.
“Oh dear God— thank you for pulling this stupid, ignorant creature of yours out of the wilderness of Doubt, and Darkness”.
I think that was the moment of my life. It was June 1955.
Though the purpose of these memoirs is not to write a chronological history of the times I am a product of, I can’t avoid making references to the events and ideas that went into the shaping of my mind.
Pakistan after the tragic assassination of Liaqat Ali Khan had fallen into the hands of opportunists and soldiers of fortune. I will write about those early years of Pakistan later in these memoirs when I come to the analysis of the political systems that had been introduced since the Great Quaid. But here I do want to mention how it used to hurt my Muslim League sensitivities to learn that those very elements that the Founder of Pakistan had fought against had started gaining ascendance over Muslim Leaguers. In my opinion Ghulam Mohammad and Iskandar Mirza were not exactly the men to succeed the Great Quaid. The former had been a brilliant bureaucrat, and alongwith his rival bureaucrat Chaudhry Mohammad Ali had been a useful contributor to the Pakistan movement. But Ghulam Mohammad was not made of the mettle real leaders are made of. Even worse was Iskandar Mirza who had maneuvered his way to the top though the back-channel and through drawing-room conspiracies the nature of which was hard to understand by me in those early years. I only remember that my mind was filled with sheer disgust at finding my beloved Pakistan at the mercy of such soldiers of fortune and elevated parasites whom the feudals had found convenient covers for their not-so-admirable pursuits.
