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REVIEW:
Silent Waters (Khamosh
Pani), directed by Sabiha Sumar, 100 minutes, 2003. Repeatedly through my viewing of Silent Waters I remembered Tarek Fatah, a Pakistani friend who lives in exile in Canada. Especially, it reminded me of my bafflement at his constant question: ‘Why do Muslims never smile?’ Sabiha Sumar’s first feature film, Silent Waters, tells the (fictional) story of mother and son Ayesha and Saleem, who live in the little Pakistani village of Charki, near the large city of Rawalpindi. After getting over the initial confusion about what the movie is really about, and ignoring the bollywood-ish wedding scene at the beginning, you will settle into a well-scripted movie that raises issues of women, religious pluralism and tolerance and fundamentalist mobilisation. And, yes, you might discover why Tarek complains about unsmiling Muslims. The first confusing minutes are supposed to assist us in understanding what the happy ‘normal’ Charki was like before politics and religious reaction spoiled it and before the smiling stopped. Set in 1979, 31 years after the partition of the subcontinent into India and Pakistan and during the military dictatorship of Zia ul-Haq, the Muslims of Charki seem content in their traditional relationships. (It was Zia’s government that got Tarek fired from Pakistan TV for ‘subversion’, prevented his finding work in the media and forced him to flee as he contemplated a third term of imprisonment.) Saleem is in love with schoolgirl Zubeida who has dreams of going to college, becoming an executive and having a big house with six servants. Spoilt by his mother, Saleem (18) is unemployed and not too keen to get a routine job in the village. Despite their public pretences, the couple plans to marry. And their mothers are thrilled at the idea. Enter two young men from the city of Lahore: Islamists and ardent supporters of the Zia regime and his so-called ‘Islamisation’ programme. Enter too the Sikhs. The Pakistani and Indian governments had just signed an agreement in terms of which Indian Sikhs would be allowed on pilgrimage to a shrine in Charki. Suddenly, the simple lives of Saleem, Ayesha, Zubeida and their fellow villagers become tremendously complicated. Life is really much easier, you see, if one does not have to deal with issues of women and non-Muslims. The Lahori pair begins a careful programme of recruiting especially the youth (which goes hand-in-hand with intimidating the elders) to their political cause using, of course, Islamic rhetoric and their new ideal of a Muslim. That Muslim is he (of course he’s a he!) who protects his women by ensuring they are safely locked up in their homes and who protects his faith by not associating with non-Muslims and their pagan beliefs and practices. Both youth are uptight, and know that they know best – whether about politics, religion or even the local culture. So uptight, in fact, that at first sight Saleem comments that the one looks ‘like he’s constipated’. Which brings to mind Tarek, of course. In fact, the only time in the movie when they laugh is when one of them asks: ‘What creatures love Sikhs the most?’ and then replies with ‘Lice.’ Like barbers all over the world, the Charki barber hit the nail on the head. After being told ‘Do you know what we do to traitors these days,’ by one of the Lahoris, he accidentally nicked the face of the boy he was shaving. Looking at the boy, he said: ‘See, that’s what you get for laughing. Blood! Remember, laughing, playing not allowed.’ Saleem finally finds something that will add meaning to his life (‘I am somebody. People stop and listen to me.’) and joins them – resulting in increasing tension between him and his mother and him and Zubeida. The difference between his religious mother and religious girlfriend and his own fundamentalism are perhaps best captured by Zubeida’s angry retort to him: ‘I also pray. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t think!’ The Sikhs, one in particular, complicate things even further. One pilgrim, Jaswant, who was originally from Charki, decides to find his sister who had been ‘left behind’. ‘Left behind’, however, is a euphemism. [Before the Sikhs fled to India (in the face of Muslim attacks after partition), Sikh women were forced to commit suicide by their men – in order to preserve the men’s honour, of course. She had run away.] She seems to have been the only Charki Sikh woman who, before the Sikhs fled to India in the face of Muslim attacks after partition, ran away rather than committing suicide by throwing herself into the well – in order to protect the honour of the Sikh men, of course. Jaswant suspected that like many other Sikh women that had been ‘left behind’, she was either killed or abducted, possibly marrying her abductor and converting to Islam. It is only at this point that we realise that the main character in this movie is really Ayesha. Ayesha, the hardworking mother and devout Muslim woman who teaches girls the Qur’ān in order to supplement her income. Ayesha, who teaches the girls blasphemous notions about how not only Muslims but all good people will go to heaven. Ayesha, whose life suddenly gets so disrupted that it ends with her doing the womanly duty she was supposed to have done 31 years earlier. This after she rejects the Sikh men who had tried to ‘save’ her honour three decades earlier, and after she gets rejected by the Charki community. In her words, ‘Life catches up with you. What you don’t have, you have to let it be.’ Sumar deliberately used non-actors in her movie. Bollywood stars they are not; but they carry their characters with more than just fair performances – especially Kirron Kher (as Ayesha). And, for the most part, the plot and script are capturing enough to make up for any inadequacies in acting. When I was asked to review two movies: one about ‘Muslim fundamentalism’ and one about the Gujarat massacre in India, I thought it would be great – two movies with lots of similarities. I was wrong. Rakesh Sharma’s award-winning The Final Solution is nothing like Sumar’s award-winning picture. Sure, they are both about religious fundamentalism in some ways. But Sharma’s story was not fictional; it was real. And in-your-face. And gory. And it is overwhelming not in the many themes it tries to explore but in the sheer scale of the tragedy it portrays during almost three hours: the thousands massacred, the thousands of women raped, the tens of thousands maimed and mutilated, the hundreds of thousands left homeless, the people spewing hate, one after another, village after village. And it also much more starkly illustrates the use of religion by unscrupulous politicians (and the use of politics by hateful religious leaders). And I didn’t think of Tarek even once through the long sitting. But if anyone wants to know what fundamentalism (and especially religious fundamentalism) really means, this movie will explain it very well. Clearly: ‘He who does not belong to Ram [the Hindu god] is of no value to us,’ in the words of one BJP (India’s ruling party at the time) and Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP) leader. The jury citation of the Wolfgang Staudte award at the 54th Berlin International Film Festival (where the movie won two awards) called it, ‘An epic documentary focusing on a culture of hatred and indifference.’ Epic it might have been, but it certainly was, also, a disturbing and chilling film. Chilling in the horror stories that get told about the state-sponsored genocide against Gujarat Muslims in 2002. Chilling too in the connections that are made – from the title onward – between Hindu fundamentalism and Nazism, including a quote from a school textbook praising Hitler. The Final Solution is an important film in its chronicling of the murderous actions of the Hidutva fanatics and the support they receive from the ruling party. Its importance is not lessened by enhanced by the fact that it was banned from showing at the Mumbai and Singapore film festivals. But it also is a tiring film. After almost four hours of victims’ testimonies and unbelievably crazy Hindu politicians’ speeches, one becomes wearied with the hate, the senseless killings, the lies and deceit, the resulting polarisation between neighbours. And Sharma doesn’t attempt to provide much context or clarification. Sometimes one gets confused about who’s saying what about whom. But maybe exhausting the audience is part of the plan. One good thing I have to say about the Hindu fundamentalists, though, is that they smile. Especially when they are lying. Except that in their case the smiles just seem to make one even angrier.
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