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Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Warped in time


By Saroop Ijaz “IS this Jinnah’s Pakistan?” is by far the most frequently posited question in Pakistani public discourse. The question has now reached absurd dimensions in the aftermath of Punjab Governor Salman Taseer’s assassination, with both sides of the ideological divide vehemently claiming Mohammad Ali Jinnah to be their own.
For a nation as deeply divided by ethnicity and sectarianism and as limited by a narrowness of perspective as Pakistan is, building unity and consensus is perhaps the most significant challenge that needs to be overcome to address our existential crisis. The standard response to major societal crisis in Pakistan has been to invoke Jinnah’s legacy, and in recent times, with the unprecedented polarisation of our society, an effort has been made to intensify his tradition. The result has been the attribution of dedication, loyalty and timeless wisdom to Jinnah, whose personality ostensibly exemplifies the challenges of creating the ideal Pakistani society.
This response of invoking him does not seem to be working any longer. Maybe it has never worked. Max Weber distinguished three types of political power: charismatic authority, traditional authority and legal or rational authority. According to him, authority is power accepted as legitimate by those subjected to it. States progress from charismatic authority to traditional authority and finally reach the state of legal authority that is a characteristic of a modern liberal democracy.
Charismatic authority grows out of personal charm, the strength of an individual personality. According to Weber, “Men do not obey [the charismatic ruler] by virtue of tradition or statute, but because they believe in him.” While Jinnah was alive he evoked this sense of belief in many. The next stage is traditional authority, where legitimacy comes from tradition or custom, and the final stage is legal authority, in which individuals or institutions exert power by virtue of the legal offices they hold. Once they leave office, their rational-legal authority is lost. Weber identified “rationally created rules” as the central feature of this form of authority. Pakistan remains at the second stage of this linear progression, with Jinnah being used liberally as an argument to end all arguments.
In the United States the predominant debate regarding constitutional interpretation has for almost a century been between originalism — discerning the original intent of the framers — versus understanding the constitution as a living and evolving document. This debate is different from ours in that it is about a document and not the personal, out-of-context opinions of an individual, albeit a great individual; it takes place within the context of legal-rational authority. Yet there are parallels.
The primary criticism of orginalism has been that at some level it is not about discerning the intent of the now-dead authors of the constitution, but instead about pretending that their beliefs coincide with one’s own and then assuming that one’s own belief about their beliefs is grounds enough for disregarding or modifying the law.
“Is this Jinnah’s Pakistan?” also resonates closely with the oft-posed Catholic question, “what would Jesus do?” In Muslim theology, too, there is often speculation about what Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) would have done. Yet the hypothetical question pertaining to Jinnah is distinguishable from those regarding the two prophets since we do not accord him any transcendental qualities, or at least most of us don’t. Jinnah was a phenomenal statesman and an exceptional leader. He never claimed to have all the answers to every potential problem that may plague the nation till the end of time. He was too intelligent and perceptive to either believe or make such an incongruous claim.
It reminds me of a former governor of Texas, who, when asked if the Bible should also be taught in Spanish, replied that “if English was good enough for Jesus, then it’s good enough for me.” The narrative constructed around Jinnah has now been reduced to the Latin phrase mutato nomine et de te fabula narrator (change only the name and this story is about you).
The problem with appealing to his authority on every issue is not that it is merely redundant. It is counterproductive. Once an argument regarding the secularism or religiosity of Jinnah’s vision is made, the opposing side feels compelled to present evidence from his opinions and anecdotes and at times to fabricate evidence. Debate is stifled as the parameters of the discourse are severely constrained, often leading to ridiculous, dishonest claims.
The condemnation of Taseer’s brutal assassination and the argument against the current blasphemy laws can be made perfectly well without an appeal to Jinnah’s authority. It is disturbing when a society has to search for and appeal to precedents to condemn vicious acts of violence. The argument against the current blasphemy laws can and should be made on the grounds of constitutional and humanitarian principles. Liberals who cite isolated historical precedents often fall into the trap of playing by the rules of the narrow-minded.
To claim that something was believed by someone at some point in time and to argue as if the assertion itself has automatically become an argument is textbook fundamentalism. Additionally, they do not stand a chance of winning, as their enemy is infinitely more familiar with this turf. If the fight for liberalism in Pakistan is to be successful, it has to be fought on the basis of the principles of liberalism and not as apologists. Jinnah was a great man and all of us are indebted to him. But he has done his part; let him rest in peace now.
The author is a lawyer.

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