Yesterday, we went to the tenth day of Muharram, mourning the death of Imam Hussein Ibn Ali 1300 years ago at Karbala (Arabia). Our arrival started to attract an unwelcome crowd, so we split up into two’s and three’s, each girl accompanied by at least one or two men. An ominous premonition of things to come welcomed us at the entrance to the Old City – rows and rows of police and soldiers armed with steel tipped lathis, rifles, flak jackets, steel helmets, shotguns and tear gas. These mourners are Shia, Khomeini supporters, a minority in Sunni Pakistan and it looks like the police are preparing themselves for trouble.
The main street is narrow but not too congested at this point. Several mourners are walking around in blood-stained clothes and we pass some receiving medical treatment from a parked ambulance. Further up the street, it becomes more congested and the crowds more volatile. We are pushed to the side of the road by a procession of mourners forcing their way down the packed street and some bystanders clear a space on their raised platform and help us to watch the procession in comfort. Unfortunately our elevated position, or more exactly Judy’s, is attracting attention and we decide to move further up the street. Another couple of hundred yards and we come across a self-flagellation scene straight out of the Biblical ages. Bare-chested men beating themselves with chains and knives until the blood flows and they have induced a trance of religious fervour. At this point, we are pressed by the crowd and kindly onlookers, aware of our fate, usher us into the side of the buildings. Judy is warned to remove her jewellery and watch and finally we are given the VIP treatment, being ushered inside one of the flat-roofed buildings lining the street. A space is cleared for us on the edge of the roof and tea proffered upon us. Again, the openness and kindness of these people is displayed.
From above, the chaos and border-line anarchy below becomes apparent. The flagellators are whipping themselves and the crowd into a frenzy. The approach of carts dispensing free oranges and bread provokes an outburst of pushing and fighting that leaves women and children being shoved around the narrow street. A platoon of steel-helmeted troops thread their way up the street and we decide to leave with them as an uninvited escort. Down below, the crowd is getting more and more excitable and the road being blocked every 100 yards or so with flagellators or carts of bread and oranges only leads to further chaos. The crowd, at times, seems on the verge of panic and there is a tension in the air that is unmistakeable. The thought crosses my mind that if panic does break out and these police lay about themselves, they will not be too fussy about who is getting hit.
The road back is slow and tortuous and we keep getting separated, although many onlookers, aware of our predicament, keep bringing us back together by some apparent form of bush telegraph. Further on, I lose the other two and a young Pakistani grabs my arm and says they have gone down a side street to escape the crowd. I am hesitant to follow until another confirms the story. I catch them up to find the police have hauled them out of the crowd which started molesting Judy and directed them away from the main procession route. Our young Pakistani friend leads us all the way back to the bus station and requires no more than a handshake for his trouble. We return to the hotel to find the others have fared worse with Debbie having been severely molested and even Ian suffering from wandering hands.
This extract from my journal dates from November 1981 and reflects some of the terrible tension and divisions within Pakistan society that made it one of the most difficult countries to travel in even then. Today, to repeat this experience would be unthinkable, Pakistan being one of the most dangerous countries in the world for westerners. The image shows the entrance to the Old City of Lahore but was not taken on Muharram, to have taken a camera that day would have been reckless.
