Dreaming Imran’s dream

...[T]oday Imran is talking of the staying-power of the dreams again. The youngsters who surround him believe in him. The hope in their eyes nudges a long dormant memory in my soul. Their faces look familiar for they remind me of someone else who believed too much for too long, so long that the belief became all consuming. 

Ahmadiyya Times | News Watch | Int'l Desk
Source/Credit: The News International
By Talat Farooq | December 28, 2011

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore and then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

— Langston Hughes


Imran Khan talked about the power of dreams in his Karachi jalsa. How his conviction in his dreams made apparently impossible things possible. The World Cup, Shaukat Khanum, Numl University.... It got me thinking that I too have been a dreamer and a diehard one at that.


As a teenager back in the 70s I saw my country break in two. I still remember the pinch of humiliation that made me weep and ask my father what will now happen to Pakistan. Don’t worry, he said, Bhutto is a shrewd politician and he will see us through. So I began to dream that somehow we will regain lost dignity and honour. The sword, Zulfikar-e-Ali, however, remained sheathed and was raised only to cut the cords that need not have severed. The breakup of East Pakistan was followed by the ‘ex-communication’ of the Ahmadis. Bhutto chose appeasement over justice and the house of dreams came crashing down.

Later as a young wife and mother I dreamed again of happier prospects for my newborn child and the children of my country when Zia ul Haq took over and talked of spiritual values. I kept on dreaming till the dream transformed into a nightmare turning spirituality into rituals without spirit. There was neither zia (light) nor haq (truth) to fall back on. As this dubious ray of elusive truth was overpowered by a more authentic sign of retribution neatly packed in a mango crate, I began to dream again. I dreamt that the second-class citizenship imposed upon the women of Pakistan through the Hudood Ordinance would be revoked. That there would be freedom of expression; recognition of one’s natural right to make choices.

As the be-nazeer daughter of the east rode the crest of an ever rising wave of popularity, I kept on dreaming. I dreamt of the winds of favourable change blowing toward the weak and the powerless, the suppressed and the disenfranchised. I remember sitting in front of the idiot box throughout the night of the election, rising only after I was convinced of a PPP victory. I then offered prayers to thank the Higher Intelligence that resides beyond the scope of my sensory perceptions. Being infinitely higher in intelligence, I now know, He shook His head and heaved a sigh. The sigh from up there remained unnoticed by me till I woke up to find the daughter of the east packing her bags. Leaving the Hudood Ordinance intact she made way for the protégé of Zia ul Haq.

Had I learnt my lesson? Oh no sir, certainly not. I did not give up. Not for a minute. I looked to the beam of prosperity that the Sharifs promised. I kept on dreaming as I watched the hide-and-seek between the daughter of a darkening east and the surrogate of a dead tyrant. Before long, and just before I almost decided to open my eyes, the commando rode in on a white horse and took my breath away.

Finally, I told myself, finally it’s here, the reality of a dream that refuses to become a shrivelled ‘raisin in the sun’. Finally my children and the youngsters of this country could look to an enlightenment that would clear away the webs of confusion and prejudice in their questioning minds. Finally they will be able to take on the forces of bigotry and status quo; finally they will march into the new millennium with their heads held high, trampling rotten traditions and reactionary thoughts under their determined footsteps. This was not to be and I promised to give up dreaming.

Then came the judicial crises, the restoration of the CJ and the long-awaited election; I forced myself to dream again. But then it was no longer possible to dream.

I have stopped dreaming because I cannot sleep anymore. I cannot sleep anymore because the blood-curdling screams of dying men, women and children in the streets refuse to die down. The wailing continues as it mingles with the heart-rending sobs of my exhausted, wounded country raped and plundered by the powerful elite. The noise reverberates like a never-ending howl and would not let me sleep. So I am awake and every waking moment finds me in the court of my conscience, on trial for dreaming impossible dreams. I have promised myself ‘never again’.

But today Imran is talking of the staying-power of the dreams again. The youngsters who surround him believe in him. The hope in their eyes nudges a long dormant memory in my soul. Their faces look familiar for they remind me of someone else who believed too much for too long, so long that the belief became all consuming. I can only pray that this time round the dream will not be deferred; that this time round the dreamers are dreaming with their eyes wide open.

I can only hope and pray that Imran’s dream will neither ‘run like a sore’ nor ‘stink like rotten meat’ but ‘explode’ with such force that the rotten, tottering, hollow structures of greed and deceit will collapse forever What happens to a dream deferred? Nothing, if you ask me. A dream remains a dream; it is the dreamer who shrivels and dies.

Imran Khan has to make sure that the dream’s time has come for the hopeless and the desperate can wait no more.

The writer is a PhD student at Leicester, UK. Email: talatfarooq11@gmail.com

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